TRANSCRIPT: SOMNARIUM. S.003 – The Winning streak
Case of Richard Hargrove — first seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on January 23rd, 2003, for sleep disturbance, recurring nightmares, and an escalating fear of everything slipping out of his control.
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INTRO
Before I start, yeah — I heard it too.
At the end of the last file, that faint knocking… like someone tapping on a window.
I checked and double-checked. It’s there. It’s not on my mic track. So I don’t know how it snuck in.
Anyway. Whatever.
Something else happened when I pulled the next batch.
One loose file popped up by itself — no folder, no label, just sitting there like it wanted to be found. It wasn’t a patient record. It read like a personal note from Dr. Renwyck. No names. No dates. Just… her. For a page or two.
And right behind it was a folder I can’t open.
Encrypted. Properly. Not “password on a Word doc.” Real encryption. Like someone made sure it would stay shut.
I tried the obvious stuff. Nothing.
I’ll keep trying, but… I might have to call a friend.
Then I pulled another folder — third one that’s readable enough to make any sense of.
Dated early 2003 and… oh boy. This one’s a doozy.
The patient this time… isn’t sympathetic.
At least not on paper.
He’s a lawyer. Corporate. The kind of person who talks like the world is a machine — and if you’re smart enough, rich enough, ruthless enough, you can make it do what you want.
And here’s the part that made me sit back in my chair for a minute:
While his personal life is coming apart — and I mean falling off a cliff — he keeps winning at work.
Big wins. Clean wins. The kind of streak that turns into arrogance you can’t shake. Like the universe is still signing off on him, even as it’s taking everything else.
He writes like that’s proof.
Like if he keeps winning cases, then whatever’s happening outside the courtroom is just… temporary. A hiccup. A thing he’ll “handle.”
Spoiler: He doesn’t handle it.
He doubles down. He tightens his grip on every small thing — every plan, every promise, every routine, every little comfort — and the tighter he holds on, the harder his life bites back.
He does start to change, though.
It’s all over the place. He’s still trying to write like he’s in charge — like this is just a list of problems he’s about to solve — but you can hear him coming loose between the lines.
The entries start lurching from one disaster to the next, like he can’t decide which fire to put out first. One minute he’s furious, the next he’s bargaining, then he’s reassuring himself, then he’s blaming someone else, then he’s back to “handled.”
He’s trying to hold onto everything at once — money, reputation, routine, the apartment, the car, the image — and the harder he grips, the more it all slips through his fingers.
The pages turn into this frantic attempt to pin his life down before he loses it all.
(pause)
File label on the recovered index is damaged — most of the name is gone. But there’s a number stamped on the intake note: 02.
And in the upper right corner, just like the previous case there’s a single word written:
[DR. BRINE]
(pause)
I stopped there and tried to look him up. Old directories, registries, anything.
I can find no trace of a Dr. Brine.
(pause)
Case of Richard Hargrove — first seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on January 23rd, 2003, for sleep disturbance, recurring nightmares, and an escalating fear of everything slipping out of his control.
EMAIL REFERRAL
From: Myriam [LAST NAME AND EMAIL REDACTED]
To: Dr. Susan Renwyck [EMAIL REDACTED]
Subject: Private referral
Dear Susan,
It’s been a while since we last spoke. We should really meet up for a coffee sometime — it’s been far too long.
I’m reaching out with a private referral, if you’re able to help. A personal friend of mine, Rick Hargrove of Hargrove & Price, Attorneys at Law, has been struggling with his sleep and it’s starting to bleed into his day-to-day. He’s not the easiest personality, but he’s genuinely not coping as well as he thinks he is.
If you have any way to squeeze him in for an initial consult in the next couple of weeks, I’d really appreciate it. I can have him work around whatever slot you can spare.
Thank you, Susan.
Warmly,
Myriam
INTAKE TRANSCRIPTION
It seems that the patient got priority treatment due to the private referral and an intake was done in Dr. Renwyck’s practice by her staff. It was recorded on tape, but all I could recover was a transcript of the conversation.
This intake transcript is one-sided — only Hargrove’s side got recorded.
Patient: Richard Hargrove
Date: January 23rd, 2003
Subject: In-practice intake; transcription of tape recording
“Richard Hargrove.”
“Can we get this over with?”
“Just let me see Dr. Renwyck already.”
“…Fine.”
