6.
(love is bad, my son)
The atmosphere during the morning report on Friday used to be pretty good. People would be quite tired because of the whole week of work, but also happy due to upcoming weekend and the perspective of getting some rest. One could sense it in somewhat relaxed manner of speech, way of being, smiling... Friday reports were simply not so official. Josh could understand that, although himself he would appear on the ward on Saturday as well - but his situation was different, and his enthusiasm for working just wouldn't go away on a holiday. And if he compared that to academic year, he knew perfectly well what Friday meant.
Today, however, when he entered the room, he noticed immediately that the mood was far from cheerful. Strange was already that he saw only Dr Beaufils and two ward sisters; other regular participants were absent. It had never occurred before; the morning report was too important to ignore it. Josh glanced at his watch: it was eight precisely, so something must have held the others. As for the women present, they were sitting with gloomy expressions and didn't speak to each other, while normally they would have more than enough to chatter about.
"Good morning," Josh said but was answered only by vague murmurs.
Something must have happened, he thought, taking his usual place in the back row and putting the notebook on his lap. Probably something on the ward. From time to time, if an aggressive patient was admitted, some incidents might come up, with a member staff getting hurt; afterwards, people were dispirited, upset, and distressed. It was rather hard to get used to such things, even if they happened more or less regularly... Maybe something of that kind had occurred last night, too. What a pity, with weekend coming and all... Josh hoped it was nothing serious. Not so long ago a nurse had been punched in the face and was currently away on sick leave; fortunately, his injuries weren't grave.
Morning sun was pleasantly warming his back. The day promised to be as beautiful as all previous ones, but after a few minutes Josh started to give in to the dark atmosphere. He probably should ask what had happened... but just as he came to that conclusion, the steps could be heard, and then in the doorway appeared Dr Lenard, Madame Montagne and the ward sister of the acute ward. All of them were clearly crestfallen - although in Madame's case that stern expression was normal. They didn't sit down only kept standing, as if they were about to announce something. It didn't bode well. Josh realized he became more and more nervous, although he had no idea what he should prepare for...
"I guess all of you have already heard..." Dr Lenard started without further ado, not looking anyone in the eye; his voice was dangerously indifferent, devoid of any emotion. "One of our patients... Gilles Vigier, who was treated on the acute ward due to severe depression, yesterday... when being transported to another facility... committed suicide."
Josh felt he was getting terribly cold... and, it the same time, it seemed to him he were somewhere else, separated from other people by a thick glass. He stared at Dr Lenard and tried to find some sense in what the man had just said and what his own mind didn't want to accept. Didn't grasp. It couldn't be possible... it couldn't be happening, couldn't be true... The impression was so unreal it must have been a dream. Yes, he was still sleeping in his own bed; he had yet to get up and go for a report; surely he had...
"It shouldn't have happened," Dr Lenard was speaking, though, his every word ringing in the unnatural silence filling the room. "We thought he felt better already... was recovering. I decided he could continue treatment in another place and sent him for rehabilitation," now there was more emotions in his voice... sorrow, dejection, displeasure. "We should have kept him here longer, but... we wrongly assessed his condition."
Josh stirred when his mind - after the initial shock - resumed functioning again. All of the sudden, thoughts flowed fast - he couldn't control them, and every one made him feel an unpleasant pang in his chest. His heart was pounding painfully, as if he were running... running away from something.
'We wrongly assessed his condition.' Who'd assessed? Who'd been talking with Gilles every day? Who'd been filling his medical record? Who'd been painting a positive picture of his medical state for over a week? Who'd been convincing the doctors about things improving... about Gilles recovering and thinking of life again? Who'd...
"It's my fault," he whispered, feeling all blood rush away from his head. "If I hadn't written all of that..."
The nurses sitting before him turned around, as did Dr Beaufils, who shook her head, her gaze so understanding, so sympathetic... Yet, now those people seemed complete strangers to him, with nothing connecting them to him. He felt dizzy. He fixed his terrified eyes on Dr Lenard, who was staring at him with a frown.
"Of course not," the man said. "No-one is at fault. Or all of us are. I am the most, for I was responsible for his treatment," he added in a lower voice and looked down.
