Toil and Trouble of Luna, MD

Fire crackling in the fireplace came soothing and calming, as usual, bringing Joanne Moon, MD, the familiar feeling of comfort with a scent of smoke. She rearranged the papers on her desk and checked the clock on the wall above the fireplace; it was half-past five, and her business hours ended at seven. She still had one patient left to attend to, and her secretaty and assistant – Leanne Roseluck – peeked into the study with a small knock:

“Doctor – there's the patient, waiting for you”.

“Bring him in, Leanne; thank you” - replied the brunette lady, accepting the folder she was handed: scanning through the papers – patient card, paid medical services contract and some other necessities – and prepared herself for the next patient. Being a therapist – and a somnologist, as a bonus – required a lot of professionalism and a load of patience. Patients were... funny sometimes.

And, as much as she could say, this one would've been right from the last lot. The funny one.

Outgrown stubble, bloodshot eyes – one was sporting a magnificent bruise under it – a scar on the forehead, crossing the brow and halfway down the cheek – and the clothes; oh Gog, shuddered Joanne, he sure seems to be either too concerned with his thoughts to take care of his looks, or he is just the kind of a man who's content with being as lousy as a hobo. A powerful smell of alcohol and tobacco wafted in front of him like a tidewave, mixing into a weird combination with a delicate scent of a good perfume.

“Welcome, mister...” - Joanne checked with the patient card. - “...Canterbury. Take a seat on the couch, please; the session is about to begin”.

The man did as he was told, laying on the couch and putting the glasses aside, on the coffee table; doctor Moon walked away from the desk, reaching out to the shelf for a folder; she had to stand up onto tiptoes, and her blouse crawled upwards, revealing a tattoo on her back – in the middle of the waistline, at the projection of her right kidney – a white crescent moon, nested in an inky-black blob, symbolizing the night sky presumably.

“That's one risky tattoo you've got there, miss Moon...” - the patient smirked, ogling at her shamelessly; Joanne blushed angrily, finally catching a good grip at the folder:

“Your opinion is duly noted, mister Canterbury, but no one asked for it, so please, opt to keep it to yourself!”

“Oi, what a burn!” - he raised his hands, indicating a surrender. - “I'm mighty sorry, miss; shall we start, then?”.

Still fuming with anger, Joanne sat in the armchair opposite to the couch, putting a clipboard to her lap:

“So, mister Canterbury – what ails you? What makes you seek council?”

“First of all, I'd like to make it clear, doc – I don't want an idle 'u-speak-I-listen” attitude; I am here for a conversation with an alive person, even if this person is the brain-rocker, no offence” - the man with a strange British-y last name and a terrible taste at clothes stared square into her eyes, crossing gazes like swords: his – deep marshy green and hers – midnight-blue. - “I might have had a... bad time, and I wish to talk about it. Even to a brain-rocker like you.”

She shrugged off the semi-offensive nickname for her profession and asked:

“What's with the bruise?”

“Meh, I live in a bad neighborhood, miss. But you sure must've seen the other guy!” - Canterbury chuckled.

“Apparent aggressive tendencies”, Joanne scribbled down. “You've got in a fight?” - she asked in the meantime.

“If you can call that a fight...” - the man rolled his eyes. - “I just got out in the street to smoke, and some booger attempted to mug me for what it's worth. Too bad he won't mug anyone anymore – it's not like he'll leave hospital anytime soon”.

“Sociopathic/highly aggressive attitude”, marked doctor Moon, nodding her head to indicate she got that.

“So, how about we come to know more of each other? I'm doctor Joanne Moon, MD, therapist and somnologist – which means my expertise also spans to the field of researching dreams, what they mean and what is happening to a person in his sleep through modern research features. What about you?”

“Eh... Name's Winston Hamish Canterbury, born in Glasgow, Scotland; SAS veteran, dishonorably discharged for picking a fight with commanding officer – and beating the arsehole to pulp, mind that; as of now – forensics expert, and I've got problems with ladies, booze and smokeys. That's about all.” - Winston Hamish Canterbury shrugged, scratching his head.

“Military veteran/prone to violence?/addicted to alcohol and smoking”, danced the pen.

“Hmmm... I guess the problem that worries you is about the 'ladies' part?”

“Quite so, ma'am... I used to have an established relationship and, well, it all went to Seven Hells. And my best shirt also did.”

“Please, tell me about it. Do not fear or shy out anything – I am bound by medical mystery. Whatever you say, won't leave the walls of this study!” - Joanne put on her best sincere warm smile, bowing her head closer to the laying patient and letting her pride – her long, flowing, raven's-wing black hair – cascade down. She knew that would ease even the most tense of her patient – she was a professional, for Gog's sake.

“Uh... Well...” - he fiddled a bit on the couch, making himself comfortable, gazing into the ceiling; finally he drew a long exhale and muttered a curse, which doctor Moon graciously ignored, making a note “Prone to using profane language patterns” however. - “Eh, to Hell with that. You see, I've got this girl, Clarice; we've met – lemme think... five, nay, seven... oh gog, seven years! ago. I just've gotten kicked from the Service – leaving my rank, howevs, and also all my service rewards, which was kinda nice – and I've had no nothing, miss. I had no home, no friends, no family – all I've had fit in a small bag, and that was my uniform, my medals and a small wallet. That's all. I've been trying to tuck myself in somewhere, and found none, so, I was officially a tramp.” - “Holds pride in his accomplishments/prone to getting lost easily when presented to the new environment?” - “And then, after some time in the streets, I've finally got meself a job – a night guard at the library; so, I've got a roof over me head, some money and a pale semblance of meaning of life.” - Winston sighed, reaching into his plaid shirt's chest pocket and producing a small flat flask. - “Care for a taste, doc? Finest whiskey you've ever tried!”