“It’s on the form.”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“Yeah. Blood thinners. Heart rhythm thing. It’s managed.”
“No, I don’t– I don’t need medication.”
“Social. Not a problem. Not relevant.”
“I smoke.”
“No drugs. Not that kind of guy.”
“Look– I’m not here for a lifestyle audit.”
“What’s happening is I’m not sleeping.”
“I fall asleep late, I wake up early, and then I’m just… on autopilot.”
“My brain doesn’t shut off.”
“Fine, you want a number? Three hours. Four on a good night.”
“Nightmares? I don’t know. Dreams. Whatever.”
“They’re not– they’re not the point.”
“During the day? No. I can do my job just fine.”
“I’m not seeing things. I’m not hearing things. I’m not fucking crazy.”
“Stressors? Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Things are busy. That’s called having a career.”
“Fear of losing control– I wrote that because your form demanded I write something.”
“I don’t ‘fear’ things. I solve them.”
“Attorney. Corporate.”
“Hargrove & Price, Attorneys at Law.”
“No prior psych. No history. None of this bullshit.”
“My goal today?”
“To get some fucking sleep.”
“To get back to normal.”
“And to stop wasting my goddamn time on questions that don’t fix anything.”
CONSULTATION NOTE
On the same day there’s a consultation note, but the beginning of the file is corrupted — the first readable page is Hargrove’s personal account of what led up to that first appointment.
Patient: Richard Hargrove
Date: January 23rd, 2003
Subject: Initial consultation, transcription of tape recording
[THE FIRST TWO PAGES ARE UNRECOVERABLE]
On the night of the corporate New Year’s reception.
I can tell you the date if you want. I can tell you what I was wearing. I can tell you who was in the room and which partners laughed too loud at the wrong jokes.
Because that’s what I do — I keep receipts. I keep timelines. I keep things accounted for.
And up until that night, everything was. Work was fine. Better than fine. I was winning. I still am.
What started that night was small. Pathetic, honestly. The kind of thing that should take one call, one apology, and be done.
The valet lost my ticket.
That’s it. A little paper stub and a blank stare.
They had my car. They had my keys. And they kept telling me to “just wait a moment” like I was some drunk idiot outside a club and not someone with a name that gets calls returned. I’m standing there in a room full of people who clock weakness instantly, and I’m being told to wait.
So I don’t wait. I don’t smile. I don’t play nice.
I start making calls. I find a manager. Then I find their manager. I make it clear this is going to become expensive and public if it doesn’t get fixed in the next five minutes. Eventually someone important appears, nodding like they’re doing me a favor, and promises it’ll be handled.
And it still isn’t.
Because by the time they “find” the car, the system’s already rolled forward without me. A “fee.” A “discrepancy.” A “hold.” Little words that mean you don’t get your property back when you’re supposed to. Little words that turn into more little words. And you can’t argue with them, because there’s nothing to argue with — it’s just a screen somewhere saying no.
And that’s when it starts.
Not the valet. Not the ticket. That doesn’t matter now.
It’s what happened after — how nothing stayed fixed. How every time I corrected one thing, two more were already waiting.
The hold meant I missed a call — and I don’t miss calls. All because I was standing in a lobby arguing with a kiosk and a night manager about whether my car was “in their system.”
By the time I realized my phone had been ringing, it was over. One missed call. Voicemail from my bank. Calm voice, urgent words. “Please call us back.” Like they were doing me a favor.
And I still didn’t have my car.
So I took a taxi home. Midnight. Rain. The driver talking at me like we were friends, like my night was a story he was entitled to. I didn’t answer. I stared out the window and watched the city slide by, thinking about how much money people can spend and still end up in the back seat of someone else’s vehicle because a kiosk says no.
I got home late, irritated, wired.
And I slept– maybe an hour. Two. Not real sleep. That half-sleep where you’re still solving problems in your head.
Next morning, that voicemail turns into an automated message from my bank about “unusual activity.” Which is funny, because the only unusual thing is that I’m being asked to prove I’m me. Like identity is a subscription that can lapse.
I call. I verify. I answer the security questions. I do everything right. They tell me it’ll be cleared “within twenty-four hours.”
It isn’t.
So now I have a car issue that’s supposed to be resolved but is still “processing,” and I have a bank issue that’s supposedly resolved but still “pending,” and I still have court, clients, deadlines– the day doesn’t stop because a system says ‘pending.’
