A Long Day

Planning her excursion takes up most of my energy whilst seeing outpatients throughout this rubbish day. It pours outside, drops obnoxiously smacking against the window as conversations drag on, a dismal representation via nature of how empty their souls are, their defeated vocal monotones competing with the vapid sound of the rain. I remember whatever I can on defloration of the anal cavity for it's been so long as I rush through my last few appointments, only asking lame, short verdict questions I best just guess the answer to; no one strikes me as clinically urgent. Anyways, fucking Melody's virgin asshole til she can't take it anymore can go one of three ways: amazing, awkward and disastrous. Can also last a range of two minutes to two hours.
I take into account that she doesn't know what she wants as an eighteen year old. Inevitably. That she may back out and this excitement is for no reason at all. We are not committed to each other; she owes me nothing.

The daydreams I seldom have often take place on a picnic table. She sits atop the wooden table with her legs spread open and head thrown back, taking every inch of me, her moan a chaste lullaby calming my disturbed conscious. The warmth of her skin from the sun exposure feels like an anomaly as her complexion is typically cold and soft. I come inside her.

The air is stiffening in this room as the seconds go by. I am in the middle of a family meeting where two parents are at disagreement about allowing their delinquent daughter to return home. She is a young bipolar, currently homeless, staying in the ward until she has worked out her trepidations with her mother and father. It isn't going well for her.
My advocacy for her improvement only takes them so far until I finally have to tell them the hospital is not a homeless shelter. This happens every week, often involving bipolar young adults and addicts living under their parents' roof.
"I don't want her home until she's wel. Doesn't this hospital have a rehab hospital have a rehab centre?" The lady presses on. Her dark eyes look vicious.
"Her drug tests show she has not used her entire visit."
"I insist she goes."
The father speaks in a rather loud voice that echoes most likely out into the hallway. "I don't want her locked up in this freak place any longer, Diane."
The mother argues back, claiming her daughter is sick and at risk of dying in the streets. The father has every right to be concerned; I don't know anyone who would monitor whoever enters her room at night.
She winds up going to the rehab clinic, crying out that she despises her parents in desperation of her freedom to choose, having no idea there are drugs pouring out the doors between the Attain program walls. Working in mental health is too similar to courts that demand harsh verdicts. Either way someone gets locked up in a facility.
I spend lunch responding to emails from concerned parents supporting their unwell offspring and returning calls, spending the last minute calculating the proper dose of meth to administer to Melody through the needle tonight. She has never touched the decrepit stimulant before.
She won't get addicted to it. She isn't a nymphomaniac nor a psychonautic mess. Like I've stated before, I am attracted to her stability she remains bound to despite her shortcomings in life.
I become so wrapped up in my thoughts of Melody that I must force my mind away from her, thinking of crackheads instead to shrink my raging boner before I have to travel from ward to ward, checking in with patients who had fallen under my care. The rest of the afternoon is to be spent in what parents call "jail", a ward named after its maximum security system that includes security steps one would call unnecessary, as most of the young adults in Beevington have documented offences in their pre-admission hospital reports that state they've committed or attempted arson, knife attacks, domestic abuse and whatnot.
After hours of walking through windowed hallways, occasionally with the odd patient, mostly in my lonesome left to think to myself of how to go about medicating my treatment-resistant, re-occurring infirms, seeing sick person after sick person, the job never getting dull hearing colourful language spit out of the vitriolic mouths of manic schizophrenics, I am finally home.
Four missed calls from my beloved Melody indicate I'm a jackass for not checking my phone earlier in the car. She doesn't reach out obsessively like that unless she is in need of something – relief from a pityscum bastard called her stepfather. Which I don't essentially appreciate being a choice of remedy for, but will fulfil the favour as she is my star pupal in my endeavours to satisfy such imprudent sexual urges. An obligation to look after someone as though their father puts a putrid taste on my tongue.
When I call her back it takes her all four rings to answer.
"Hello?" Her voice cracks on the second syllable.
"Had a long fucking day," I laugh. "Didn't expect to miss four calls from you."
"My God, was it really that many?" I easily imagine her blushing as she speaks, her ivory skin turning a light shade of pink on her cheeks, a colour I often wish to see appear on her cunt, from the blood rush as I tease her relentlessly. My touch reaches her soul, betrothing my physical touch to her inner layered essence. Melody giggles. I cannot help but feel myself getting hard at the thought of her with her thighs open ready to receive me. In both holes. Like the good girl she is.
"Come by," I say. "I've been waiting for you all day."