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The first time I set eyes on Jordan, I disliked him with the sort of intensity I generally reserve for football referees and traffic wardens. He had one of those smug, know-it-all faces that seem in constant search to give out a good hard punch.It was clear he had dressed in either a hurry or something of a daze. His jacket did not match his trousers and the one shoe he had on was left untied.
To be honest, he was no sooner in my cubicle than I wanted him to be. I was gripped by an irrational desire to see him on his knees and do what he does best. Afterwards he gave me the worst feeling about precarious and made me want to run down to the basement and throw myself in the incinerator. Burn alongside the discarded dressings and contaminated needles...
Damn Jordan. There he goes again, whining and wailing like all the world's pains were in him and him alone. Why will he not be quiet?
There's not a mark on him. He can breathe without difficulty. He can talk, cry, shit, root and even smile if only he'd give it a try.
Clinically, there is nothing wrong with Jordan. Except, of course, he's not all there.
Now when I say Jordan's not all there, I'm not referring to various parts of his anatomy have mysteriously disappeared. Im talking about his mental state.
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