Thursday, January 06, 2005

109. Dick

The new year doesn't seem to be getting off to a very good start. Global catastrophes aside, the scene on the home front is just plain grim. Bruce's skin is gradually clearing up, but he's still prone to bouts of hallucination and violent outbursts every now and then. I honestly think he may be losing it.

Last night I walked into his bedroom and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a bathrobe. He was unshaven as usual (the razor irritates the bumps that cover his face) and had a wild look in his eyes. One of his batsuits was laid out next to him, and it looked like he'd tried to destroy it with a pair of scissors.

As I approached him, I saw that he'd been masturbating for what looked like a very long time, judging from the chafing on his penis and the sweat pouring off him. There was no trace of pleasure in the act, only anguish and anger. The man who under better circumstances is easily one of the most beautiful I've ever seen just sat there, grotesquely disfigured, jerking away, looking more like a rabid dog than anything else.

I've been wishing I could get him to seek psychological treatment, but I know the obvious hazards. God knows I've had to bite my lip in sessions with my own shrink lately, wanting so badly to tell Dr. T about what's going on and well aware that would be impossible.

Finally I blurted out, "Bruce, I know a man--a doctor--who can help you. If you want it. I trust him." I squeezed his free arm, handed him one of Tanhoger's cards, and walked away.

Happy New Year, my ass.