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(c) 2024 J. D. Osborne-McGavin. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used in the creation or training of generative AI or natural language models.

THE PRECIPICE,

or

INSIDE THE SCREENWRITER'S STUDIO

by J. D. Osborne-McGavin

* * * * *

Chapter IV

Mistreatment

Fall 1989

Cassidy comes to in a hospital bed, a thin blanket and the harsh, buzzing glow of fluorescent lighting draped over her. She blinks and raises her paws to rub her eyes, but she finds slight resistance coming from her left arm. She looks over to see a medical band around her wrist and a winged catheter inserted into her arm. A thin tube leads from the catheter to a bifurcated port. One side continues further up to an IV drip, the other is closed. She looks to her right arm and sees a bandage wrapped around the same spot that the catheter is inserted on the left.

She returns her gaze to the port. It must have happened again. Fuckers strangled her muse with Haldol. It's going to be at least a week before her beautiful whispering will return. At least. That explains why she couldn't think of anything while playing God, even after ingesting every psychedelic that ever existed.

Her gaze travels down that arm. A small, greyish-white speck rests in a blue-furred spot there. She carefully pulls it free with two claws of her right paw and brings it closer to her eyes for examination.

It's a down feather.

"Oh fuck me," she whispers to herself as she lifts the blanket and looks herself over. Yep. Feathers. Not many left, but a few are still there clinging to her fur.

All of that actually happened and she was /awake/ for it, but not /aware/. At least not fully. Fuck life's director and their overuse of smash cuts and confusing split edits.

She goes through what footage she has left and tries to make sense of it. She gave herself an apparently very rousing pep talk, murdered a pillow, was confused by the cleanliness of her apartment---ignoring the contamination left by the fallout of `cobalt-thorium Goose.' She read the note from Isla then took Ozzy's place jamming out with Randy and Lee at a concert before her flock of devout fans.

She closes her eyes and mrrrrrrs, holding onto that moment. There's /nothing/ quite like that shared communion with her fans. The universe-spanning, astral-plane-crossing, all-encompassing love, acceptance, and oneness. The deeply intimate, emotional, and overwhelming connection. Once someone's felt it, nothing from the earthly realm will ever, ever suffice. Everything, literally everything in life is a pale, bland, and hollow imitation.

No, even an imitation doesn't exist. Absolutely nothing from this world comes close to being worthy of direct comparison.

She must return, post haste.

How does the rest of the song go? Something about being sick of mind and spirit and the confusion between where she ends and /her/, the /other/ being dwelling within, begins. If they are even two separate entities to begin with.

She's not sure whether to be proud or afraid that she can reach the state described in the song's narrative without the aid of mind-altering substances. Just pure, unadulterated Cass. She'll go paw to paw with the coked up maddog himself any day, /au naturel/.

Why didn't she finish the song? It just... abruptly ended. Stereo must have blown a fuse, she did crank it up to eleven à la Sp?n?al Tap in an attempt to drown out that fucking bear. That's probably how she ended up here. Mr. Butterfield most likely called the police with a noise complaint and they found her doing God knows what in her apartment, covered in goose feathers.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck maybe this is a mental institution?

She lifts her left wrist and checks the band.

UNC REX HOSPITAL

Nope. Thank God for small miracles. Likely she'll just get a lecture and some inspiration smothering drug cocktail---most likely lithium, Thorazine, and Valium---which she will promptly introduce to the Raleigh sewage system.

The thin curtain surrounding the bed is pulled open with a metal-on-metal screech. A nurse in the form of a cheetah looks from Cassidy's chart to the canine herself.

Lecture time.

"Feeling more with it?" the feline asks, her ropy tail flicking behind her as she drags a pen across the chart.

"Considering I can understand you and the world has form, I'd say so, yes."

"Good. I'm going to ask you a series of questions, please do not be insulted by them. It's merely a matter of protocol. Please state your full name."

"Cassidy Jacqueline Osborne."

"Date of birth?"

