Kill Yourself 1/1
Disclaimer: still not mine!!!
Note: It was supposed to start out as something different...but then it just sort of turned into this. Definitely not as bad as Something Like This.
She looked at me, expecting me to say something. She wanted me to start off at the beginning, where my problems start. I don't even remember when the feelings stopped, let alone when the bad things began. Probably as far back as I can remember, and before that.
I move in the over-stuffed brown leather chair. It groans beneath me, putting noise into the silent room. I can feel the tears beginning to weld just trying to think about where to start. There are so many bad things to tell her, that I don't know which one to tell her first. I don't want to tell her any of them, I want to keep everything inside. Because at least when it's inside, it doesn't have to be real to other people.
I'm not a perfect person, and I've done things that I shouldn't, but a lot more has happened to me. I need a reason to tell her, something to make me want too. I have nothing. Looking up at her, she sighs, lowering the glasses on her nose, shrugging her shoulders at me. She's only trying to make me talk. I won't. I can't.
"These are mandatory appointments, Officer." She begins, "You are to come here for five weeks, but if you don't say anything, I can't sign this wavier saying we made any progress."
"I...I don't have anything to tell you." My voice is raw in burning throat, and my eyes fill up with tears.
"Then lets start with before." She says, starting to flip through a file on her desk. "How about 9/11?"
"I don't have anything to say about that. I'm over it."
"Are you sure? Because in here in says..."
"Exactly. In there it says. Nothing that I could tell you, would be different from what you already have right in front of you. I talked, can I go now?"
"We still have thirty minutes, and what you just said doesn't count as talking. But you saying that 'You're over it', lets start there. How can you be sure that you are?"
"How can you be sure that I'm not? Isn't the question in Philosophy, why? The answer is 'why not'."
"This isn't Philosophy, this is a counseling session for you, because to the prison wards and your other cell mates, it seems that you are under a great amount of stress. You've become closed up, not as talkative as you used to be. Not as derogatory, in your case, as you have been. You've been sick a lot, they say it doesn't seem that you've had a lot of sleep. Like you regret something."
"Then I guess that's my problem."
"So then, your problem, as you call it, wouldn't have anything to do with the incident on March 8th?"
"What happened on March 8th? Since you know so much, enlighten me."
"You're here to enlighten me, Officer."
I don't want to talk about March 8th. I don't want to talk about the month of March, period. I don't want to talk about anything. I would however, like to go home and drown myself in hard liquor.
"It says here, that after the eighth of March, you seemed to be showing signs of depression. Which, under the circumstances is understandable. Anyone would feel the way you do after something like that happened."
"Fine. I'm depressed. Give me a prescription or something."
"I'm not here to just prescribe you drugs, Officer, I'm here for you to talk to, so we can get to the root of your problem, so you can overcome it."
"Well, since I don't have a problem, there is nothing to overcome, and thus no reason for me to be here. Dios."
"We can sit here and bicker all you want, Officer, but the longer you don't talk to me, the longer you're going to be coming in here, sitting in that chair, and making me more money."
"If you get more money for each visit I'm here, why do you want me to go so much?"
"I became a psychiotrist to help people, not for the money."
"Is that why a lawyer becomes a lawyer? To help people?"
"Like I said before, Officer. The longer you don't talk, the longer you're here for."
"Is that a threat? Threatening a police officer can get you time in jail."
"My patients isn't wearing, Officer."
"And my problems aren't getting any bigger."
"They aren't becoming less of a problem now either, are they?"
I move again, leaning back, the chair once again groaning. "How many cows had to die to make this chair so they could put it in your office?"
She looks at me, contemplating something in her mind. "How many days has it been since she died, Officer?"
Thirty-five. The answer is thirty-five days. "Dunno." I feel the tears creeping up even farther, and I bit my tongue to try and keep them down. "Haven't really been keeping track."
"Faith Yokas was shot with Cop Killers, was she not? The bullets went right through the vest, four of them."
"Sure." I hiss through clench teeth, fighting the tears becoming near impossible.
"You were there with her, correct?" She doesn't wait for me to respond. "You took a twenty day leave after that. Why would you take a twenty day leave if it didn't 'bother you'?"
Because if I sat home one more day, there was no doubt in my mind that I would put a bullet through my own skull.
"Tell what happened that day, Officer."
"She pissed me off."
"She pissed you off?"
"She fucking ruined everything!" I shouted, leaning forward. "That bitch ruined everything."
"How did she ruin everything?" She was so calm, so collected.
"He was mine. My star. I was going to do so much with him. And she had to ruin it. She turned him against me. He was too stupid to see the truth, and she had to show him."
"She had to show him the truth?"
"I tried to kill her before. Fucking paralyzed the bitch, and she shot me in the god damned head."
"You should be grateful that you didn't die, Officer."
"Was she? She wished I was dead, I wish she had stayed paralyzed forever. The bitch ruined everything, she got what was coming to her. I wouldn't have had to kill her if she hadn't had the nerve to come back and piss me off again. Always mocking me, thinking she was some holy Saint and she was better than me. Her poor White Trash ass was nothing compared to me."
"Maritza," She starts out, "Last week, when you tried to kill yourself, did it have anything to with the fact that you had been informed of Officer Boscorelli's death?"
"He fucking shot himself to be with that bitch."
"Is that what they told you? Because he didn't shoot himself. He hung himself. They found him twelve hours afterwards, when he didn't show up for work." She crossed her legs, folded her arms. She was enjoying this.
"HE WAS A FUCKING BASTARD! I HOPE HE SUFFERED"
Through my vision that had become blurred by tears, I saw her glancing at her watch. Pressing her lips together, she smiled. "That's all the time that we have for the day. You're making progress. I'll mark it down, and we'll continue Thursday."