I go to pay something– rent, utilities, whatever– and it fails. Then something else fails. Then at lunch my card declines in front of someone who shouldn’t ever see it decline. And the moment you get that look– that tiny flicker of judgment– it hits you how fast status turns into a question mark.
And while that’s happening– and this is the part nobody wants to hear– I’m still winning.
Not “doing okay.” Not “hanging in there.”
Winning.
I took a case that should’ve been a slow bleed into settlement and I ended it in one shot. Full dismissal. Clean. Public. The kind of win that makes people stop calling your opponent back.
You must’ve seen it on the news. I’m not saying that to brag– I’m saying it because it matters. Because it proves I’m not slipping. I’m not falling apart. I’m not some overwhelmed idiot mismanaging his life.
I walked out of that courtroom and cameras were there. People smiling. Saying my name like it meant something.
And then I tried to go home.
Except my car still wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
Overnight, the valet situation had “escalated.” That’s the word they used — escalated — like it was a weather event. Somebody had logged it wrong, and now the car wasn’t in their lot, it was in some contracted facility across town. Impound-adjacent. Chain-link fence. Office hours. Paperwork.
Fine. Annoying, but fine. I can handle annoying.
Until they tell me there’s a release fee.
And my card declines.
Because the bank “hold” that was supposed to clear “within twenty-four hours” is still there. Still pending. Still protecting me from myself.
So I’m standing there– fresh off a win that made the news– being told I can’t retrieve my own car because two separate systems have decided I don’t get to.
So I do what I always do. I tighten the grip.
I start making calls from the parking lot, from the taxi, from the hallway outside conference rooms. I send emails with people CC’d who shouldn’t need to be involved. I lean on favors. I name-drop. I turn minor problems into urgent ones because urgency is the only language these systems seem to understand.
And it works– in pieces. Little wins. Little confirmations. Little “we’re so sorry, Mr. Hargrove.”
But nothing stays fixed.
Every correction spawns a follow-up. Every follow-up creates a new queue. A new department. A new policy. A new person telling me it’s “out of their hands.” Like once you’ve been tagged as a problem, everything you touch starts demanding proof you didn’t need yesterday.
So don’t tell me it’s “stress.”
Stress is what people use as an excuse when they can’t keep up.
This is different.
This is… me losing control.
After that it turns into a routine. A stupid, exhausting routine.
Every morning I wake up already behind. I check voicemail, emails, bank alerts, whatever new “issue” spawned overnight. I make calls until someone answers. I get transferred. I get put on hold. I get promised callbacks that never come. I start the same conversation with a new voice and a new policy like the last two hours didn’t happen.
Then I go to work and I win anyway.
I stand in court and I sound calm. I’m sharp. I’m prepared. I watch people fold. I take the compliments, I take the handshake, I take the camera. I’m the one in control in that room.
And then I step outside and my phone has three new messages that all mean the same thing: not fixed.
A “processing delay.” A “technical error.” A “review.” Another form. Another signature. Another proof of address. Another request for documentation I’ve already provided. I start carrying folders. Copies. Receipts. Like that should matter to a system that doesn’t even remember what it asked me yesterday.
The worst part is the timing.
Everything waits until the end of the day. After office hours. Right when there’s nobody left to reach. That’s when the automated emails hit. That’s when the lines go dead. That’s when I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling and my brain starts replaying the whole thing, hunting for the exact moment I let it start.
So I stop sleeping properly. I stop eating properly. I start counting hours like they’re money.
And the more tired I get, the more I slip. Small things. Embarrassing things. I misplace paperwork. I reread the same paragraph five times and it doesn’t stick. I catch myself staring at a wall mid-thought, like someone hit pause and forgot to press play again. I start snapping at people for breathing too loudly near me.
Because if there’s a reason this is happening — if there’s some step I missed, some rule I didn’t follow — I need to find it. I need to correct it. I need to put everything back where it belongs.
And then the nightmares start to line up.
Same place, over and over: a dentist’s office.
Specifically, the waiting room. Those hard plastic seats. Outdated magazines. A closed door with a little frosted window — and screaming behind it, muffled, like it’s happening in the walls. Then the drill starts. That high, clean whine. Constant. Patient. Like it could go all night.
My name gets called.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
I stand up, and I’m not walking toward the door — I’m walking to the reception desk. Again.
The receptionist slides a clipboard across without looking at me. More forms. Same forms. Different forms. A new page inserted between two I’ve already signed.