“I suggest you to refuse indulging yourself to alcoholic beverages, Winston; the therapy session is in progress.” - Joanne scolded softly; however, her chastisement fell to the idle ears, as her patient rolled his eyes and took a swig from the flask, shutting his eyes sharply – presumably with the potency of alcohol:

“Guh! That's a pick-me-up, I say!” - he breathed out, hiding a flask. - “Pardon me, doct'r, I needed this. I promise to behave, cross me heart!” - he crossed his chest with a thumb.

“Apologies accepted; so, you said you were dishonorably discharged from SAS ranks for picking a fight with a commanding officer? How come?.. if you don't mind?” - inquired doctor Moon, flicking a strand lock of hair away from her eyes.

“Eh, water under the bridge, I say... Well, first of – I had absolutely no chance to get into the business firsthand. But I was pretty desperate – and reckless as they come, so I made me some... basis to get in...” - Winston smirked, breathing another whiff of alcohol at Moon; it was not, however, the pungent stench of moonshine – instead, it was a delicate odor of a fine drink. - “I kind of bribed me way in”.

“I never thought it was possible to do so!” - Joanne creased her brow. - “You actually paid for your enlistment?”

“Aye, I did – and quite a motherlode, mesay. But well, as I said, me was young and hot-headed, and I've pulled a good hopjob beforehand.”

“Hopjob?”

“Eh... kinda like shoplifting, mesay, but with higher stakes and faster retreat” - grinned Winston. - “Now, as a forensics expert, me use that experience from me younger times to help our leadhead bobbies solve crimes like that; and, if you ask me, the guys today are such galoots.”

“You mean the criminals?”

“Aye, aye, miss... well, back to the subject. I've paid a king's deal to the recruitment officer – just to get a faint chance to get into the ranks, and stashed some more – just in case, to support me inquiries. Luckily, me applications got through – and that's where the rest of the cash was put to use.”

“So, you basically bought yourself a place in the ranks? That sounds... off-put.”

“It was... But, as me said, water under the bridge. I did deserved me rank and whatnot – and that wasn't easy-peasy at all, nay.”

“And what was the matter of you beating the officer?”

“Eh... You see, I was a platoon commander – a decorated one, many successful operations it the colonies...”

“Colonies?!”

“I mean, ex-colonies; countries in the middle of nowhere, that used to be colonies of the UK. You know, backwater third-world, African and all like that. A pissholes of Earth, pardon me language.”

“Nevermind.”

“So, after another successful covert operation, when the thing was done, the CO gave an order to shoot down the inhabitants of village – 'no witnesses', he remarked. And, imagine me ire – mesay, what kind of sadistic motherbugger it takes to be give this kind of order?” - fumed Winston. - “My second-in-command argued with the CO – he was one good fellow – and earned a headshot for that. 'No one disobeys an order'. That's where me snapped. Of course, I've been court-martialed and found guilty of offending a commanding officer and disobeying a direct order, but his trigger-happy attitude was my trump card; so, instead of being convicted and/or shot, me was just dishonorably discharged from the ranks, saving me rewards, however... aye, that's the story.”

“And how long have you served?” - Joanne asked sympathetically, writing down another note: “Prone to stand for his allies with force when needed/acute feeling of social justice?”.

“Me enlisted at the age of nineteen; got kicked out at twenty-eight. 'twas nine full years of service, scoring a staff sergeant rank.”

“Not bad at all... I guess, you hold pride in your achievements?” - prodding carefully, Joanne risked a lot.

“Eh... water under the bridge, miss Moon. Water under the bridge...” - Winston Hamish Canterbury sighed heavily, sniffling his nose.

“And back to your 'ladies' issue now. What was the matter?” - the lady decided to return to the more pressing subject at hand, noting that the time was running out – they've had merely half an hour to go.

“Uh, aye, Clarice – Rissy... She was the kind of a girl that has her head somewhere above in the clouds, you know – always so excited over small things... I've been seeing her sometimes, when I wasn't sleeping off the night shifts, borrowing books, chatting with the librarians. From this point here, me see she wasn't particularly a beaut – nay, miss, nothing even close to ye – the kind of, er, bookworm, mesay.” - “did he just... complimented me?!/apparently low experience in relationship/affected easily?” - “But there was something about her, aye... Or was that me, me don't even know and the fek I care.”

“Why so?”

“Meh, miss Moon – better leave the past in the past. Mesay we've had our good times, and we've had our bad times, but all in all, it's in the past now.”

Joanne opened her mouth to say something, as the timer beeped the end of the therapy session; she was a bit dumbfounded with the haphazardous irritant, presented to her, but she managed to catch up quickly.

“I fear this marks the end of our today's conversation, mister Canterbury...” - “Please, call me Winston.” - “...er, Winston! See you tomorrow, the same time.”

The man stood up, shaking his head groggily; he blinked something off, offering Joanne a handshake:

“Thank you, doc. I kind of feel better already. Yer one mighty magician, mesay.”

“I am glad to hear that, Winston.” - Joanne smiled, accepting the hand. - “See you tomorrow”.

As the door of the study closed, Joanne Moon, MD, sat in the armchair, absentmindedly driving her pen across the sheet of paper on the clipboard; clock chimed seven times, indicating the end of the day; embers in the fireplace burned quietly, and final note was being crossed over and over again:

“He shouldn't have come.”

Leanne peeked into the study and cleared her throat to drive doctor Moon's attention:

“I'm leaving now, Doctor; should I stay and wait for you?”

“No-no, Lee, don't bother; I'd close the place, don't worry. Have a nice evening.” - Joanne waved a hand to her assistant, still drifting somewhere far away.

“I must see my sister”, she mused out loud, reaching for her phone.