Which Pill Do You Want—The Red or the Blue?
Psychological Thriller: The psychiatrist who remembers everything except the woman with the wrong prescription
FICTION
Which Pill Do You Want—The Red or the Blue?
Psychological Thriller: The psychiatrist who remembers everything except the woman with the wrong prescription
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Photo by Gizem Nikomedi on Unsplash
April 2023, Westchester, NY
“Good morning, Dr. Reynolds.”
“Good morning, Laura. How are you this morning?”
As usual, he didn’t wait for her reply.
“Who are my patients today?” he said gruffly.
Laura rattled off the ten people who were expected and walked back into the outer office. Mr. Tettlebaum was impatiently waiting, his foot in motion, moving up and down.
Dr. Reynolds rang the buzzer.
Laura tossed her dark brown bangs off her forehead with her fingers and said, “Mr. Tettlebaum, you may go in now. The doctor is ready for you.”
“Good morning, Abe. How are you this morning?”
“I’m not doing that well and was hoping you could…”
Dr. Reynolds cut him off mid-sentence and handed him a prescription without any further ado.
“Take it with plenty of water during your meals.”
“I was hoping for an increase in my med.”
Dr. Reynolds shooed him off with a hand flourish and spoke into the intercom.
“Next!”
Shuffling and limping, Mr. Tettlebaum walked out of the office, directly into the elevator. He was seventy-five years old and depressed, mostly about aging.
All Dr. Reynolds’ patients were depressed. Some were anxious.
The rest of the day went accordingly on schedule, without any interruptions or surprises. He finished up with the youngest of his patients, Rhoda, who was an exceptionally pretty twenty-eight-year-old, slim and graceful. Her blue eyes wore subtle makeup complimenting her blond shoulder-length wavy hair.
Rhoda sat in the chair, crossed her legs, and adjusted her skirt which was rising a little too high. Dr. Reynolds appeared uninterested. Or, so it seemed. He adjusted himself too.
Lately, Rhoda was depressed. She hadn’t been dating much and felt unattractive. Her ongoing therapy sessions with a counselor had finally led to a consultation with Dr. Reynolds.
“I just don’t know what to do anymore, doctor. I’m lonely and worried that if I don’t meet someone soon, I will be alone all my life, childless.”
“You are still young, Rhoda. I’m sure you will meet someone, but in the meantime, why don’t you take this prescription, fill it, and see if it helps.”
After a brief discussion of the side effects she might experience, Rhoda left his office, still feeling hopeless.
Whew, she’s a hot one! Wouldn’t I like to… the phone rang and interrupted his thoughts.
Dr. Reynolds was unmarried and a bore, without any lust for life.
He owned one of the most expensive mansions in Scarsdale where he led a very unimpressive life. After dinner, a cold sandwich of turkey-on-rye, he opened his medical folders and looked through them, adding notes to each patient’s chart.
Mr. Pergon needs an additional med to help with his OCD. Need to reevaluate. Ah, here it is — Johnny’s med can be reduced, he’s doing better on this mood stabilizer. This one is going on too long: Mrs. Silvers, she’s not doing well at all. I need to think about this. She needs a different treatment plan.
He continued until 9 pm and when he completed reviewing the charts, he walked over to the couch and picked up the novel he had been reading for the last few days.
The sun shone through the drapes in Dr. Reynold’s living room. The light awakened him, and he jolted upright, suddenly aware he had spent the entire evening asleep on the couch. He had never done that before.
My God! It must be late! What time is it?
He rubbed his eyes several times. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. He looked around and in shock flew off the couch hitting his head on the side of the coffee table.
Where am I? Hello?
Nobody answered.
He carefully got up trying not to fall over, steadied himself, and looked around again.
What is this place?!
Startled, he continued to blink his eyes. A fierce headache was developing. He massaged his head where the coffee table hit him the hardest. No blood. He went from room to room not recognizing anything. He looked outside and became even more alarmed. It was his road! Across the street, a neighbor who he saw every morning, got into his car and drove off, probably to work. He closed the drape.
Am I hallucinating? Or what? Maybe I’m drugged? This isn’t my house! And yet it is my house! Did the fall give me a concussion—or did I realize that it wasn’t my house until afterwards? What the hell am I talking about! I feel a bit nuts.
He instructed himself to take a breath and sit down.
Dr. Reynolds sat on the couch for a full ten minutes without moving. He had been undergoing renovations in his home for the last few weeks and also buying new furniture for a change of pace. Apparently, he had forgotten those “little” details in his life. Shockingly, a part of his memory was gone!