Josh, however, heard him like from afar. Only now he started to comprehend what had happened. Gilles... was dead. Gilles, whom he'd seen only yesterday. Who'd been ready to leave the hospital. Who'd been feeling well. Who'd been enjoying life and thinking of his future. Who'd been seeing the world around him and could marvel at its beauty. Who'd overcome his depression.
Something made his throat clench.
Had overcome depression? How could Josh have believed that? He should have known better that depression couldn't be overcome. It might stick to the person for ever, follow him everywhere, only sometimes hide... disappear from the sight for a moment. Attack whenever one became less vigilant. Return when one managed to forget about it. How could he have imagined Gilles, whose life had crumbled... to be able to recover from it so quickly...? How could he have thought that way... have been convinced of it? He should have know better... then why he hadn't?
"But... I was sure he was better..." he uttered, as if he wanted to defend himself... from the doctor, from the nurses... from himself, in the first place.
His chin began to tremble, so he clenched his jaw. Suddenly he knew he would lose control of himself any moment... while it shouldn't take place. Not here... not with those people... although he could no longer really see them. It was bad, he wouldn't be able to check himself... and would make a scene... He felt like crying and screaming. He wanted to jump up to his feet and run away from here. The notebook fell from his lap, but he didn't even notice. He clenched his fists and felt the fingernails digging into his palms. His teeth were chattering... and some dreadful feeling tried to burst his chest.
"Mr Or, will you please come with me," Madame Montagne's clear voice was to be heard.
He looked up at her, not really seeing anything through his tears. "I-" he choked, although he didn't know what he wanted to say.
"Mr Or, will you please come with me," Madame repeated in the same firm tone, fixing her slate-blue eyes on him. Her eyes seemed the only sharp point in the blurry scenery.
He couldn't object. Actually, he didn't want to; he needed someone's presence... her presence. Yet some part of him wished to be alone, to flee, never see anyone again, never meet anyone again, only run forwards and yell. And some other part demanded to be punished, to atone for the wrong he'd brought about... or just deaden that feeling of guilt, wrenching his insides.
He got up automatically and followed Madame, blinded by tears. In fact, he didn't want so see anything... hearing and feeling was enough. The dark corridor, then sunlight of the June morning, then again shade of another building and creaking of the floor. The door being slammed when they were already in her office.
"Be seated," Madame commanded in a voice allowing no objection, so he sat down on the old-fashioned couch by the wall, wishing he could shrink... disappear completely. "What it is you want to tell me?" she said sternly, and Josh wondered what it could be and whether he really wanted to say anything.
He stared at her in a sudden fear, filled with chill of rejection and that almost palpable hostility. How could he have ever considered her a warm person? How could he have desired her presence? There was nothing kind in her... And now that he needed... What, actually? Support? Comfort? But he only deserved condemnation. How foolish on his part to expect something else than hatred. No wonder she was standing there, menacing and towering - as if she wanted to tread him into the ground, reduce him to dust, cast him into the abyss of despair, tear down the wall protecting him, and kill the last of strength in him. No wonder she was looking at him with contempt...
With contempt?
He squinted to see better, although everything kept getting blurred... Pale oval of her face, lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes... And then he could no longer hold back; he broke down and cried. He cringed and buried his face in his hands, futilely trying to cover his shame... Her gaze... he just couldn't defend himself from it...
Without a word, she sat down next to him and put her arms around his shoulders. He was sobbing miserably, unable to contain himself. He was crying out his sorrow, shock, tension, fear, guilt, bitterness, failure, and realization he couldn't turn back the time. Despair was tearing his body apart and flowing out with his tears, but it wouldn't diminish... not in the slightest. On the contrary, he felt worse and worse with every passing moment. His head was humming, and it ached even more. His throat was sore, every breath hurting his windpipe and lungs. But he didn't deserve any better, he should suffer...
Finally, he had no strength to cry. He kept sitting like that, cringed and with his irritated eye-lids shut tight, and wondered whether he would be able to think again. It seemed impossible... He felt as if he'd been ground in a mill, incapable of any effort. Maybe it was better this way, actually...
Madame took back her arms but was still sitting next to him, so the feeling of loneliness wasn't so strong. "It's the dark side of our work," he heard her calm voice. "I'm sorry that you were forced to learn it so quickly," she said compassionately. "Yet it has already happened, and we can't do a thing about it, although realising it won't make us feel better just like that. So cry, as much as you need. You're not the only person crying in this hospital today... And that's the right thing, for heartless people shouldn't work here."