Disclaimer: still not mine!!!
Note: It was supposed to start out as something different...but then it just sort of turned into this. Definitely not as bad as Something Like This.
She looked at me, expecting me to say something. She wanted me to start off at the beginning, where my problems start. I don't even remember when the feelings stopped, let alone when the bad things began. Probably as far back as I can remember, and before that.
I move in the over-stuffed brown leather chair. It groans beneath me, putting noise into the silent room. I can feel the tears beginning to weld just trying to think about where to start. There are so many bad things to tell her, that I don't know which one to tell her first. I don't want to tell her any of them, I want to keep everything inside. Because at least when it's inside, it doesn't have to be real to other people.
I'm not a perfect person, and I've done things that I shouldn't, but a lot more has happened to me. I need a reason to tell her, something to make me want too. I have nothing. Looking up at her, she sighs, lowering the glasses on her nose, shrugging her shoulders at me. She's only trying to make me talk. I won't. I can't.
"These are mandatory appointments, Officer." She begins, "You are to come here for five weeks, but if you don't say anything, I can't sign this wavier saying we made any progress."
"I...I don't have anything to tell you." My voice is raw in burning throat, and my eyes fill up with tears.
"Then lets start with before." She says, starting to flip through a file on her desk. "How about 9/11?"
"I don't have anything to say about that. I'm over it."
"Are you sure? Because in here in says..."
"Exactly. In there it says. Nothing that I could tell you, would be different from what you already have right in front of you. I talked, can I go now?"
"We still have thirty minutes, and what you just said doesn't count as talking. But you saying that 'You're over it', lets start there. How can you be sure that you are?"
"How can you be sure that I'm not? Isn't the question in Philosophy, why? The answer is 'why not'."
"This isn't Philosophy, this is a counseling session for you, because to the prison wards and your other cell mates, it seems that you are under a great amount of stress. You've become closed up, not as talkative as you used to be. Not as derogatory, in your case, as you have been. You've been sick a lot, they say it doesn't seem that you've had a lot of sleep. Like you regret something."
"Then I guess that's my problem."
"So then, your problem, as you call it, wouldn't have anything to do with the incident on March 8th?"
"What happened on March 8th? Since you know so much, enlighten me."
"You're here to enlighten me, Officer."
I don't want to talk about March 8th. I don't want to talk about the month of March, period. I don't want to talk about anything. I would however, like to go home and drown myself in hard liquor.
"It says here, that after the eighth of March, you seemed to be showing signs of depression. Which, under the circumstances is understandable. Anyone would feel the way you do after something like that happened."
"Fine. I'm depressed. Give me a prescription or something."
"I'm not here to just prescribe you drugs, Officer, I'm here for you to talk to, so we can get to the root of your problem, so you can overcome it."
"Well, since I don't have a problem, there is nothing to overcome, and thus no reason for me to be here. Dios."
"We can sit here and bicker all you want, Officer, but the longer you don't talk to me, the longer you're going to be coming in here, sitting in that chair, and making me more money."
"If you get more money for each visit I'm here, why do you want me to go so much?"
"I became a psychiotrist to help people, not for the money."
"Is that why a lawyer becomes a lawyer? To help people?"
"Like I said before, Officer. The longer you don't talk, the longer you're here for."
"Is that a threat? Threatening a police officer can get you time in jail."
"My patients isn't wearing, Officer."
"And my problems aren't getting any bigger."
"They aren't becoming less of a problem now either, are they?"
I move again, leaning back, the chair once again groaning. "How many cows had to die to make this chair so they could put it in your office?"
She looks at me, contemplating something in her mind. "How many days has it been since she died, Officer?"
Thirty-five. The answer is thirty-five days. "Dunno." I feel the tears creeping up even farther, and I bit my tongue to try and keep them down. "Haven't really been keeping track."
"Faith Yokas was shot with Cop Killers, was she not? The bullets went right through the vest, four of them."
"Sure." I hiss through clench teeth, fighting the tears becoming near impossible.
"You were there with her, correct?" She doesn't wait for me to respond. "You took a twenty day leave after that. Why would you take a twenty day leave if it didn't 'bother you'?"
Because if I sat home one more day, there was no doubt in my mind that I would put a bullet through my own skull.
"Tell what happened that day, Officer."
"She pissed me off."
"She pissed you off?"
"She fucking ruined everything!" I shouted, leaning forward. "That bitch ruined everything."
"How did she ruin everything?" She was so calm, so collected.
"He was mine. My star. I was going to do so much with him. And she had to ruin it. She turned him against me. He was too stupid to see the truth, and she had to show him."
"She had to show him the truth?"
"I tried to kill her before. Fucking paralyzed the bitch, and she shot me in the god damned head."
"You should be grateful that you didn't die, Officer."
"Was she? She wished I was dead, I wish she had stayed paralyzed forever. The bitch ruined everything, she got what was coming to her. I wouldn't have had to kill her if she hadn't had the nerve to come back and piss me off again. Always mocking me, thinking she was some holy Saint and she was better than me. Her poor White Trash ass was nothing compared to me."
"Maritza," She starts out, "Last week, when you tried to kill yourself, did it have anything to with the fact that you had been informed of Officer Boscorelli's death?"
"He fucking shot himself to be with that bitch."
"Is that what they told you? Because he didn't shoot himself. He hung himself. They found him twelve hours afterwards, when he didn't show up for work." She crossed her legs, folded her arms. She was enjoying this.
"HE WAS A FUCKING BASTARD! I HOPE HE SUFFERED"
Through my vision that had become blurred by tears, I saw her glancing at her watch. Pressing her lips together, she smiled. "That's all the time that we have for the day. You're making progress. I'll mark it down, and we'll continue Thursday."