“Why….?” he gasps in disbelief; eyes staring wildly at the hilt of the carving knife protruding rudely from his chest.
Staggering backwards he hits the kitchen wall and slowly slides down to the floor. His legs stick out straight on the black & white spotless tiled floor.
Eyes still open wide, shocked, he takes a gulp of whisky from the cut-crystal tumbler that amazingly has remained clutched in his fist even as 8 inches of stainless steel slid effortlessly into his body.
Rich red blood oozes from the wound and runs down to collect first in a pool in his navel before overflowing and continuing its journey downwards to stain and soak the top of his faded Levis….
“You just wouldn’t snap out of it” says his attacker.
It takes a moment but then he realises that the words just came out of his own mouth….
These are the kind of thoughts that run through your head when you’re in the grip of paralysing depression. Ways that you might die, end it all – escape from the hell that exists inside your own head – the one place you cannot escape from….
This originally started life at the beginning of 2011 as a short story, it may continue as such. I didn’t get to see my psychiatrist today, the receptionists gave me the wrong appointment time last week, 11 instead of 10 – if only it had been the other way around?
I need to see him desperately. I suspect though that in my head I’m building him up to Wizard of Oz proportions and hoping that he’ll give me a heart, a brain AND some courage.