Categories > Original > Drama
I remembered her for all the wrong reasons and I hate myself as much as I seem to understand she hated herself. I take a look at the cold depth of the bathroom and I want to tell her I could have helped her take it all away if she had only turned around that morning in the supermarket and asked. She didn't know me anymore than she does now.
They've left everything there, the last symbol of their fight to save her life. To prove that someone cares and yet it seems even more hollow. They threw surgical gloves in there with needles and the tubes. No one moves them until I finish my job and send her to the morgue.
She's rasped a blade over her wrists, done it the right way up too. There was no cry for help and the older scars proved that those cries weren't enough. Maybe she really didn't want to have help after a while. The word help is hollow sometimes. Today that is a word I will employ, hollow.
There's an old mirror in the bathroom and experience tells me she stared at that thing every day. She's looked at a spot or a small blemish and not her entirety. Not the beauty that is life. She's seen only the fat she despises or the badly done make-up. She's even tried to improve things with the odd face mask or the under-wired bra with push up cups.
She asks herself why she is the one that got cursed with the brain that wasn't wired right. They don't just let her shout and deal with it, they call her weird, irritable and moody. They don't understand.
Take a bad day, multiply by ten and then live with it each day. That's close to one day of a long life of downs and then there are the drugs. The doctors giver her those and she's living a false happy. She knows they aren't really stopping the problem and that the moderate amount of numb she feels doesn't stick long.
She wonders if the people around her hate her. Do they tolerate her because they can't tell her they don't need her as a friend? At the end of each day she goes home and gets wine and chocolate. She wants to diet but when she gets a little motivation something puts her down and out comes the binging. I could have told her though; she's not even fat and being skinny doesn't always make you pretty.
She's never going to have a husband or feel the loving embrace of children. The bath is cold, her bloods congealed. Her heart is stopped and her eyes are open. The eyes of the dead are the things that catch me even now. I move over and close them with surgical hands. Even now no one is going to put a warm hand on her.
"So can we move her now?" The young attendant asks. He new to the job, freckle cheeked, bed-head gelled hair and not yet worn in to the job.
"Sure." I nod as I sign the release form. Closing the bathroom door as I go it's time to spend my time with another vision of the world today. This time he didn't take his life. Someone took the liberty and ended it for him.
That is my life. I sign away theirs and they've never met me. Well sometimes they've passed me and I guess that is the closest I get to making friends with my patients.
They've left everything there, the last symbol of their fight to save her life. To prove that someone cares and yet it seems even more hollow. They threw surgical gloves in there with needles and the tubes. No one moves them until I finish my job and send her to the morgue.
She's rasped a blade over her wrists, done it the right way up too. There was no cry for help and the older scars proved that those cries weren't enough. Maybe she really didn't want to have help after a while. The word help is hollow sometimes. Today that is a word I will employ, hollow.
There's an old mirror in the bathroom and experience tells me she stared at that thing every day. She's looked at a spot or a small blemish and not her entirety. Not the beauty that is life. She's seen only the fat she despises or the badly done make-up. She's even tried to improve things with the odd face mask or the under-wired bra with push up cups.
She asks herself why she is the one that got cursed with the brain that wasn't wired right. They don't just let her shout and deal with it, they call her weird, irritable and moody. They don't understand.
Take a bad day, multiply by ten and then live with it each day. That's close to one day of a long life of downs and then there are the drugs. The doctors giver her those and she's living a false happy. She knows they aren't really stopping the problem and that the moderate amount of numb she feels doesn't stick long.
She wonders if the people around her hate her. Do they tolerate her because they can't tell her they don't need her as a friend? At the end of each day she goes home and gets wine and chocolate. She wants to diet but when she gets a little motivation something puts her down and out comes the binging. I could have told her though; she's not even fat and being skinny doesn't always make you pretty.
She's never going to have a husband or feel the loving embrace of children. The bath is cold, her bloods congealed. Her heart is stopped and her eyes are open. The eyes of the dead are the things that catch me even now. I move over and close them with surgical hands. Even now no one is going to put a warm hand on her.
"So can we move her now?" The young attendant asks. He new to the job, freckle cheeked, bed-head gelled hair and not yet worn in to the job.
"Sure." I nod as I sign the release form. Closing the bathroom door as I go it's time to spend my time with another vision of the world today. This time he didn't take his life. Someone took the liberty and ended it for him.
That is my life. I sign away theirs and they've never met me. Well sometimes they've passed me and I guess that is the closest I get to making friends with my patients.
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