"The same day an antler disappeared from Dealey Plaza."

The cheetah pauses briefly to look up at Cassidy, then back to the chart.

"I see. What year is it, presently?"

"Nineteen eighty nine."

"Who is the current President of the United States?'

"Skeletor."

The feline glances to the canine, unamused.

"What? You don't see the resemblance?"

"Please, Cassidy, save your antics for your stand-up routine. Try again."

"Fine. Beloved war criminal and legendary cub killer George Herbert Walker Bush."

The nurse rolls her eyes but continues filling out the chart. "I believe Dr. Samuelson wants to speak with you. I'll let him know you're alert."

"You go do that."

Cassidy sighs and gazes at the ugly drop ceiling above the bed. She knows she shouldn't taunt beasts who have the ability to deem her mentally incompetent, but she just can't help it. When a cat throws her a soft ball, there's no way she can resist swinging.

A throat clears. "Cassidy?" a deep voice reverberates.

She glances over to the voice and looks up. And up and up. A mountain of black fur stands before her in the form of the largest wolf she's ever seen. His broad build is more suited for playing linebacker than writing prescriptions. The clipboard in his paw looks comically small, as do the tiny reading glasses resting on the end of his muzzle. He offers the bitch as warm of a smile as his menacing fangs allow.

"Uh..."

The large lupine walks to the side of the bed and pulls up a wheeled stool, which groans under his weight. He turns his big, brown eyes at her and asks with a sincerity unfitting of his vocal range, "How do you feel?"

The imposing presence cures the bitch of her sarcasm. "Um, I think I'm okay, doc. Just fog and cotton where my brain should be. Haldol?"

The enormous black head nods. "Yes. Not your first time on the roller coaster, hmm?" he asks, glancing back down at her chart.

"I guess you can say that," Cassidy replies, feeling as if her chart contains photographic evidence of her dumping every prescription she's ever had filled down the drain.

"I'm sorry. Both for your condition and administering haloperidol. Unfortunately, when a patient is in the middle of a severe psychotic episode, we must reach for treatment that is fast acting and highly effective. The fire department does not concern itself with water damage while putting out a blaze. Look here," he says, holding out a pawpad.

Cassidy glances at the big digit, only to be blinded with a bright light as a reward for her compliance. "No offense, doc, but your `water damage' is career ending for me."

"Which is precisely why you shouldn't allow the fire to grow this large. Prevention incurs much less collateral damage."

"I don't know, every doc I've ever seen seems to want to waterbomb my apartment any time I burn a pizza."

"It doesn't have to be that way," the wolf says, jotting on the chart. "Can you tell me what you remember happening?"

The shepherd fidgets uneasily, "Uh, well, I woke up. I was upset about a night out that went poorly. I gave myself a pep talk and in the process got overly excited and destroyed a feather pillow. I put on a record and got a little carried away with that, too. At some point part-way through my `concert,' something happened and the song ended and all I remember after that was falling, then floating, through a vast sea of nothingness for eternities. Then I came to in this bed."

"That explains the feathers."

"Yeaaaaaah," Cassidy chuckles self-consciously.

"Do you remember tearing the catheter from your right arm?"

She looks to her left arm, where the catheter is placed, then to the bandage on her right arm. Her ears fill with blush as they splay. "Oh..."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I uh... well like I said I was in some completely empty place. Literally nothing. Eventually I felt something. I didn't realize it was the line at the time. I couldn't see it, just feel it. I thought it was a cord keeping me---as in the sense of self, soul, whatever---attached to this body."

"And your instinct was to tear it away?"

"Well... it seemed like a good idea at the time. I heard what I now realize were bits of conversation here in this hospital, and my mind understood the words as encouragement to pull."

"Did you understand what would happen if you pulled it?"

"I... guess? I thought it would disconnect my soul or mind or self from my body."

The wolf nods as he takes notes. "The idea of a tether or umbilical cord attaching one's consciousness and one's body is not uncommon. What I'm curious about is why you decided to separate yourself from this world. Did you consider holding on or trying to draw yourself back into your body?"