Josh tried to focus on her words. Certainly, she was right, and others were depressed, too, but... did it change anything in his situation?
"Your sorrow is understandable," Madame kept talking, "so give it some space. However, I'd like you to stop talking about any guilt," she said warningly. "Just like Dr Lenard said, maybe all of us are to be blame, or maybe no-one... Still, you bear no responsibility for Gilles Vigier's death. None," she emphasized. "If you really need to regard the matter that way, it is Dr Lenard who bears responsibility... although I'm perfectly sure that he acted upon his best knowledge. It is always doctor in charge responsible for the treatment process, certainly not a student."
Involuntarily, Josh remembered the man's drawn face during the meeting and thought that Dr Lenard hadn't deserved that. Although it was quite hard to grasp in that flood of emotions... and numbness that crying had brought along, he felt a pang of regret - for having started talking about the guilt... The psychiatrist must have been very upset, probably more than he. And yet Josh hadn't thought of it, only began to hurl accusation - directed at himself, but still. It was so egoistic... and so unnecessary, he shouldn't have done this...
But Gilles...! His heart clenched with pain once more, and his eyes stung again. He would never forgive himself. Never.
Madame seemed to read his mind. "I'm going to tell you one thing that you're probably not aware of," she proposed, although, in her case, it was simply announcing her intention. "It is Gilles who made a decision. Maybe yesterday, maybe a week or two ago. Of course, maybe his death might be prevented if we had continued his treatment... but it is also possible that nothing would have changed even if we had kept him here one month or a year. He made his decision, and perhaps nothing would have dissuaded him from executing it... just like it happened. He would have done... he did everything to carry out his will. You may bear a grudge against him... you may feel you were deceived... but don't take it personally, for he didn't do it to hurt you," Madame explained.
Grudge? How could Josh bear a grudge against someone who was already dead? It was Gilles who was the only victim here... it was Gilles who'd paid the highest price. How could anyone put blame on him? It was them who had failed him, even though they should have helped him. He sniffed.
"Such patients are rare, and that's why I regret it that you had to experience this situation during your stay here..." Madame repeated. "That you had to learn, so quickly that we're not infallible either... to realize that we can lose, too. Psychiatry isn't as easy as surgery, where you only have to open the belly and remove the appendix to save a person's life. Here, we work with human mind that we cannot see. Even if we scan a brain, we won't be able to know what it's owner thinks. We can only believe their words... or not believe. Sometimes, we just have to be careful... identify those we have to be vigilant with. It comes with time and experience, but sometimes we fail regardless... we are defeated by a patient, by his illness, by his mind... although they are never our enemies, rather respected rivals."
Josh tried to find some sense in her words but couldn't. Dr Lenard had said himself, 'We wrongly assessed his condition. We should have kept him here longer and continued his treatment.' If Gilles had stayed in hospital, he would have surely stopped thinking of death. Or - if he'd done what he'd done on impulse - he would have improved to such a state that he wouldn't have made an attempt on his life by the first mood drop... by the first adversity. He would have strengthened psychically. Then, why was Madame saying such things? After all, why did the psychiatric hospital exist if not for locking up those who had gone nuts and couldn't answer for themselves and keeping them there as long as they improved?
However, Madame obviously regarded it in a different way... Madame, who had been working in psychiatry for forty years. Why did he try to argue with her? Why didn't he want to accept those words of comfort she was offering him? Oh, but he knew why - his feeling of guilt was so strong, so absolute that it didn't allow any comfort. It didn't allow any excuse.
"People have freedom of choice," Madame declared when he kept silent. "Sometimes we can only accept those choices, even though we don't agree with them and even if they are painful. We mustn't shoulder responsibility for every thing, for every person. No-one could live like this," she added matter-of-factly. "However, what we can is to learn from experience... from hard experience just like this one... even if it sounds cynical. Learn from that and move forward. I apologize for talking to you like to a child, but I want you to know that... If you haven't known so far, then just spare it one thought," she requested and then asked, "Tell me, what do you want to do now?"
