A Physics Prodigy From Ukraine
2.
Hopeless.
I couldn’t even remember asking for this.
I bet mum had just noticed I was sleeping in.
Sleeping in, my ass, she must’ve thought.
The boy is clearly depressed.
“Now then Ryan,” beamed ‘call-me-Jon’, the cheerful ‘doctor’ - obviously sent by ‘God’ to aid the ‘deprived’.
And by ‘deprived’, meaning me.
I decided not to react.
It didn’t matter.
He would still continue.
“I know you’re feeling pretty down right now…”
I sniffed.
‘Down’ didn’t even come close to what I had felt.
This man had obviously never experienced the pleasure of visiting hell.
I could give him a private tour.
Show him the ropes.
“…and that’s something we can work out together,” he was saying, “but I have to insist that you try to refrain from… cutting.”
Tactful.
“You’ve got an infection around the old wound.”
He stopped talking.
I didn’t start.
I felt rather awkward now.
Rather foolish.
Rather helpless.
And my future was in this arsehole’s hands.
He was trying to help me.
Maybe the infection would be meningitis and I would die.
It would certainly save me the bother of doing it.
Depressed people left to themselves weren’t suicidal.
Anyone, depressed or not, who had therapists like mine were the ones who resorted to killing themselves.
Now isn’t that a cheerful thought.
I couldn’t even remember asking for this.
I bet mum had just noticed I was sleeping in.
Sleeping in, my ass, she must’ve thought.
The boy is clearly depressed.
“Now then Ryan,” beamed ‘call-me-Jon’, the cheerful ‘doctor’ - obviously sent by ‘God’ to aid the ‘deprived’.
And by ‘deprived’, meaning me.
I decided not to react.
It didn’t matter.
He would still continue.
“I know you’re feeling pretty down right now…”
I sniffed.
‘Down’ didn’t even come close to what I had felt.
This man had obviously never experienced the pleasure of visiting hell.
I could give him a private tour.
Show him the ropes.
“…and that’s something we can work out together,” he was saying, “but I have to insist that you try to refrain from… cutting.”
Tactful.
“You’ve got an infection around the old wound.”
He stopped talking.
I didn’t start.
I felt rather awkward now.
Rather foolish.
Rather helpless.
And my future was in this arsehole’s hands.
He was trying to help me.
Maybe the infection would be meningitis and I would die.
It would certainly save me the bother of doing it.
Depressed people left to themselves weren’t suicidal.
Anyone, depressed or not, who had therapists like mine were the ones who resorted to killing themselves.
Now isn’t that a cheerful thought.