"I... no, not really. I think it crossed my mind as an option, but not one I really considered."

"Why not?"

Cassidy sighs and splays her ears, "Do I have to answer that?"

Dr. Samuelson offers a warm smile, but the massive fangs twist his kind expression. "No. You don't have to answer anything. But I think it'd be helpful for us to both understand what your rationale was. You do not need to fear any repercussion. I will discharge you after this conversation, unless you tell me you're going to harm someone or yourself when you leave the hospital."

The shepherd looks toward the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with the wolf. She gathers her thoughts as her paws gather the blanket. Her claws dig in as her paws turn to fists. She draws in a deep breath then exhales. "I'm guessing I can't smoke here?"

"No," the lupine chuckles a little louder than Cassidy would like, causing her to flinch. "I'm sorry to make you uncomfortable, but these things are just not easy to talk about. Feeling anxiety, self-consciousness, or dread speaking of death is natural and not a manifestation of any illness. And we shouldn't treat natural and normal feelings, whether with cigarettes or Valium."

She keeps her gaze fixed upward, away from the doctor. "All I've ever wanted to do is tell stories, for as long as I can remember. It's the only thing I can do, and the only thing that I'm good at, at least that's what I tell myself. When I was floating around in the void, it felt like I arrived at the dawn of time, before anything existed, and I was like God in Genesis. There was nothing, literally nothing, and I was omnipotent. I had infinite time and ability to create whatever I wanted. But I couldn't think of anything. Not like it is sometimes, when you have /too many/ choices and you're paralyzed by the infinite possibilities or don't know where to start. I just... couldn't come up with anything. I felt like my imagination or creativity or inspiration or whatever you want to call it was gone and my failure to create given the most ideal circumstances possible was proof positive I don't have what it takes.

"After many forevers had passed while I was in that empty place, the cord' was the firstthing' I encountered. Somehow I knew intuitively that it was the linkage between my body and mind. I knew I could either bail or try to drag myself back into my body, but I never considered the latter. I wanted to `pull the plug' because my self-worth hinges on my ability to produce, and I couldn't. So I didn't see a point to coming back."

Dr. Samuelson listens attentively. When Cassidy finishes, he pulls the stool as close as he can to the bed and rests his huge arms against the side rail. "Cassidy, you shouldn't feel embarrassed for thinking your self-worth and identity are linked to your ability. Many, maybe most, beasts encounter the feeling at some point. Beasts who live to old age usually feel this way when they're no longer able to work or take care of themselves. Beasts who live with disabilities---particularly acquired---face this struggle with regard to their real or perceived limitations.

"Your illness is a disability, but also a conundrum. You fear that treatment of the illness will result in a more severe disability---the loss of your creativity---than living with your condition untreated. `The treatment is worse than the disease' as the saying goes. Part of the problem is a physician's and patient's incentives are not always aligned. It's often the case that a physician's only goal is preventing relapse, regardless of the cost. But it's your life. You are entitled to the quality of life you believe is acceptable and inability to work is not an acceptable outcome."

Cassidy regards the big wolf resting on the side of her bed incredulously. "So you're saying it's possible to not feel chemically lobotomized?"

"Yes. But that requires communication. A doctor won't know about a side effect unless you tell them."

"I'm sorry, doc, but communication is a two-way street and all the docs I've seen are terrible listeners."

"That is unfortunately common, but not a universal truth. What would you call what we've been doing?"

Cassidy's ears redden as she squirms under the wolf's gaze, "Having a discussion?"

"Yes. And would you like to continue having discussions like this?"

"What? With you or the `medical community'?"

Dr. Samuelson lets out a snarling chuckle. "Well, this is a teaching hospital so I would usually refer a patient to one of the residents. However, considering your history of ending up here by way of several acute episodes, your poor experiences with previous psychiatrists, and your concerns regarding medication and resulting avoidance, I believe the deft touch of experience would be more appropriate.

