Cerita ini Dibuat Oleh Daffelitisaul
PSYCHOTRIST
Chapter 1: The Glass Facade
Author: daffelitisaul
The asphalt of Commonwealth Avenue did not just look wet. It looked like a mirror shattered by the aggressive neon lights of Boston, reflecting the chaotic red and blue hues of a city that never really knew how to sleep. The smell of burning rubber and high-octane gasoline was not a scent anymore. It was a taste. A metallic, acrid taste coating the back of the throat.
Matthew Loriz, twenty-nine years of age and currently vibrating with an adrenaline spike that could kill a horse, gripped the steering wheel of his sedan. His knuckles were not just white. They were translucent, the skin stretched so tight over the bone it looked like it might tear.
He did not think about stopping. The speedometer needle was burying itself deep into the danger zone, trembling past ninety miles per hour. The world outside the windows was a smear of motion. Buildings were not structures. They were gray blurs. Pedestrians were not people. They were terrifying shadows darting out of the way.
"Come on," Matthew whispered, his voice cracking, sounding alien to his own ears. "Just... go."
The car roared, a mechanical beast screaming in pain as the RPM redlined.
Then came the pole.
It did not appear suddenly. It stood there, a stoic sentinel of concrete and steel, waiting for the inevitable. The collision was not a sound. It was a physical assault on the senses. The crunch of metal folding like wet cardboard. The explosion of glass turning into diamond dust. The airbag deploying with the force of a prizefighter's hook, slamming Matthew back into the seat.
Silence followed. A ringing silence, piercing and high-pitched, drowning out the hiss of the radiator.
Smoke began to curl from under the hood, lazy and gray at first, then turning black and angry. Flame licked the edges of the shattered windshield.
Matthew moved. It was not a conscious decision. It was lizard-brain survival. He kicked the door open, the hinges screaming in protest against the warped metal. He tumbled out onto the cold, unforgiving pavement.
He tried to stand, but his left leg collapsed. It was not just a sprain. It felt like someone had replaced his shinbone with broken glass. He dragged himself across the asphalt, his fingernails scraping against the rough stone, pulling his body inch by agonizing inch away from the wreck.
He stopped near the curb, gasping for air, the cold Boston wind biting his sweaty face. He looked back. The car was now a bonfire. The heat washed over him, drying the blood on his forehead.
He stared at the flames dancing in the night. They looked beautiful. They looked like failure.
One Day Earlier
The sun had draped itself over Boston with a deceptive warmth. It was the kind of morning that promised opportunities, the kind of light that made the brownstones of Beacon Hill look like they belonged in a history book rather than a real estate listing.
Matthew Loriz stepped out of his front door. He adjusted his collar. He checked his reflection in the hallway mirror one last time. The smile he practiced was plastered on. It was a good smile. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners just enough to look genuine.
He saw his neighbor, old Mr. Henderson, bending down to pick up the morning paper. Henderson was a fixture of the street, as permanent as the lampposts.
"Morning, Matt!" Henderson called out, his voice raspy from decades of cigars.
Matthew paused. He widened his grin. He threw his arms out slightly, a theatrical gesture he had perfected over three years of living here.
"And in case I don't see you," Matthew said, his voice projecting clearly across the small gap between their porches, "good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight!"
Henderson chuckled, shaking his head. "Love that movie. You got good taste, kid. Have a good one."
"You too, Mr. Henderson."
Matthew walked to his car. The smile dropped the second his hand touched the door handle. It vanished like a light switch being flicked off. He got in, exhaled a breath he felt like he had been holding for hours, and started the engine. The drive to his clinic was autopilot. He did not see the road. He saw the schedule in his head.
His office was located in a quieter part of town, inside a building that smelled of lemon polish and old paper. The plaque on the door read Matthew Loriz, MD - Psychiatry.
He sat behind his desk. The leather chair creaked. The clock on the wall ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was the heartbeat of the room.
At 2:00 PM exactly, there was a knock.
"Come in," Matthew said.
The door opened. A woman stepped in. She did not walk; she glided. She was sharp. Everything about her was sharp. Her blazer was tailored to within an inch of its life. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor with a rhythm that sounded like a countdown. Her hair was pulled back so tight it pulled her eyes into a permanent glare.
"Doctor Loriz," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Please," Matthew gestured to the chesterfield sofa opposite his desk. "Call me Matthew. And you must be Dorl. Dorl Greece?"
"That is correct."
She sat down. She did not relax. She perched on the edge of the sofa, her back straight, her hands clasped perfectly in her lap. She looked around the room, her eyes scanning the bookshelves, the diplomas, the expensive rug. Analyzing. Calculating.
"So, Dorl," Matthew started, leaning back, trying to project an aura of calm authority. "What brings you in today? The intake form said you wanted to discuss professional development, but usually, people come here to unpack heavier things."
Dorl stared at him. Her eyes were intense. "I am a psychiatrist, Matthew. Just like you."
Matthew blinked. He kept his face neutral. "Oh. I see. A colleague then."
"I have been watching you," Dorl said. Her voice was low, serious. "I have been tracking your numbers. Your client retention rate is through the roof. Your booking schedule is full three months in advance. In this city? In Boston? That is unheard of for someone your age."
Matthew felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his back. "Well, I... I try my best."
"I do not want your best, Matthew," Dorl said, leaning forward. "I want your secret."
"My secret?"
"I want you to teach me," she said, her voice taking on a desperate, hungry edge. "I am struggling. I have the credentials. I have the office. I have the knowledge. But the clients? They come once, and they never come back. I need to know how you do it. You are... you are basically an idol in the local circle right now. Everyone is talking about the Loriz practice."
Matthew felt his stomach twist. Idol. The word felt heavy. It felt undeserved.
