[ WP ] After a disturbing experience a psychiatrist starts to question their own sanity .

It's pretty tough out there for a psychiatrist nowadays. 
 
 People do n't believe me when I tell them, but it's true. I started practicing after passing my boards two years ago, and I'm *still* over a hundred grand in debt. I decided, in my infinite wisdom, to hang my shingle in an area that was currently `` medically under-served'' to take advantage of a few tax breaks, but, sheltered schoolboy that I've been for the past 26 years of my life, I failed to realize that it meant working in a neighborhood that looks more like a *demilitarized zone*. I've had to move three times already, as the neighbors rapidly become intolerable. My office has been broken into twice, my picture window shattered three times, and worse, all that the vandals did was spray paint the inside of my waiting room, so of course my insurance did n't want to pay. 
 
 Oh, and my insurance company hates me. 
 
 Since I do n't want to become a drug dealer ( too much local competition, *har-di-har* ), I've had to get creative with how I make ends meet. 
 
 I decided to go hi-tech, and got a website. For a low monthly fee, all the internet's hypochondriacs and neurotics can write an actual doctor and get ( non-binding, non-official ) opinions sent straight to their inbox. If they really do want an official diagnosis, that can be done too: we meet in a public place, I do a couple tests, and *bam! *, I bill your insurance. In return, you get yourself a nice, shiny affirmation of your personal demons. Low-stress, no muss, and no fuss. 
 
 Mostly, I get the usual. Lots of generalized anxiety, some depressives, and the occasional suicidal. ( I make it a point to never charge anyone in the last category; despite my shady, legal-gray-area side business, I'm not that big a jerk. ) 
 
 Sometimes, I get more unusual cases. Cases where a person is afraid to talk to a doctor in person, but wants help anyway. Usually, it's because they do n't want to be arrested, or they're terrified of news getting out. 
 
 I learned during my rotations that doctors in bad areas of town get quite a lot of traffic from debutantes not wanting their darling family doctor to know about their genital warts. I suppose the same is true for psychiatry, because I've heard some things. 
 
 Most of them I ca n't tell you about. Doctor-patient confidentiality. You understand. 
 
 Most of them. Except for this one. 
 
 It started six months ago, on a Saturday. Mr. Robinson was my last patient. I wrote him a script for an antidepressant, I locked up, and went home. 
 
 At 12:30 at night, my phone beeped. Email alerts. I usually turn it off, but I'd been exhausted when I finally got to bed. 
 
 Someone wanted my attention. The subject line said `` Hello'', but it was tagged from my consultancy website. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, and read on 
 
 When I opened the email, it was empty. There was an attachment. 
 
 I opened it. 
 
 When I saw the photo, I thought several things. Firstly, that the bathroom looked familiar. Secondly, that the body slumped against the wall looked an awful lot like Mr. Robinson. 
 
 And thirdly, that that was a lot of blood. Far, *far too much blood*, too much blood for the donor to be alive, too much for- 
 
 I saw the wide, dry smile carved into Mr Robinson's neck, his skin like wax, his shirt so red... and I knew. 
 
 God, there was a lot. The walls were *splattered* with it, smeared and sprayed in crazed whirls... wait. A pattern. It was writing! A message! 
 
 Now wide awake, my every nerve ionized and flaring, I read the letter from hell. 
 
 It said, `` CAN YOU FIX ME?'' 
 
 With a start, I realized why the bathroom looked so familiar. 
 
 It was mine.