Josh couldn't answer, for his throat was still clenched. Besides... he felt like sleeping, in the first place. Thinking of what he would do in one hour - to say nothing of next day or week - seemed repulsive. He just wanted to close his eyes, recede from all that, not think of anything... not feel anything. Madame, however, awaited his answer, so he shook his head.
"In that case, I'll tell you my thoughts," she said; it could what she'd intended to right from the start. "You should take a break. You wanted to go to Idealo, didn't you? In this situation, it seems the best solution. You need a change of scenery, if only for a short while. It will be too hard to stay here for the next few days. There's no point in tormenting yourself like that."
She got up and approached the window, putting her hands back. The floor squeaked under her feet.
"I am aware of your overtime," she said. "And Saturdays. Because of them, you can take three days off. I suggest that you travel to Esperanto. In any case, don't show up in work until Thursday," she added sternly. "Use that time in a pleasant way. Visit your relatives... And think if you want to return to this place." She turned to him, and her voice became gentle again. "Such event is a shock to anyone, even an experienced worker, so I wouldn't be surprised if you became averse to psychiatry for the rest of your life," she stated frankly. "In that case, we will have to respect that. However, let me add that people here took liking to you and really appreciate your work."
Finally, Josh raised his head and looked at her, squinting in the sunlight surrounding her frame. Liked and appreciated? He wished he could believe that... maybe yesterday he would still have... but not today. Now, he wasn't able to like and appreciate himself, so how could others...? He stared at his hands again; he'd been clenching them for a longer while now, and his knuckles were completely white. He stretched his fingers, but they began to tremble again. Another sob shook his body. It seemed to him he would do nothing but cry from now on.
The steps squeaked again on the wooden floor, and then he heard Madame talking on the phone, although the humming in his head allowed him to grasp only single words, "... one package... ten... yes, to my office... thank you..."
He tried to contain himself, but it was impossible. That pain in his chest just wouldn't ease; that despair just wouldn't go. Realization that what had happened couldn't be undone, was choking and crushing him. He still felt as if he had killed a man... taken the life that so much good might have yet happened in. Everything that Madame had said... He understand that with his reason, but on the emotional level was only chaos... and it was the emotions seizing him firmly now. He would never see Gilles again, talk to him... He would probably have never met him again anyway, but there still had been a chance... and now it was utterly impossible. Infeasible. Unrealisable.
Suddenly he became aware it was the first time in his adult life that he'd encountered death. Years ago he'd lost his grandfather... He'd managed to forget how terrible experience it had been - and now he'd been reminded of it fully. Grandfather had died long ago, old and ill... and Josh had accepted his passing, even though he'd been his only relative, his only family... But Gilles' death seemed so... pointless, so gratuitous. His grandfather's death had been a tragedy for Josh, but he couldn't resist the impression that Gilles' death was a tragedy for the whole world. How could they have allowed that? Another sob seemed to tear his lungs and bronchial tubes apart.
A knocking could be heard, and the nurse from the ward appeared in the doorway. Madame took something from her and sent her back. Then she poured a glass of water and came to Josh, who could see only her feet in grey shoes. She gave him the glass and asked him to stretch his other hand. When he complied, a single pill fell on his palm.
"It's a tranquillizer," she explained. "You need it now. Don't worry, it will do you no harm. Now, take it. I'm going to escort you to your flat."
Josh stared at the blue tablet before taking it to his mouth and washing down. Then he brushed his hair from his face and wiped his eyes. He supposed he looked terrible... but he didn't care about it in the slightest.
Madame put the glass on the washbasin and opened the door. "Let's go," she encouraged.
Soon, they were walking through the park towards the staff quarters. Josh wondered how it could still be a day. How the sun could shine, and the flowers bloom. How the squirrels could jump over the branches, and the birds sing. He thought that everything around should grieve... mourn for Gilles, who could never see that beauty again...
Admiring it was a crime; he lowered his head. It was better to look at the dusty path, with only a hem of a skirt and legs in tights taking peaceful, even steps in his sight... although he couldn't see clearly, for momentarily the world got blurred. He tried to focus, tried to remember Gilles...
"Madame... How did he...?" he uttered with his eyes fixed on the grey dust under his feet.
