The Red Briefcase

You ask me what I feel right before I black out and lose control of my thoughts. I think about it, briefly.

“Its like taking a thousand steps back from a huge festival with lights and music and kids laughing on all the rides. All of that commotion just kind of dies down until it becomes a quiet vibration. Echoes of voices and trickling water sound in my head. Then I get really, really…tired.”

I close my eyes. I can hear your pencil scribble on your notepad.

“Does that make sense to you?” I ask. You do this weird thing with your eyebrow. It makes me uncomfortable.

“Of course it makes sense. Thanks for telling me that, I wanted to get it from your perspective.”

I nervously tug on a thread hanging from my sweater. The office is cool and doctor-like.

“Do you, do you ever feel like people are talking to you through the television?” I nod through tears. Check. “Alright, do you ever feel as if people are reading your thoughts?” I reach for a tissue as I nod again. Check.

The clock ticks. It’s time to go. You gather up all of your papers and stuff them into your red briefcase. Then you mutter your line, “Until next Monday. We will discuss medication options for you then. As for now, try to relax. Take some time for yourself to unwind.”

We stand up, I shake your hand, I walk to the restroom. Broken-hearted, I fall to the floor, clutching the small blade that I’ve been carrying. I hold my wrist out, weeping over the thought of my mental health slipping away.

I put the blade away, pull myself up, and leave.


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