I fill them out. I sign. I date. I hand them back.
“Please take a seat and wait until we call your name.”
I sit. I hear the drill again, still whining, but louder now — more intense. And the screaming, from behind the door with the little frosted window.
And then my name gets called again.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
Over and over, like a loop. Like I’m being processed. Like I’m never actually going to make it through that door — I’m just going to keep sitting down, standing up, and proving I’m allowed to be here. Always more paperwork. Always another procedure to follow.
And then I just wake up. Jaw sore from clenching all night.
And the day starts all over again.
SLEEP DIARY
Friday, January 24th, 2003
Okay so, the Doc wants me to write down how my nights are going and anything notable that happens during the day that might increase my stress levels and influence my sleep pattern.
So far that makes sense, so let’s do this.
Last night I was in the waiting room of the dentist’s office again. Waiting my turn.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
They called my name and the next thing I know I’m walking to the reception desk again.
The receptionist slid a clipboard with a form toward me, expecting me to fill it in.
Like always, I fill in the form, sign it, date it, and slide the clipboard back.
“Please take a seat and wait until we call your name.”
When I was walking back toward those uncomfortable plastic chairs, I noticed a picture frame on the wall. It was a group photo — a man in a doctor’s coat, and what I can only assume are nurses on either side of him. The picture was blurry, so I could only make out the shapes, but it was the first time I noticed it hanging there.
I sat down, and as soon as I hit the chair, I could once again hear the whining of the drill.
And that’s when the screaming started again. Muffled, like always — like it was happening in the walls.
I don’t know how long I sat there, listening to that abhorrent noise coming from behind the door with the little glass window. It could have been seconds, minutes, even hours. I can never tell. Maybe that’s because it’s a dream.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
Yet again they called my name.
So, once again, I walked to the reception desk.
The receptionist — like clockwork — slid a clipboard with a form toward me.
And just as I’m about to pick it up, she grabbed me by the arm.
Her hand was so pale and skinny, with the skin pulled tight over the knuckles, like all of the life had been sucked out of it.
I shot awake, heart racing. I immediately reached for my jaw because yet again it felt sore, like I had been clenching it all night long.
When I finally got out of bed, the day was the same loop it’s been all week.
The car’s been sitting in that contracted holding lot for days now. Not technically “impound,” because nobody wants to use that word, but it’s impound. Chain-link fence, floodlights, thick glass, and a tone that says you’re guilty until the screen clears you.
I’ve already been there twice. I’ve already done the counter, the forms, the “we can’t release it without authorization,” the authorization that the valet company insists they sent, the holding lot insisting they never received.
So today I go again. Because waiting politely is how you lose.
They tell me the same thing: there’s a release fee and a storage fee. Fine. Annoying, but fine.
I try to pay and my card declines.
Of course it does.
Because the bank hold is still “pending.” Still “under review.” Still “for my protection,” which is a phrase that makes me want to break something.
So I step outside and I call the bank again. I verify again. I answer security questions again. I get transferred again. I’m told it’ll clear within twenty-four hours again.
I go back to the window and ask what else they’ll take. Cash? No– “has to be on record.” Cheque? No. Alternate card? Same decline, because now everything is flagged. Like the system is contagious.
And the guy behind the glass is calm the entire time. Bored, even. Like this is normal. Like people don’t come apart over this.
I leave without the car. Again.
And then– because of course this is how my life works right now — I walk into court that afternoon and I win.
Smashing success. Clean result. The kind of decision you can hear land in the room. Handshakes after. People calling me “brilliant” like it’s a fact. It made the local news.
For an hour, everything behaves. Everything responds to pressure the way it’s supposed to.
Then I check my phone and it’s the same automated message from the bank. The same hold. The same “review.”
Like the world is laughing at me.
On the way home I catch myself rehearsing speeches out loud. Threats. Complaints. The exact wording of a letter I’m going to send. The exact person I’m going to address it to. Like if I can phrase it correctly, the world will be forced to behave.
I barely ate. I kept making calls until office hours ended and the lines went dead.
And by the time night came, I wasn’t even tired. Just… wired. Tight. Like I’d been holding my breath for days.
Saturday, January 25th, 2003
Same dream again.
Dentist’s waiting room. Hard plastic chairs. Outdated magazines that never change. The drill whining behind the closed door with the little frosted window. The screaming, muffled like it’s coming from inside the walls.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
My name gets called and I stand up automatically, like I’m trained.
