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His therapist, a middle-aged woman with shoulder-long, ash blonde hair nice, firm tits and amazingly long legs she makes no effort hiding, always tells him that he has a vivid imagination. She says that those 'things', as she refers to them in a - in his opinion - horribly unprofessional way, just happen in his mind.
"It's all just in your head, Patrick," she says, trying hard to sound understanding but coming across as nothing but smug. "You have to try and focus on reality."
Sometimes, he wonders what she would say if he cut her guts out with the letter opener he knows she has in the top drawer of her desk.
"It's not real," she tells him time and time again, in her frosty, high-pitched voice that awakens the urge in him to silence her.
But sometimes he wonders if she is actually right, if those things really don't actually happen. And then, he wonders what exactly counts as one of those 'things' that are allegedly a mere product of his over-imaginative mind. Is waking up beside Luis Carruthers after a drunk, drug-induced nightmare of an evening, a foul taste of what might or might not have been stale beer or maybe something else entirely in his mouth, one of them? What about having Luis on his knees before him in the shower, Patrick's hands buried in his hair as he holds his head in a vice-like grip? Maybe those are among the 'things' she does not dare to name, but which never happened at all, outside of his twisted mind.
There are moments when he hopes his therapists is as good as they told him she was and actually worth the money he spends on her. Because the alternative - if she isn't right and this is, after all, reality - is too horrible to even consider.