"If you're comfortable with me, we could give it a go. I would just ask that you consider permitting a medical student on rotation to observe. It is not required and it will not affect our relationship, however my time to see patients is limited and it is valuable to teach upcoming physicians of any discipline how to better communicate."

"I'm not sure I can ever truly be `comfortable' around you, no offense. You are a bit... intimidating."

Boisterous, howling laughter escapes the doctor's muzzle, leading the shepherd to splay her ears. "I'm aware my appearance is somewhat menacing, however I'm sure you can understand that one cannot judge a canine by the color of their fur or the size of their fangs. So long as any discomfort you feel around me is not of the type that will interfere with us talking like this, or your trust in our treatment plan, I don't think that will be an issue. Most patients adjust to my stature and mannerisms in short order."

"I think... I think I can manage the discomfort. You've listened to me more than any other doctor has yet."

"Good," he says with a toothy smile while scribbling on a form. He paws it to the bitch, "Give this to the front desk when you leave, they'll schedule time for us to do a proper intake. On that note, there is the matter of what to do with you, medication-wise, now. I would prefer to wait for us to have a more lengthy discussion before starting you on anything, however, given your history, it would be prudent to have something in place just in case.

"So here is my rationale and proposition. You received two intravenous injections of haloperidol, the second occurring after you acted out pulling the plug' as you called it. Combined they amount to the maximum weekly dose. I say weekly as it would be unsafe to administer any more for at least a few days, preferably a week. Haloperidol is quite effective and I would be very surprised if you had any episodes between now and the next time we see each other. I'd like to give you a prescription for diazepam---Valium---just to keep on paw if you feeloverly excited' again, with the goal being that you never have to take it. If you do, call the hospital immediately and they'll page me and we'll go from there.

"Does that sound fair? No medication until we get to know each other better, except this `break glass' emergency diazepam."

He holds out a second slip of paper to Cassidy, the prescription.

She takes it and holds it in her paw, looking it over. "Why are you doing all this for me? Taking me as a patient, offering to be paged if anything happens, taking your time with medication and what not?"

"Cassidy, by my count, this is the fourth time you've been in a hospital bed here due to an acute psychotic episode. If no one steps in, eventually your luck is going to run out and something will happen to you that an injection of haloperidol won't be able to snap you out of. Some would say that is your fault for not being `medication compliant.' I would say it is the failing of the medical community to address your needs and treat you properly, in both senses of the word. Consider this an apology on behalf of the profession."

"No offense, but the profession has a lot to apologize for."

"Indeed it does. You're twenty-five years old, I don't want to see your life wasted because no one listened to you. Now, two last matters to address."

He stands and moves to Cassidy's left arm. He grasps it gently with one big paw as the other settles on the catheter. "Let's do this the proper way this time. Slight sting, ready?"

When she nods, he pulls the catheter free and depresses a cotton swab over the wound. Tape follows.

"Thanks," she says sheepishly as the gentle giant attends to her. "What was the other thing?"

"Your friend who brought you here asked that you call her for a ride when you're ready."

"Wait, someone other than the police brought me here?"

Dr. Samuelson nods, "Yes. Another bitch. Think she was a rough collie? She was quite distraught."

"Oh," Cassidy mutters to herself. There goes her second chance with Isla.

The wolf offers a paw to help the shepherd out of the bed. When she accepts, she gets a little more than she bargained for as he lifts her up and helps her onto her footpaws.

"She seems pretty understanding, I don't think you have anything to worry about. In fact, when I chatted with her briefly it sounded like she's familiar with psychosis."

Cassidy thinks back to her discussion with Isla. She mentioned having seen the `unfairness' of the universe and the story of the tigress. She never did ask the rough collie how she ended up meeting the tigress, but now things are starting to add up.

"I hope you're right, doc."

When he turns to leave, she speaks up again, "And thanks."

"No thanks is needed, this is an apology, remember? If you want to make it up to me, the best thing you can do is make sure to show up to your appointment," he says with a wave of his big paw.