Reception desk. Clipboard. Form.
I take the pen and start filling it in — name, address, date of birth — the same nonsense, over and over. I can feel the paper getting soft under my hand like it’s been erased and rewritten a hundred times.
And then I notice something I didn’t notice before.
The framed photo on the wall — the blurry group shot.
It’s clearer tonight. Not clear, but closer. Like the dream is zooming in.
There’s a man in a doctor’s coat in the center. Two nurses on either side. Their faces are still smudged out, but the nameplate on his chest isn’t.
It says: DR. BRINE.
And as soon as I read it, the receptionist stops sliding the clipboard and just… holds it there, waiting.
Her fingers are wrapped around the edge of it like she’s not letting go.
“Please take a seat,” she says, smiling without warmth.
“And wait until we call your name.”
I wake up with my jaw sore from clenching, like always.
And it’s still dark outside.
I go straight to my computer and check my bank account. I’m hoping the hold finally cleared so I can get my car back without another circus.
It hasn’t.
Still “pending.” Still “under review.” Still that same calm little word that means no.
So I spend my Saturday doing what I should not have to do.
I call the bank. I get transferred. I answer security questions I’ve already answered. I get the same line: “twenty-four hours.” It’s always twenty-four hours. It’s what people say when they want you to stop existing.
I call the holding lot. They tell me the release authorization is “not visible on their end” yet. They can’t do anything until the system updates. Storage fees are still accruing. They say it like they’re reading weather.
So I go there. Again. In another taxi. Again. Because I’m not waiting for permission to retrieve my own property.
Same counter. Same thick glass. Same bored kid typing with two fingers. He asks me to spell my name like I’m the one who misplaced it. Then he tells me the payment won’t go through because my account is flagged.
So I step outside and call the bank again from the parking lot. I escalate. I ask for a supervisor. I refuse to hang up. I can feel my teeth pressed together so hard it hurts — like if I clench hard enough I can force the world into place.
Eventually someone “authorizes” a one-time override. That’s the phrase. One-time override. Like I’m a child getting a special exception.
They tell me I have a narrow window before the system re-applies the hold.
So I walk back in, pay immediately, and the gate finally opens.
And the moment it opens, another problem appears.
Release form. Liability clause. As-is.
I argue. I demand a revised form. I demand someone with actual authority. They tell me — calmly, politely — to take a seat and wait until they call my name.
So I take the seat.
And I wait.
And I realize I’m counting the minutes like they’re insults.
When they finally call me back up, it’s the same form. Nothing changed. The same smile. The same “policy.”
My jaw is aching. My head is pounding. I can taste metal in my mouth and I don’t know why.
I sign.
Not because I agree. Because I need the car back. Because I need one thing to stop.
They hand me the keys like they’re doing me a favor.
I get in the car and I’m still clenching without realizing it. Hands on the wheel. Teeth locked. Like if I let go for a second something else will get taken.
Then a jolt of pain shoots up from the back of my mouth — sharp, specific, wrong.
I press my tongue against one of my molars and my stomach turns.
It moves.
Just a fraction, but it moves.
I can’t believe it, so I check the rearview mirror like that’s going to help. I can’t see anything. I open my mouth wider, angle my face, try again. Nothing. Just my own eyes staring back at me, bloodshot and furious.
So I drive home like I’m being chased.
I get to my apartment, go straight to the bathroom, and lean into the big mirror over the sink. I pull my cheek back with two fingers. There it is — not falling out, not yet, but loose enough that I can see it shift when I breathe.
It aches. A deep, pulsing ache that fills my whole head. I can barely touch it with my tongue without flinching. It’s like my body is punishing me for noticing it.
And I need it to stop.
I stand there for a long minute, gripping the edge of the sink, jaw shaking. Then something in me just… snaps. Not a scream. Not some dramatic moment. Just a decision.
Toolbox. Under the bed.
I don’t even think. I grab the pliers.
Back to the mirror.
I fit them around the tooth and I hesitate for half a second — because part of me knows this is insane — and then I pull.
The pain is blinding, white-hot, absolute.
And then–
release.
Not relief, not comfort. Just the sudden, sick quiet where the pain was. Like a pressure valve opened.
I spit into the sink. Blood. Saliva.
And a tooth in my hand, slick and real, like proof.
