I have to write this down.
The doctor said so.
Every day, three pages.
Every day, no exceptions.
It doesn’t matter what I write.
The content isn’t important.
I have big, loopy handwriting so it’s not that hard.
It really doesn’t amount to a lot of work.
The doctor doesn’t complain about my handwriting.
If he knows I’m cheating with my sloppy penmanship so I don’t have to write that much he doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
Maybe that tells him more than what I actually write, which can be anything, which can be this, what you’re reading.
I’m not a doctor.
I carefully fold the paper in thirds and put it in an envelope under my pillow and wait lying on top of the sheets until he comes by on his rounds.
He asks me if I did my pages today and I say “Yes doctor,” and he says “Good girl,” and then he has me lift my head and he reaches under the pillow and removes the envelope.
He takes the pages out and reads them quietly and I turn over on my tummy and raise my fanny in the air.
When he’s finished reading he wets his thumb and sticks it inside me, like he’s sticking a thumb in a pudding.
He pulls it out and presses his thumb print to the last sheet, refolds the paper, and puts it back into the envelope.
He puts the envelope into the left pocket of his lab coat, where he carries his stethoscope, and the envelopes presumably containing the pages of his other patients.
In the meantime, I’ve pulled my nightie down and my panties up and turned over on my back.
“Okay then” he says, and pats me chastely on the thigh. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay doctor,” I say and smile because somehow they teach you that’s what you’re supposed to do to make the things that happen to you in this world that shouldn’t happen to anyone in any kind of world worth living in fuzzy enough to be bearable.
And the strange thing is, they’re right, it works, it so fucking works it's crazy.