Survivor's Guilt

As promised, I find myself sitting in a stereotypical shrink's office on a brown couch that smells like mothballs wearing my least favorite jeans and a hoodie that I've had for at least four years. Uncomfortable seems like a rather mild word to describe how I'm feeling, which, incidentally, the good doctor has been trying to get me to do for the past twenty minutes. He doesn't like the answer that I've given him - "I'm not feeling."

It's the truth, though. I feel void of everything. I don't even feel like I'm in the same world that I lived in before the accident. Every so often, I feel everything all at once and I'm drowning, but I don't tell him that because that's what he wants to hear.

"The nurses say that you haven't been sleeping well. That every time they come in your room, you're awake, or having fits and talking in your sleep. You've also lost ten pounds since you've been here. This isn't healthy, Maura."

Neither is dying, I think, but that's what's happening. I'm dying, only much slower than she did. I'm not dying fast enough. Sleeping is hard because she's there when I'm sleeping, reminding me of what I've done. She blames me. I can see the anger in her face. She tells me everything that I think when I'm awake - that I'm worthless, that this is my fault, that I'm the one that should've died, that now I have to die.

It seems like the right thing to do, dying.

And it's not like I've been starving myself, I just don't have an appetite and I don't like the looks that the nurses give me when my tray is still full, so I flush the food down the toilet or cut it up so I look like I've eaten more than I have. There's no reason for a corpse to eat. Soon enough they'll realize that.

"Maura? I need you to talk to me. I know it's hard, and that talking seems like it's only going to keep bringing up the bad feelings, but it's the only way to let them out."

No, doc, it's not the only way. Not even close. But rational people don't think about giving into the "bad feelings", now do they? So I keep my mouth closed.

I just nod because I know that it's what he wants to see - my understanding that my behavior will not be tolerated because it is his job to Fix Me. And it's a lot easier to fix something that isn't quite as broken as something else. I'm sure he's seen much worse than me.

"Is there anything you do want to tell me? You don't have to tell me anything about the accident or anything after it, but you can talk about anything you'd like. Would you like to tell me about your friend? Maybe that will help."

Before I can bite my tongue, I quip, "Maybe? Aren't you supposed to know if it will help or not, doc?"

He isn't as taken aback as I would've expected. Instead, he just quirks an eyebrow and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Well, every person's different. I can't know what will help you until you give something a chance, Maura."

I can't talk to him about her. He doesn't deserve to know her. And the more I talk about her, the more questions he'll ask, and the more likely I'll be to tell him what happened. And then he'll have to agree with me - that it's my fault that she's dead and that I should be dead too. And then we'll reach an impasse, because he's not exactly supposed to want me dead. But he would. Anyone who knows what I dead would want me dead.

He shrugs at my lack of a reaction. "Maybe next time. It's about time for you to go to physical therapy, so you can go back to your room and change for that. One of the nurses will be there to help you out. I'll see you again soon, Maura, but if you want to talk before then, all you have to do is say the word."

I struggle to avoid saying, "Not likely," but nod instead and take my leave.

I know where my room is, but I don't go there. I don't want to go to physical therapy. I don't want anyone else wasting their time trying to Fix Me when I don't want that. I just want some peace. And I eventually see the sign for the morgue and I can't help myself from heading there. Because she's there, or at least, I think she is. And if all goes well, I'll be there soon enough.

I slip in the locked door after someone else leaves, and I'm met by a cold, sterile room full of drawers. I know she's in one of them. Well, she's not there, but her body is. She's in my head. I don't know why I want to see her body, but I do. I search and I search and I search and I find the right label and I go to open it, and then there's a hand on my shoulder.

But it's not a hand. It's her hand. She shakes her head at me and sneers. I understand that she doesn't want me to see her body. She only wants me to see this twisted version of her, full of hatred for what I've done. And that's all I deserve.

Suddenly, I start to feel everything and I cry before I know it and I rip her drawer open and her face stares back at me. Then, there is a hand on my shoulder, and I realize that I'm not supposed to be here. Like, I should be dead, but since I'm not, I'm not allowed in this room. This room is not for the living.

As the strange doctor leads me out of the morgue, asking me questions that I'm not likely to answer, I turn and see her, stuck behind the glass. I know, though, that when I close my eyes, she'll still be there. She'll always be there, until I get what I deserve.