I rinse my mouth and stare at myself in the mirror, breathing hard.
And the worst part is how quickly my brain tries to make it normal.
How quickly it starts telling me: good. Handled. Fixed.
Because that’s what I do.
I solve things.
[DRIVE SEEKS – THEN ERRORS – THEN SHUTS DOWN]
Alex:
What the…. Come on, not now
OUTRO PLAYS
[END OF PART ONE]
[START OF PART TWO]
Alright. Part two.
When I was reading this last time, the drive started seeking like crazy and then the file just… dropped. Like it yanked the cord on me on purpose.
I know how that sounds. But this thing’s been acting like it has a mind of its own since I plugged it in. Like it decides what I get to hear, and when.
Anyway. I’ve got it open again now. Same folder. The rest of it’s still here.
So– picking up where it cut out. The rest of the sleep diary.
Sunday, January 26th, 2003
I didn’t even realize I was dreaming at first.
I was already holding the clipboard. Pen in my hand. Standing at the desk like I’d been there all day.
The waiting room was quieter tonight. No magazines. No small talk. Just that fluorescent hum and the door with the frosted window sitting there like an accusation.
Somewhere behind it, the drill whined — not loud, just constant. Patient. Like it didn’t need me to hear it to keep going.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
I looked up and the receptionist didn’t look back. She just pushed the form toward me with one finger, like she didn’t want to touch it.
I started writing and that’s when I noticed it: the paper already had indentations in it. Deep grooves, like someone had filled it out with too much pressure.
My name. My address. My handwriting. All the right shapes.
But not written by me.
Like I was just tracing what had already been decided.
“Please take a seat and wait until we call your name.”
I walk back, passing that picture on the wall again. I look. I stare. I bring my face so close to the glass I can see my own breath fog it.
The faces are still blurred. The nameplate is still there.
And then– I could’ve sworn the man in the center, Dr. Brine, winked at me.
I jolt awake with my jaw sore from clenching.
It takes me a second to remember it’s Sunday.
Which means the bank is closed. The branch is closed. The people who can “authorize” anything are gone. So even if I wanted to force the hold off today, I can’t.
So of course today is the day something else happens.
Around mid-morning I get a call about one of the condos I rent out. The tenant’s on the phone panicking, talking over herself. “Water everywhere.” “Ceiling.” “It won’t stop.” Then she says the words that make my stomach drop: the unit below is affected too.
It’s a burst pipe. Or a leak. Or some building-level failure that nobody wants to take responsibility for. The tenant says the building manager is “on his way.” I know what that means. It means nobody’s coming until you make it their problem.
So I go.
I spend the entire day in that building. Hallways that smell like wet plaster. Carpets darkening as the water spreads. People standing around pointing at the ceiling like that’s action. A building manager explaining “process.” A contractor saying he can’t start without approval. An insurance rep insisting on documentation. Everyone waiting for someone else to go first.
And I’m the only one who can’t afford waiting.
So I push. I call. I threaten. I make it loud enough that they have to move.
I get shutoff valves found. I get a plumber on site. I get photos taken, reports written, signatures collected. I get the tenant relocated for the night. I get the manager to admit–carefully, verbally, never in writing–that this isn’t my fault.
By the time it’s handled, it’s dark out again and I feel like I’ve swallowed grit.
I drive home and I can’t stop clenching. Even in the car, even alone, my teeth are locked like I’m still arguing with someone.
Halfway there, I get that jolt again. Sharp, wrong, deep in the back of my mouth.
Another molar.
I press it with my tongue and it shifts.
Not much. Just enough.
My hands tighten on the wheel so hard my knuckles hurt.
I get home faster than I should. Straight to the bathroom. Straight to the big mirror over the sink. I pull my cheek back and I see it — not falling out, but loose, angry, aching like it’s pulsing with its own heartbeat.
I can barely touch it with my tongue without flinching.
And I don’t have the patience for this. Not tonight. Not after today.
I don’t even think this time.
Toolbox.
Pliers.
Mirror.
I pull.
It hurts like hell, and then it doesn’t.
That sweet, sick release — the moment the pain stops being inside my head.
Blood in the sink. Another tooth in my hand. Another “problem solved” that should not be solvable this way.
I rinse my mouth and stare at myself until my eyes stop looking like mine.
And tomorrow the bank will be open again.
Monday, January 27th, 2003
Last night the dream changed.
