Speed Racer Fan Fiction ❯ All of My Heart ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

"The first cut is the deepest
Baby, I know, the first cut is the deepest.
When it comes to being lucky
he's first.
When it comes to loving me
he's worst."
- The First Cut is the Deepest, Sheryl Crow

“Here you go, Dr. Joyce,” Ron Johnson stated, handing over a huge stack of folders that happened Gregory Racer's files to the petite blonde. He knew that he simply couldn't hand over his patient's files without putting up some sort of a fight, especially since Speed had made it very clear to him six years ago, and every year after that, that he wanted him to be his psychiatrist.

'I really need to talk to his parents again about them obtaining guardianship over their son,' he told himself. 'I know they like Trixie, always have and always will, but she's getting a little out of hand with her demands. It isn't healthy for her and it definitely isn't healthy for Speed.'

“Is this everything, Dr. Johnson?”

“Everything,” he nodded. “Including a detailed history of the events that led to his depression, the treatments we have done, the treatments that we have suggested, what we've been allowed to do, and how we know exactly what it is that Speed wants.”

“And how do you find that out?” she retorted, glaring at him. To that, Ron shrugged as he turned to walk out his office door.

“Easy. We slowly take him off his medications, allow his system to clear itself out then put him under hypnosis after about two weeks time. At that time, we ask him what is that he wants when it comes to his treating psychiatrist and the options we have available for treating his depression and what we're allowed to do.”

“If you use hypnosis on him to find that out, couldn't you just use it to cure his depression?”

“I'd love to, Dr. Joyce,” he smiled, rubbing his palms against his jacket. His nicotine fit had started to kick in. “Mr. and Mrs. Racer, however . . . the ones who have hired you, won't allow us to use hypnosis to treat the problem at hand.”

“And what is the problem at hand, Dr. Johnson?”

“He was raped, Dr. Joyce,” he answered, pulling his cigarettes and his lighter out of his pocket. “A group of his fans got a hold of him one night, a group of female fans. There were at least a dozen of them . . . Anyway, they proceeded to touch and fondle him, much against his will. He ended up pinned somehow with each girl taking turns 'riding on top of him.' Speed really had no way to escape them. I became his psychiatrist then, trying to help him cope with what had happened to him. Things, however, got worse for him from there.”

“How so?”

“Read his files, Dr. Joyce. It's all there. Everything he told me six years ago to the present. Now if you'll excuse me, my cigarettes are calling my name.”

“Dr. Johnson, wait . . . If you've truly done everything you could for him then why doesn't he remember any of what happened to him?” Dr. Joyce asked, holding the files close to her. “Mr. and Mrs. Racer have told me that, every time they've come to visit him, he just stared passively at everyone and everything. He recognizes nothing.”

“Because he doesn't want to remember, Dr. Joyce. If he did, he wouldn't be here now. That is the one thing I can guarantee you.”

Before she could ask him anything more, he left his office and headed for the employee's smoking lounge. The craving simply wouldn't leave him alone.

 

* * *

 

Stacey Joyce glared at the retreating form of Dr. Johnson before shaking her head and leaving his office. There was something he wasn't telling her about her new patient. It was vital, what he wasn't telling her. She could feel it.

'But he did say that everything was in Speed's files,' she reasoned. 'Guess I have some reading to do.' Stacey weighed the folders in her arms as she walked to the conference room that housed her. 'A lot of reading to do.'

The facility had afforded her a small office space when Trixie and Rex Racer had announced that she'd be taking over as Speed's primary psychiatrist. Though they had accepted her with open arms, they were not been willing, however, to release him, even to the psych ward at the hospital. At least, not until she had reviewed Speed's case and understood the implications of him being released from their care, they had told her. Stacey thought it ridiculous, figuring them to be money-hungry idiots.

'Guess it can't be helped,' she sighed, shoving the door open with her foot. 'They know more about his condition than what I do at this point.'

She set the files down on the table then rummaged through them to find the oldest. Once she'd located it, Stacey grabbed herself a cup of coffee and a toaster pastry before sitting down to read.

 

* * *

 

Gentle hands brushed against his face, moving his hair and causing him to blink. He didn't know who it was but he wished that it would stop. The person, a woman with brown hair, flashed in his line of vision, her smiling visage blocking his view of the wall.

“Don't worry, Speed,” she kept saying. “We'll have you out of here in no time. You'll come home and you can have a normal life. Like you once did. You don't have to worry about Dr. Johnson anymore. Dr. Joyce will help you. I know she will.”

Her hand continued to roam from cheek to cheek. She kept smiling at him. Something inside of him sparked. A distant memory. Something terrible, tragic. He didn't want this woman, or any other woman, touching him.

“Don't . . . do that,” he murmured. Sea-green eyes blinked at him.

“Don't do what, Speed?”

“Don't . . . touch me . . . I don't want to be touched. Go . . . away . . .”

“Mrs. Racer . . . I believe your husband, you and I need to have a talk,” a feminine voice stated, a hard edge to her tone. “And please refrain from touching him. If you'll follow me . . .”

They moved away, their footsteps and their voices growing faint. Still, he felt her hands brushing against his cheeks, heard her words . . . Dr. Johnson . . . the name . . . it was familiar. He vaguely recalled telling a dark-haired man in a white jacket that he wanted him to be his doctor . . . but he couldn't remember why. His heart began to ache. Tears formed in his eyes and he started to rock gently. For the first time in a while, he felt something inside of him. He felt . . . fear.

“Don't touch me,” he whispered. “Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me.”