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Him
enough, she started to document everything.
“You know I can help you right?” she stated blankly, as if the
answer was blindingly obvious. The thin tip of the cigarette,
forgotten in my hands, corroded before my very eyes. Each fiery
ember burning up as it drifted to the concrete ground.
“I know.” I was lying.
From the top right drawer of the table, where the fingertips of
my left hand lazily drew circles in the rich wood, she procured a
yellow file. She placed it in front of me, opening the front page.
Immediately, I was greeted with an image of my face and she placed
her personal notes neatly on top of it. The file was mustard yellow.
I hate mustard yellow.
She leant forward in her chair. Her elegant frame dramatically
hunched like an awkward giraffe neck.
“Look, I think you have…” the elision produced from her words
were bluntly drowned out, blurring into oblivion as
he
appeared
behind her.
His
face contorting into a deadly scowl and
his
shadow
overpowering the dim light of the room.
He’s
here.
He
picked up the blue lampshade to the side of her and…
CRUNCH!
The sickening sound of her skull breaking filled every
corner of the room.
“
NO!
” I tried to scream but my voice was lost at the back of my
throat.
He
looked at me and disappeared into the thin air. Glancing
down at my hands I saw that my cigarette had been replaced with
the blue lampshade. I was standing behind her dead body.
I glanced at the psychoanalyst’s notes on the table. Scrawled
messily in the centre of the page were a few words.
MENTAL ILLNESS: SCHIZOPHRENIA
I was
him
.
He
was me.
‘
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