Same waiting room. Same hard chairs. Same magazines. Same door with the little frosted window. Same drill screaming behind it like it was alive.
“Mr. Hargrove.”
This time, when my name got called, I didn’t go to the reception desk.
I went through the door.
The room on the other side was too bright. Too clean. That clinical white that made you feel like you were dirty just for existing. The drill was louder in there — close enough to feel it in your teeth.
And the chair was waiting.
Reclined. Open. Center of the room like it was the only place you were allowed to be.
And I sat in it immediately. Instinct. Like protocol. Like there was a process and I’d already been routed this far, so of course I took my seat. Of course I didn’t ask why. Of course I didn’t argue. You don’t argue with a process — you complete it.
Then I noticed I was strapped in.
Not tight. Not dramatic. Just… the kind of restraint that said you were being processed.
And behind the chair was a man in a doctor’s coat.
Dr. Brine.
Up close his face still didn’t sit right — like my brain couldn’t hold the details — but I knew it was him the way you know a name when you’ve seen it stamped enough times.
He didn’t say hello. He didn’t ask questions.
He just looked at me like I was a form he’d already decided how to file.
Then he smiled.
And I jolted awake with my jaw sore from clenching, like always.
I was back in court today.
And here’s the thing: I won. Completely.
Opposing counsel tried to grandstand. The judge didn’t buy it. I didn’t even have to raise my voice. It was surgical. Clean. You must’ve seen it — they were outside with cameras again, asking questions like it was a spectacle. I gave them what they wanted. A quote. A smile.
I walked out of that building with my name in people’s mouths.
And then I checked my phone.
Missed call from the bank.
Missed call from the building manager about the water leak — the same calm voice as everyone else, leaving the same kind of message: “urgent,” “time-sensitive,” “please call back.”
And another missed call from my office.
From Price.
No voicemail.
Which was worse than a voicemail, because if Price was calling and not leaving a message, it meant it was either already burning or about to.
I called the bank back first. Automated maze. Verification. Hold music. The same word again: review. I didn’t even get a person. Just an email telling me to come in with identification.
I called the building manager. He started talking about “liability” and “downstairs damage” and “insurance won’t proceed without statements.” Another form. Another signature. Another opportunity for someone to slide responsibility onto me.
Then I called Price.
He finally answered and he was already talking fast, like he was trying to get ahead of the damage. Some junior associate had run his mouth to a reporter. Something about a client. Something “confidential.” It wasn’t even a real scandal yet, but it was close enough you could smell it.
And because I was a partner, it became my problem to contain. My job to make it disappear before it grew teeth.
So I was juggling three fires at once — bank, property, firm — and every single one of them had a process. A required sequence. Steps you weren’t allowed to skip. People who “couldn’t help” until you’d been properly routed.
I could feel myself getting sharper. Shorter. Meaner.
I kept catching myself clenching so hard my teeth ached, and I still didn’t stop. Stopping felt like surrender and surrender felt like losing.
By the time I got home, it was dark. I was still in my suit. I hadn’t eaten. I could taste blood again and I didn’t know when it started.
I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth like that was going to restore order.
Then I felt it.
Not a molar this time.
A front tooth. One of the ones people actually see.
A small shift when I touched it with my tongue. A sick little give. Like it wasn’t anchored the way it had been yesterday.
My stomach turned. My first thought wasn’t pain.
It was humiliation.
I leaned into the mirror and stared at myself, pulling my lip back, checking it from every angle like there was a version where this wasn’t happening.
It ached. It throbbed. And the more I focused on it, the louder it got, until it was the only thing in my head.
And I couldn’t leave it there.
I couldn’t go to court tomorrow with a loose front tooth. I couldn’t talk to clients. I couldn’t smile for cameras. I couldn’t let this show.
So I opened the toolbox again.
And I didn’t even let myself think the word insane.
I grabbed the pliers.
And I pulled.
Tuesday, January 28th, 2003
[PAGE IS UNREADABLE – RECORD ENTIRELY COVERED IN BLOOD]
NEWSPAPER CLIPPING
Date: January 29th, 2003
HIGH-PROFILE LAWYER FOUND DEAD IN PENTHOUSE BATHROOM
A prominent corporate attorney was found dead late Tuesday night in the bathroom of his downtown penthouse, according to police.