Nothing made sense. He went to sleep the night before on his couch, a brown velvety one, and awakened on a beige cloth couch, smaller than his, but big enough for him to sleep on. The living room seemed to be his; the kitchen, however, was totally different.
Earlier, when he walked into the kitchen, he was flabbergasted at the sleek stainless-steel appliances with a contemporary finish staring at him. High‑tech state‑of‑the‑art features like touch‑screen controls were evident.
A dishwasher, that was not there before, a large white refrigerator with two adjacent chrome handles, and a small kitchen table with two decorative chairs, were all high-end models—nothing like the ones he actually owned.
I don’t own these! And this kitchen seems larger and oblong! How did it fit in this house?
The walls were freshly painted an off-white color which gleamed when the sunlight filtered through the yellow curtained windows.
I guess I’ve been drugged! I have to be hallucinating!
Dr. Reynolds had no family. He was alone in the world. Nobody to turn to or ask whether he was losing his mind. He decided to get dressed and go to work. Maybe when he returned home that evening things would be back to normal. Maybe his drugged-up state of mind would clear by then.
It never did.
Once home that evening, the exhaustion overwhelmed him. He had no appetite. He went into his now unfamiliar bedroom, changed his clothes which were still his, and went back into the living room to go over his medical charts.
The phone rang. He picked it up.
“Dr. Reynolds here. Who is this?” he answered abruptly.
“It’s Rhoda, Dr. Reynolds,” her voice was low and trembling. “I’m not doing well. I’m very depressed and need help.”
He sighed, took a breath and spoke.
“Rhoda, I’m not well myself. I can’t talk right now.”
“Please, Doctor. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “I can’t help you right now. Go to the emergency room at the hospital.”
He hung up before she could say any more.
The phone rang again within seconds. His nerves were shattered.
He angrily grabbed the phone and spoke in an icy toned voice.
“Yes! What is it, Rhoda?” he spat out.
“It’s your decorator, Dr. Reynolds. How do you like your new surroundings?”
This time he totally lost it.
“Who the hell are you? You better give me answers and tell me what’s going on, immediately!”
“Which pill would you like next? The red or blue one?” the decorator whispered into the phone with an eerie voice.
“I demand you tell me who you are! You obviously have drugged me and I’m still hallucinating.”
Dr. Reynolds knew this didn’t make sense because nothing else in his world had changed. His office was exactly the same. Nothing had changed there. The patients were the same people he had been seeing for months. His world had been upended with no explanation as to why his house was someone else’s but nothing else had changed.
“I just told you who I am. It’s your decorator, the one you hired weeks ago. Don’t you remember? It’s Ralph. And no, Dr. Reynolds I did not drug you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. However, I will be there shortly to give you a red or blue pill if you’d like, whichever you choose, of course.”
One week later.
Every day was the same. Dr. Reynolds would go to work and return home early evening to find the phone ringing with the exact same caller.
“It’s your decorator, Dr. Reynolds. How do you like your new surroundings?”
“Enough already!” he screamed into the phone receiver. “Who the hell are you? You better give me answers and tell me what’s going on immediately, or else!”
“Which pill would you like next? The red or blue?” the decorator whispered.
At the end of the week, on the seventh day, a stranger walked into Dr. Reynolds’ house shortly after they spoke on the phone. The doctor answered the door without remembering how he had walked to it, and found himself sitting on the couch without recalling how he’d got to it.
They sat together and the doctor started to ask questions.
“Why are you doing this to me? You obviously have me in some type of trance and I’m willingly taking these pills. What are they? Who are you, really?”
The decorator listened intently and finally responded.
“I don’t know why you don’t remember hiring me, but it sounds like you ought to see a doctor,” he chuckled. “Which pill would you like this evening, doctor?”
Two weeks later.
Dr. Reynolds cleaned out the pockets of his trousers—tissues, a gas receipt, and a signed receipt with his signature for work done on his house by the contractors and the decorator. One receipt.
This can’t be mine! I didn’t hire anyone to renovate my house!
Wait a minute! What is this? What does this note say?
He didn’t recognize the small handwriting and fumbled to get his better glasses. He turned on the light and almost choked reading the words:
You gave the wrong prescriptions to my wife. She is now in an institution because of you! Your medications made her insane!
Now you will suffer!
The phone rang. He froze. On the fourth ring he picked up the receiver.
A voice whispered.
“Ready for your next pill, doctor?”
A red and blue pill rolled out of his other trouser pocket onto the floor.
Dr. Reynolds’ impaired memory resurfaced.
The End.
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