For a longer while, he could hear only shuffling; he wasn't able to properly lift his legs... When she spoke, her voice was calm and almost indifferent. Almost cold. "When they were in the town, he told the driver he wanted to buy himself something to drink during the ride," she said quietly yet clearly. "The day was hot, and they had quite a distance to travel, so his request was sensible. The driver had no reason to decline and let him go to the shop next to the station. He didn't suspect anything, but then... Gilles ran under the approaching train."
Josh felt sick - even more than before.
Something like that had happened yesterday, in the afternoon. Here, in this town, not so far from the hospital itself... And he'd had no idea. He'd spent the rest of the day in the park, enjoying the fine weather... the rest in the open... He'd gone to sleep a happy man. Today he thought he would never be happy again. Ignorance was a bliss; now he understood perfectly well why some people believed that. He'd like to turn back the time, he wished it to be yesterday... No, he wished that yesterday had never happened.
"Madame... Why did he do it? He felt better already... he nearly recovered fully...?" he whispered, unable to to overcome his weakness.
Now he heard no reply; apparently, sometimes even she had none. Then he remembered what she'd said earlier: that Gilles had made his decision. And what Dr Lenard had said: that Gilled hadn't recovered.
He felt dizzy; he thought he would trip any moment. He staggered, but a strong arm supported him. "It's a side-effect of the medication," Madame said, her voice coming from afar. "But we're already here. Will you be able to climb the stairs?"
"Yes," he affirmed, although his head grew heavier and heavier... but, at the same time, he felt strangely light, so stairs weren't a challenge.
Somehow, he managed to get to his room and lay down. The bed had never seemed so inviting. He remembered he'd used to sleep after taking a sedative before. "I'm going to fall asleep," he informed in a weak voice.
"That's good," Madame replied calmly somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, but he wasn't sure whether he could still hear her.
He couldn't keep his eyes open any more, but simultaneously he was under the impression that his all anxiety... all pain had left. For a longer while, he hadn't experienced that regret... that sorrow squeezing his insides. He felt comforted, consoled. Even his heart slowed down, and his breathing became even. He relaxed; his muscles weren't so tensed. It was a good feeling. He thought he could hear ten strokes... Right, someone on this floor had an old clock, he thought with the latest effort of concentration. He'd spent nearly two hours crying... but he no longer cried. There was no need for that. Everything had receded, and only calm was left.
Calm.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, already falling asleep.
"You don't have to be," he heard the answer and then ceased perceiving the sounds.
He was waking slowly. At first, it seemed to him... he was regaining consciousness after Alain's assault... But it didn't fit; that one had happened at night, and now it was bright in the room. And it wasn't Paris, only quite another - unfamiliar? - place. No, that one had happened earlier, in late April... And Alain had already recovered. Now was beginning of June, summertime... He was far from Paris, in the south, in Sainte-Jeanne. But why had he been asleep during the day?
He turned his head, his eyes moving over the ceiling, the window and the walls, to see a white box with a top on the bedside table along with a glass of water. He frowned, reading the name on the sticker. Diazepam. A sedative. By no means not his. Why was it here? Why... had he used it? Now he knew he had; it explained why he'd been asleep. He looked at the watch; it was past three. He should be at work. Today was... Friday, wasn't it?
He felt a pang in his chest. He already knew something had happened. Friday, he should be at work... But... he had been. He'd left in the morning, he remembered now. He'd even wondered what to do in order to excuse himself from the staff meeting, for - which was very impolite and unfair on his part - those Friday complains of the nurses used to depress him... and he'd rather not participate in it third time in a row. Why did he have the impression that today there would be even more complaining...?
He lay down and covered his face with one arm, trying to gather his thought and reconstruct the events of the day.
He'd left in the morning, a quarter to eight, like always... He'd attended the morning report... He couldn't remember anything else than the morning report... But, actually, he didn't remember it either. As if he hadn't really been there, as if he'd left right away... with someone else... he'd left with Madame Montagne.
Madame had brought him here later. What was it that they'd been talking about? What had happened that had made his mind - like many times before, now he finally realised that - try to deny it? His heart accelerated, he felt that warning pang in his chest again, but he had to remember. The week that was coming to its end... Everything had been all right. Recently, everything had been all right in Sainte-Jeanne. His practice period had been passing without any problem, filling him with joy and satisfaction. The patients had been recovering and leaving the hospital.
No...!
