Categories > Original > Drama > Drity: Moments and Dreams
9
Please
"I see you are out of the Post Death daze," the shrink said. I was sitting on a cold, black chair facing a man in his early thirties. He wore and nice suit, hanging behind me was a white lab coat. I tipped my head at "Post Death". What death?
"What death?" His smiled faltered. He looked down and there was silence for the longest time.
"We'll get to that later." I nodded. "Now, how old are you?"
"Um..." I counted the days, the months. "Fourteen." He nodded, looking sad.
"Any brothers or sisters?"
"Three and four."
"Very young." No. I shook my head.
"Three brothers. Four sisters." He nodded. Asked me about my life, my school. My love. He asked me to tell him about everything starting from when I met Patrick. I could've said no. I could've said I'd tell him anything but that. Could've pleaded. Please. No. Please no. But I didn't. I told him everything about the dance, the clothes I was wearing, the music that was playing when he walked up to me. I was eleven, he was twelve, thirteen. We danced crazily. And I told him, starting that Monday, I would be a seventh grader.
He was the one that always got the schedule change, bringing himself higher. I would have to help him a lot, but it was worth it. While I got A's, he got a few A's, but an abundance if B's. Above Average. I told about how I adopted his father as my own, and how I grew to love the thought of him. I finished Patrick, almost started on the night with the Sweet.
"Please," I said, "Please tell me how I got here. How I died." He shook his head. He said that it would be a corruption to my "healing process". Puuh. I demanded, shook him until he was sick. Tell me. Tell me so I can be free. Tell me.
I did it.
"You walked into the bathroom."
Filled the tub. Nice and Hot.
"You stepped in, fully clothed, as if you had been sleep walking."
I sat down, letting the tub over flow.
"You dunked yourself."
Breathe. Breathed. Let the water in.
"A brother found you called 911."
Stopped the heart.
"There was water on the walls, it looked like you thrashed around."
No! NO!
"They took you to the hospital, kept you for a few days, you've been here ever since." I shook my head. My tears splashing. Why? Oh god, why? I took shuttering breaths. Breathe. Keep the water in. Take it out. My god, I'm insane.
"Sleep." I slept. I slept for days, minuets. I soon raved about the water. I loved water. I cut people with sporks. I screamed in the middle of the night. The Sweet. The Sweet. I was injected. Sighed, slept. I was told if I didn't get better I'd stay there. No. Please no. Let me go home. Please. I'll dance for a doggie. Please. Please. One year six months was enough. Not three and six. Not three.
"Get better," Rachel said. "Get better."
I did.
Please
"I see you are out of the Post Death daze," the shrink said. I was sitting on a cold, black chair facing a man in his early thirties. He wore and nice suit, hanging behind me was a white lab coat. I tipped my head at "Post Death". What death?
"What death?" His smiled faltered. He looked down and there was silence for the longest time.
"We'll get to that later." I nodded. "Now, how old are you?"
"Um..." I counted the days, the months. "Fourteen." He nodded, looking sad.
"Any brothers or sisters?"
"Three and four."
"Very young." No. I shook my head.
"Three brothers. Four sisters." He nodded. Asked me about my life, my school. My love. He asked me to tell him about everything starting from when I met Patrick. I could've said no. I could've said I'd tell him anything but that. Could've pleaded. Please. No. Please no. But I didn't. I told him everything about the dance, the clothes I was wearing, the music that was playing when he walked up to me. I was eleven, he was twelve, thirteen. We danced crazily. And I told him, starting that Monday, I would be a seventh grader.
He was the one that always got the schedule change, bringing himself higher. I would have to help him a lot, but it was worth it. While I got A's, he got a few A's, but an abundance if B's. Above Average. I told about how I adopted his father as my own, and how I grew to love the thought of him. I finished Patrick, almost started on the night with the Sweet.
"Please," I said, "Please tell me how I got here. How I died." He shook his head. He said that it would be a corruption to my "healing process". Puuh. I demanded, shook him until he was sick. Tell me. Tell me so I can be free. Tell me.
I did it.
"You walked into the bathroom."
Filled the tub. Nice and Hot.
"You stepped in, fully clothed, as if you had been sleep walking."
I sat down, letting the tub over flow.
"You dunked yourself."
Breathe. Breathed. Let the water in.
"A brother found you called 911."
Stopped the heart.
"There was water on the walls, it looked like you thrashed around."
No! NO!
"They took you to the hospital, kept you for a few days, you've been here ever since." I shook my head. My tears splashing. Why? Oh god, why? I took shuttering breaths. Breathe. Keep the water in. Take it out. My god, I'm insane.
"Sleep." I slept. I slept for days, minuets. I soon raved about the water. I loved water. I cut people with sporks. I screamed in the middle of the night. The Sweet. The Sweet. I was injected. Sighed, slept. I was told if I didn't get better I'd stay there. No. Please no. Let me go home. Please. I'll dance for a doggie. Please. Please. One year six months was enough. Not three and six. Not three.
"Get better," Rachel said. "Get better."
I did.
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