Act 4 Scene II
[Small windowless room in an NHS psychiatric ward in north London. Man with lots of letters after his name and a certificate on the wall sits on a spinning desk chair that creaks comically every time he moves. He stares at a computer monitor that is older than his patient. The patient is a young woman who nobody knows what to do with. She sits two plastic stairs away from him. Her fingers are cut to shreds and she is concentrating on squeezing tiny flecks of glass out of the wounds. When she finds a piece, she wipes it on the edge of his desk, leaving a bloody smear. The man does not notice, nor does he know how the computer works.]
∞
Man: So. How depressed are you right now?
Woman: Do you mean on a scale of 1 to 10 or…?
Man: Sure, whatever you want.
Woman: Pffffft, erm… I’m sorry. I can’t really think.
Man: Take your time.
Woman: *looks at man’s bookshelf*
Man: *folds a HADS questionnaire in 4 and dabs at brow sweat*
Woman: *notices more bullshit self-help books than respected psychiatric literature*
Man: *drops pen on floor*
Woman: Well, yesterday I read Furiously Happy and I didn’t laugh once.
Man: Oh, God.
Woman: Yeah.
Man: Wow.
Woman: Yep.
Man: That bad, huh?
Woman: Apparently so.
Man: *picks up pen* OK to be honest, I’m not really sure what I can do for you…
Woman: Right…
Man: Yeah, so…
Woman: Yeah, you know what? I agree with you.
Man: You do?
Woman: Yeah. Fuck it. You should take an early lunch. Go and enjoy the sunshine.
Man: Really?
Woman: Oh, absolutely Doc. You’ve earned it.
Man: Great, thanks, you’re welcome. I guess I’ll see you in 6 months?
Woman: If I’m still alive.
Man: Sorry?
Woman: I said, ‘Sorry about the blood.’
Man: What blood?
Woman: On your desk. On the carpet. Oh, and now on the door handle.
Man: Oh, right, yeah, where did that come from?
Woman: Who knows. Anyway, good chat, Doc. *waves bloody hand* Mind how you go.
Man: Yep. *unplugs computer at the wall* Bye now!
Treacle Heart 