Amicus Mortis

Four days later they came into my room and demanded that I attend group, because apparently turning up to meals and sleeping my way through each day wasn’t what I needed to get better. I asked them how they thought sitting in a room with a bunch of lunatics and feeling homicidal was going to help my progress, and they responded by telling me that they were revoking my cutlery privileges at meal times until I stopped making jokes about death.

Which, of course, was devastating – because how on earth would the food get in my mouth without a fork? – so I asked them to give me a straw instead, because the food here was so fucking mushy that the cutlery wasn’t much use to me anyway.

Eventually I ended up sitting in the corner of the room, feeling increasingly frustrated as I listened to people talk and the therapist drone on and on in response. Evangeline was sitting beside me smelling like musk and everything addicting and I was having trouble keeping my eyes off her; ignoring the gentle curve of her lips and the stark contrast they made to her creamy skin. Every now and then she would glance up from her legs and her lips would curl into a small smirk, and I would feel my chest clench as though I couldn’t breathe and my legs tremble as though she was a drug that I was somehow lacking. And as infuriating as it was I found myself smiling slightly, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning backwards until I was sure she could see the sliver of skin my shirt exposed.

Growing bored, I focused my attention on the girl who was speaking – a tiny, mouse-like thing with bushy hair and wide brown eyes. She was recounting the story of how she’d tried to end her life, and it was making my hands clench and my blood pump quicker than it should have been.

“And why did you feel the need to do that, Louise?” the therapist was asking, beady eyes glaring out at her behind a white notepad.

The girl was trembling by now, hands curled into shaky fists as her eyes began to well up with tears. “I just… I didn’t feel like I was e-enough, I guess… it all got to be too much and I-“ She stopped, clapping her hand over her mouth and looking at the ground with furious attention as she tried not to cry.

The therapist smiled slightly, lowering her notepad and placing it against her knees. “You know… it’s God’s will for each of his humans to live.”

Evan snorted from beside me, drawing every person’s eyes to her. “Well isn’t that just life changing,” she said dryly, glancing up from her legs to look at the therapist in amusement. “Bloody hell… if I’d have known that was what God wanted, maybe I wouldn’t have taken those pills. Maybe Hitler would have thought… shit, I know I hate those Jews, but God wants them to live. How absolutely life changing. I think we’re all cured.”

I let out a rough laugh, toying with the bottom of my shirt as I eyed her in amusement. “Fucking hell,” I added, drawing attention to myself, “couldn’t you have told me that when I was first admitted? You’d save me a lot of shitty food and boring conversations.”

The therapist was watching me with a lack of expression on her face, and she slowly picked up her notepad back up. “And what brought you here, Noah?” she asked simply, seemingly unbothered by the change in conversation. “What was the event that caused all of this?”

She was trying to set me off, and I knew it. I knew it because my hands were shaking and I could feel the familiar, consuming anger clouding up my head, until my ears began to ring and my jaw began to clench. “I’m a narcissist,” I said finally, not allowing her to get to me.

She raised an eyebrow, turning her head so that she could better see me. “Is that so?”

My nails were digging into the side of my thumb hard enough to draw blood, but I didn’t falter. “I don’t know, Doc, you tell me. I obviously think I’m pretty fucking perfect.”

She was smiling now, just the slightest twist of her lips, and she perched her elbows against her knees, leaning forward to watch me in dry amusement. “Do you really?”

It was obviously condescending, and the tone made something in me snap. Forcing myself up, I kicked my chair backwards, hearing the familiar ringing in my ears and the warmth of the blood rushing to my face. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and it was making me want to tear the room apart, and if that wasn’t enough, I’d tear me apart.

I managed to make it to my room without cracking and I slammed the door shut, before turning around and aggressively kicking the clothes on the floor out of my way. Then I let out a yell, throwing myself at the wall as I tried to wait for things to calm down.

The next time my door opened they found me lying on my bed facing the wall, with a pen buried an inch deep in my forearm.