Sanity's Only Skin Deep

Sanity’s Only Skin Deep

  Adam Aust

  Copyright © 2017 Adam Aust

  All rights reserved.

  “The mind is everything. What you think, you become.”

  - Anonymous

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Parts:

  I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII

  Sample Chapter from A Glitch in the System

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  I am forever indebted to Maggie Astolfi, who supports me unconditionally, even when I indulge in lunacy. Special thanks also to Matthew Sullivan; your plot feedback has been pure gold.

  I

  Sarah Evans closed the bathroom stall door, lowered her skirt, and rolled her leggings and underwear down below her knees. As she sat, she saw it—the new gash on her inner-right thigh. It was bigger and felt deeper than usual, and it must have been at least a week old, judging by the scab’s raised edges and the shiny pink skin outlining it. Dammit, she thought, tracing it with her index finger. I’d better not be doing this at work.

  After finishing up in the ladies room, she strode down the hall to her office. Her frosted-glass door shut with a metallic clack behind her as she snatched her phone’s handset off the cradle and started dialing.

  “Maury? It’s Sarah. I’d like to come in for a session as soon as possible. I’ve apparently been at it again.” Obligatory question about whether I’ve been going to my meetings in three, two, one . . . “No, I’ve been too busy. I promise I’ll start going again after trial. But for now, I just haven’t had the time. Can you see me this week?” She waited as he checked his schedule. “Tomorrow night at seven works. I appreciate it. See you then.”

  She replaced the handset and exhaled through slack lips.

  Sliding open her top drawer, she withdrew her scissors, splitting the blades and holding them up to the light. The tips looked a little rusty, but she had to squint to even see that. That could be blood. Wouldn’t there be more, though?

  Just then, she heard two knocks and her door abruptly opened. David Marshall, the senior partner at her firm, was standing inside. “Sarah, got a minute?”

  “I—”

  David’s eyes jumped from Sarah’s face to her hands. She snapped the scissors closed and dropped them to her lap. “Of course,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as guilty as she felt. “What’s up?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news about your role on the Omnicron case. . . .”

  II

  Sarah pushed the buzzer labeled “Dr. Maurice Wexler” outside the quaint apartment complex in Manhattan’s East Village. She’d been nervous at first about seeing a therapist here; this place seemed so . . . unprofessional. Day or night, you might rub elbows outside with heroin-addicted skateboard punks, schizophrenic garbage-can scavengers, or hippy-era folk-musician types, ambling about in various states of sobriety, pontificating about bizarre political views. Once she got to know Maury, though, she understood the draw: this place fed his fascination with the human psyche in the same way the internet fed her tendency to procrastinate. He was meant to live in the East Village, and that was nothing to worry about. It just took some getting used to.

  Now, three years in, she stood fidgeting on his front landing oblivious to her surroundings, poring over yesterday’s events.

  Just after she’d discovered yet another mysterious flesh wound, David Marshall, head of the litigation department and lead counsel on the Omnicron case—her biggest assignment since being hired as an associate attorney at Paulson LLP—had slinked into her office unannounced as she was scrutinizing the rusty (bloody?) tips of her firm-issued scissors. He’d then sat and unceremoniously relieved her of her most important duties on the Omnicron case, sending her headlong into an unrelenting, introspective hell that robbed her of all but three hours of sleep in the ensuing twenty four. She’d been counting the seconds until she could see Maury and get her head back together.

  A loud buzz yanked her back to the present as the front door of Maury’s complex clicked open. She pushed her way through the unlocked portal and ascended to the third floor, where Maury was waiting.

  He stood holding the apartment door open, with the gentle overhead light reflecting off his high forehead. He was average height and thin-limbed, though he had an old-man’s paunch that Sarah could see through his green woolen sweater. He greeted her with a smile and a hug. And after she removed her shoes—one of his house rules—she followed him to the den, fixing her gaze on his tight gray ponytail as they walked. Faint traces of nutmeg and cinnamon incense hung in the air, which reminded Sarah of the holidays.

  “Tell me why you called,” he said, sitting on his faded-navy couch with his left side pressed against the backrest.

  “I did it again,” she said, settling into the brown leather recliner she’d occupy for the next hour. It was shabby and worn, but it felt amazing—it didn’t just support her weight, it molded to her, welcoming her gently and whole-heartedly, like an old friend eager to catch up. She’d never before or since experienced chair so comfortable. “And, yet again,” she said, “I have no memory of cutting myself. It’s freaking me out.”

  “Have you had any extra stress lately?”

  “I’m about to go to trial on the biggest case of my career. Shit, the biggest case my firm has handled in the past decade. So, yeah, I’ve had some stress. I also just found out that I’ve been demoted on that case. They want me behind the scenes now, overseeing the junior associates’ grunt work. I was supposed to question a witness in open court, in front of the jury. It was a big deal. Obviously, they don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

  Maury looked at her pensively. He waited to see if Sarah would add more, and, when it was clear she wouldn’t, he said in a calm, even voice, “While I can’t say for certain what your superiors were thinking, I’ve had enough lawyer patients to know that performance anxiety and client nerves often lead to strange last-minute decisions just before trial. You shouldn’t assume they pulled you off the witness because of your competence.”

  “There’s nothing else to assume,” she said shrilly, raising her hands palms-up. “I had been preparing that witness for months.”

  “Did they hand the witness off to another associate?”

  “No, to a partner. He’s much more senior.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Sarah bunched her eyebrows and rolled her head to face Maury. Even though she disagreed with him, she found herself savoring the deep, woodwind vibrations of his voice. And her body felt like wax melting into a puddle in that chair. She could always relax here, which is probably why she could always find the time for her sessions with Maury, even though she struggled to make her weekly support group meetings.

  “You said yourself this was the firm’s biggest case in a decade,” he continued, still calm and measured. “Firm management might have insisted that the most experienced attorney available take that witness. Put yourself in their shoes. On a case of that magnitude, would you want your courtroom attorneys to be high-potential, but unproven practitioners, or battle-tested partners with a track record of success?”

  Sarah rolled her head back and stared at the ceiling again.

  “And while we’re discussing the trial team,” Maury continued, “let’s not forget they chose you for this team. Give yourself credit for that. You’re still a fairly junior attorney, Sarah. Your opportunities will come. Just be patient.”

  Sarah looked over at Maury through the corners of her eyes.

  “Any other sources of stress?” he said.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  He tittered. “You know, Sarah, you could probably avoid
some of these more serious incidents if you would just attend your group meetings regularly. They really seem to help. I don’t understand your reluctance to go.”

  I’m surprised it took him this long to bring it up. “You know, Maury, if those meetings weren’t free, I would think you had a financial stake in how well attended they were.” She looked over, and they exchanged warm smiles. “Besides you can’t get rid of me that easily.”