He bit his lips to stop the screaming but couldn't hold back sobbing, that shook his body. He curled up on the bed and pressed his eye-lids tight. Hadn't he cried enough today? But his body obviously didn't care about that... or maybe there was no limit of tears... of despair...
Gilles...! Oh, poor Gilles...
The guilt weighed on him again. Why... why hadn't he realized? Why had he taken the boy's words at face value and believed everything? Why hadn't he been even slightly sceptical? Why hadn't he asked more, deeper? Why had he been happy with what had satisfied him... had satisfied everyone? Well, Dr Lenard must have done the same... but was that any consolation? Gilles couldn't be brought back to life.
Why was Josh so completely hopeless in everything he did? Why did he harm everyone around him? He couldn't take care of anyone - quite the contrary, things always went bad. What had he believed? That he would be a great psychologist? That he would be able to help others? Ludicrous. And so thoughtless. For two weeks, everything had been fine, so he'd believed that he would manage... And then a disaster had happened. Madame Montagne had said that it happened rarely... Then, what did it prove when it had happened right now when Josh was staying here? And to the patient that Josh had been, more or less, working with?
Josh had already seen himself as a clinical psychologist? Well, now he knew at least that he should be kept away from the psychiatric patients. And from the rest of people, too. How would he be able to look anyone in the eye again?
No wonder that Alain had left him.
He pressed his jaws tight, but the sobbing overcame him again, along with that terrible pain in his chest. He had believed that Alain would come back. And on what basis? There was none. He'd simply decided it. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge any other option. He'd been blind, of course. He'd been lying to himself, all that time. Alain, however, hadn't given him any signs. The last time they had seen each other was... three weeks ago. Sure, three weeks was nothing compared to three years, but Josh no longer considered it relevant. Alain had left. He hadn't wanted to be with him. He hadn't wanted him, had abandoned him and disappear. They had enjoyed being together - yet Alain had left. He hadn't been satisfied. Hadn't felt good. Had wanted to be alone or with someone else - but not with Josh.
He swallowed bitter tears down his clenched throat.
After all that, would Josh be able to believe someone again? To trust someone? Impossible. Then, how would he live? Suspecting everyone around? Always expecting to be rejected or betrayed? No, never... It wouldn't be life, only torment.
But then, what was it now? Now that he was under the impression he was falling to pieces. When every heartbeat was so painful, and every breath was tearing apart his lungs. When there was only one thing on his mind, 'You're not good'...
He wasn't good, to anything. To relationships. To studying. To work. To neighbours. To friendship. He was an unsuccessful man... a defective individual who would always fail and make others sad. Right from the start, for even his parents had abandoned him. Was there a single person whom Josh's existence made happy? For a short while, maybe, yes - but not for long. For a moment, yes, but not for ever. Why was someone like him ever lived in this world? What for? For whom? Without him, other people would certainly feel better.
If he had declined the associate dean's offer... If he had insisted, pleading his lack of knowledge and experience... He would have never come here, would have never met Gilles. And Gilles would have still lived, probably. His treatment would have lasted longer, without those optimistic notes in his medical record, repeated day by day. He was sure of that. And now he had to live with the awareness he had contributed to a man's death - he, who had always strived to act right... for he'd been dead scared to make a mistake. He used to be bothered by his mistakes ten times more than he was happy with his achievements. What was there to be happy if everything went well? It should be well, that was the right way - but his mistakes, errors, lapses... They shouldn't happen. And if they did, he was at fault. He was to be blamed. It was something that couldn't be erased.
Why did it hurt so much? Why was it happening to him? What had he done to suffer so much, to feel such sorrow? He could no longer bear it, he really couldn't, it was too much...
He opened his eyes and looked at the box of medication by the table. Earlier... now he remembered; earlier, that drug had brought him peace. It had made the pain leave... only for a moment, but nonetheless. It had eased his heart, had got rid of his worries, and had given him comfort. He sat up and snatched the plastic container. His hands shaking, he twisted off the top and poured the content on his palm. If he took one more, he would sleep another few hours. And then another. He could sleep the whole week like that. Then, when he waked up, maybe he would feel better. Maybe he would find a way to cope with this situation...
Did he really believe that? Even if he coped with this situation... another would come... and another. So far, his life had been a series of failures and would undoubtedly be that from now on, too. He didn't want to suffer. He didn't want to make others suffer, either.