He looked at Dorl. He saw the desperation behind her sharp makeup. He saw a mirror of his own insecurities.
"Dorl," Matthew said softly. "Look. I get it. The market is tough."
"Tough? It is a war zone," she snapped. "So, tell me. What is the strategy? Is it the marketing? Do you use a specific agency? Is it the location? Or is it a specific therapeutic modality you are using? CBT? Psychoanalysis? What is the hook?"
Matthew let out a short, dry laugh. He couldn't help it. "Strategy? Dorl, honestly... I don't have a strategy."
Dorl's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"I'm serious," Matthew said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not a businessman. I don't know the first thing about ads or SEO or branding. I just... I listen to people."
"We all listen to people, Matthew. That is the job," Dorl said, her voice getting colder. "Do not play games with me."
"I'm not playing games," Matthew said, his voice pleading for her to understand. "Honestly, I think... I think I just got lucky."
"Lucky?"
"Yeah. Luck. Timing." Matthew looked down at his hands. "And... well, to be completely transparent with you, because we are colleagues... it's the name."
"The name?"
"My brother," Matthew said quietly. "Jonathan Loriz. You know him?"
Dorl's face didn't move. "The neurosurgeon at Mass General? Yes. Everyone knows him."
"Right. Well," Matthew shrugged, a gesture of defeat. "He refers people. A lot of people. And because his reputation is god-tier in this city, people assume I must be a genius too. They come here expecting miracles because I share his DNA. I'm just... I'm just riding his coattails, Dorl. I'm surfing on his wave. I'm not doing anything special. I'm just the little brother who needed a leg up."
The silence that filled the room was suffocating. It was heavy and thick.
Then, Dorl stood up.
She stood up slowly, smoothing down her skirt. When she looked at Matthew, the admiration was gone. It was replaced by something else. Disgust. Pure, unadulterated disgust.
"You are joking," she whispered.
"No," Matthew said, looking up at her. "I'm being honest. I thought... I thought you'd appreciate the honesty."
"Honesty?" Dorl scoffed. It was a harsh sound. "I came here because I thought you were a master of the craft. I thought you were a genius who cracked the code of human connection. And you are telling me it is just nepotism?"
"It's not just nepotism, I do the work—"
"Oh, save it!" Dorl's voice raised, cracking the polite atmosphere of the office. "You are unprofessional. You are incredibly unprofessional. A psychiatrist does not sit there and tell a client—even a colleague—that he is a fraud who got lucky because of his big brother!"
"I didn't say I was a fraud—"
"You implied it!" Dorl shouted. She reached into her purse. Her movements were jagged and angry. She pulled out a wallet. "I asked for professional consultation. I asked for guidance. And you gave me a sob story about your privilege."
"Dorl, wait—"
"Shut up."
She pulled out a stack of bills. Hundreds. She didn't count them. She threw them.
The money fluttered through the air, green leaves falling in a dead forest. They landed on Matthew's desk. They landed on the floor. One bill landed on his lap.
"There is a thousand dollars there. Maybe more. I do not care," Dorl spat the words out. "Consider it payment for wasting my time. And for showing me that the great Matthew Loriz is just a hollow shell."
"Dorl, please, let's talk about this—"
"We are done," she said. She turned around. "You are a disgrace to the profession. You are there because of 'orang dalam' connections, nothing else. Do not ever speak to me again."
She walked to the door. She opened it.
SLAM.
The sound echoed. It vibrated in the windows. It vibrated in Matthew's bones.
Author: daffelitisaul
Matthew sat there. He didn't move. He stared at the money scattered across his desk. Benjamin Franklin stared back at him, judging him. The green paper felt like toxic waste.
"Orang dalam," he whispered to the empty room. The phrase stung. It burned.
He felt small. He felt like a child wearing his father's suit. All the praise, all the full schedules, all the polite nods from neighbors... it all felt fake. A house of cards built on someone else's table.
He stood up, his legs shaking. He grabbed his keys. He didn't clean up the money. He left it there, a monument to his shame.
He walked out of the office. He walked past the receptionist without a word. He got into his car.
The engine started. His hands gripped the wheel.
You're nothing, a voice in his head whispered. She saw right through you. She saw the empty space where your talent is supposed to be.
"Shut up," Matthew hissed.
She knows. Now everyone will know. You're just Jonathan's brother. You're just a shadow.
"Shut up!"
He slammed his foot on the gas. The car lurched forward. He peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching.
He drove. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to be fast. He needed to outrun the voice in his head. He needed to outrun the look in Dorl's eyes.
The city blurred. The lights streaked.
And then, the pole.
Present Time
The fire was roaring now. The car was a skeleton of black metal wreathed in orange fury.
Matthew sat on the curb, his expensive suit torn and covered in grease. His leg throbbed with a rhythm that matched his racing heart.
Passersby were stopping now. He could hear them shouting.
"Call 911!"
"Is anyone inside?"
"Oh my god, look at the car!"
Matthew didn't look at them. He looked at the fire. He watched the flames consume the vehicle. He watched his briefcase, which was still in the back seat, turn to ash.
He reached into his pocket. His hand shook uncontrollably. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—a receipt from the gas station earlier that morning. He stared at it.
"Good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight," he whispered to the burning wreckage.
A siren wailed in the distance, getting louder. The red lights swept across his face, illuminating the tears that were finally starting to fall. He wasn't crying because of the pain in his leg. He wasn't crying because of the car.
He was crying because, for the first time in years, the mask was off. The facade had crashed and burned, just like the metal in front of him. And he had no idea who Matthew Loriz was supposed to be without it.
He leaned his head back against the cold post of a street sign. He closed his eyes. The world spun. The darkness waited.
It was going to be a long night.
Author: daffelitisaul