Richard “Rick” Hargrove, a senior partner at Hargrove & Price, Attorneys at Law, was discovered after building security conducted a welfare check when he failed to respond to repeated calls and messages throughout the day.
Authorities said Hargrove was found slumped on the bathroom floor beside the sink. Investigators described the scene as “disturbing,” noting significant blood loss and the presence of a pair of pliers believed to have been used to inflict injuries.
According to officials familiar with the early findings, Hargrove’s mouth had been violently and completely stripped of teeth. Investigators recovered a number of teeth from the bathroom area, with additional remains believed to have been washed into the sink and surrounding fixtures. Police declined to provide further detail pending a full post-mortem examination, but confirmed there were no immediate signs of forced entry or an altercation.
Emergency responders pronounced Hargrove dead at the scene.
Hargrove was widely known for a recent string of courtroom victories, including a highly publicized case earlier this month that drew media attention outside the courthouse. Colleagues described him as “relentless,” “brilliant,” and “demanding,” with one fellow attorney calling him “the kind of man who didn’t accept the word no.”
A spokesperson for Hargrove & Price said the firm was “shocked and devastated” and asked for privacy.
Police said the death is not currently being treated as suspicious, though the investigation remains ongoing. Investigators also noted Hargrove had a documented medical history that may have complicated blood loss, though officials emphasized it is too early to determine whether that contributed to his death. The medical examiner’s office will confirm an official cause in the coming days.
CONCLUSION
Patient Record Addendum
Patient: Richard Hargrove
Date: January 29th, 2003
Subject: police contact; press reporting of patient death
This case was initially accepted as a priority intake accommodated following a personal request from an acquaintance. Standard written intake was not received prior to the first appointment; intake was taken in-clinic by staff.
On January 29th, I was contacted in person by investigators regarding Mr. Hargrove. Detective Raynor led the interview; his partner remained largely silent and took notes. They reported no evidence of forced entry or a struggle at the residence and stated the circumstances suggested an acute psychiatric crisis rather than foul play. They located the patient’s sleep diary on the bathroom floor with my clinic card attached. They advised the final entry (Tuesday) was largely unreadable due to blood saturation.
I am recording this addendum after reviewing the diary pages provided and after reading press coverage indicating Mr. Hargrove was found deceased in his residence.
Mr. Hargrove presented as overtly arrogant and highly resistant to routine clinical procedure, repeatedly attempting to control the pace and content of assessment. He framed distress as an external inconvenience to be solved, expressed contempt for delay, and demonstrated an extreme intolerance for uncertainty — particularly any status described as “pending,” “processing,” or “under review.”
Despite continued occupational function and public success, his narrative showed escalating instability outside of professional settings: increased monitoring, repeated verification, persistent escalation of minor obstacles, and an inability to disengage. The diary reflects a tightening loop of corrective behavior performed for immediate relief.
I was unable to provide investigators with any additional practical insight beyond what was documented in the clinical record: namely, the patient’s longstanding and worsening control fixation, his inability to tolerate unresolved states, and his tendency to respond to distress by forcefully “correcting” the perceived problem rather than tolerating it.
Of particular concern, the diary indicates progression from bruxism and jaw pain to deliberate extraction of his own teeth. The force required to remove a tooth is considerable; the psychological threshold required to override pain avoidance is higher still. In a patient whose identity and functioning are organized around control and image, this represents severe distress and impaired judgment.
Press reporting referenced significant blood loss. Mr. Hargrove reported a medical history consistent with anticoagulation for a cardiac condition (details incompletely documented). If accurate, this would have increased risk of uncontrolled bleeding following oral trauma.
This case underscores the danger of equating public function with private stability. Mr. Hargrove’s continued professional wins likely reinforced the very patterns that were accelerating his deterioration and delayed any possibility of tolerating uncertainty long enough for intervention to take hold.
Looking back, the combination of prolonged sleep loss and compulsive ‘fixing’ behavior should have been treated as more urgent than his outward functioning suggested.
File Closed.
Another File Closed.
Another bad ending.
And I’m starting to wonder if that’s what this drive is — an archive of all the times Dr. Renwyck couldn’t help. Couldn’t save someone. Or didn’t get the chance.
He won every fight that didn’t matter. And still couldn’t stop it.
It felt like the system had decided he was the problem.
Can you imagine how far you need to be pushed to pull your own teeth?
NO FURTHER MATERIAL RECOVERED.
SHOW OUTRO PLAYS