He stared at the handful of the blue pills. The box was filled in one third... then he had some thirty in his hand. If he took them all... Maybe he wouldn't wake up at all? Maybe everything would really end? Once and for all? Pain, suffering, constant feeling of guilt and remorse, fear to make a mistake, dread of being abandoned again. That constant belief that his life had no worth whatsoever... Maybe he was holding a key... a solution... a way to stop that nightmare. He wouldn't have to feel all those terrible, bad emotions that split his soul every time. Finally, he would be at peace.
Temptation was irresistible.
'People have freedom of choice,' Madame Montagne had said.
He didn't think more. He grabbed the glass and lifted the hand with the pills to his mouth. It was the best way.
Everyone had freedom of choice?
He froze, and his eyes grew wide.
Had Madame really said that? He thought it was only now that he could understand her standpoint, and the meaning of her statement - even though he had already stopped thinking. Yet, his brain wouldn't cease functioning - especially now, in this split moment on the last line with nothing past it... Madame's words were ringing in his head and demanding his attention.
What it was that she'd wanted to tell him? Suddenly it was clear to him. That Gilles had made his decision. That no-one had forced him to do so. That even if everyone around had told him about life, he had chosen death. That even if everyone around had persuaded him against it, showing him the right way... he still had decided to act as he'd seen it fit.
Josh wasn't to be blame for it.
No more than others.
Slowly, he took his hand away.
Gilles had had a chance to experience happiness in his life, but he had pushed it away. Would Josh do the same? Would he give up on everything? Or, rather - being so imperfect as he was - he would try to... atone? Would try to not only experience but also do some good?
Or, would he decide on leaving, without seeing Alain again?
He doubled over and wept once more. It wasn't an easy thing to choose life when living meant suffering. Some part of him tempted him to surrender... for there was no point in struggling... and everything would end badly anyway, like always... It was better to take those pills, all of them at once, and never again be forced to feel that pain, that he had already experienced so much that it would be enough for several people...
But Alain's picture under his eye-lids - Alain, who might have left him for ever...! - was stronger.
He had to see him again... He wanted that!
Now, crying was a relief.
He rose up, fighting against dizziness; the world was swaying, yet it had never seemed so stable under his feet. He went to the bathroom, where he flushed the pills in the lavatory and threw the empty box to the bin. His eyes grasped his mirror reflection. He suppressed a sigh and rinsed his face with cold water, more symbolically than actually removing the traces of tears. He changed his shirt that today had served him mostly as a big handkerchief and definitely couldn't be worn amongst people.
It was a quarter to four. In just half an hour a person was able to decide between life and death, he thought with irony and fatigue. And content. And fragile, sweet hope.
After five minutes, he was knocking on the door of Madame's office. The window was open, so she must have been still at work... and besides, someone of her calibre would never leave before due time.
"You don't look well," she said from behind her desk, when he entered; he appreciated her frankness.
"But I feel much better," he replied truthfully. "May I sit down?" he asked, pointing at the chair.
"Please."
Josh fell on the upholstered seat. Running after having used a sedative - even if it happened several hours before - was exhausting... although, at the same time, he felt his inner energy was slowly being replenished. He put the elbows on the desk and looked her in the eye for a longer while before finally opening his mouth.
"Madame... You were right. I thought about what you had said. Thank you," he said seriously and nodded. Then he added, "You saved one life today," and his voice almost didn't waver.
Madame observed him, knitting her brows. Then her face that rarely showed any emotion blushed - due to remorse and guilt. "Then, don't you have anything to say to me?" she asked in her style yet rather quietly.
Josh shrugged. "What is there to tell?" he replied. "That at least for last four years... and probably for all my life... I've been suffering from persistent depression with occasional exacerbations? And that last year I tried to jump from the bell tower of Idealo church? That later I attended a half-year therapy and I somehow improved?" saying that, he couldn't quite look her in the eye, yet he was happy he had confessed that.
"And they sent you to work here despite all that?" she asked and pressed lips in a thin line; her disapproval was obvious.
"I came here myself," he corrected, still averting her gaze. "Besides, it's not something I sound off, so no-one really knew." Then, however, he looked at her again. "Are you... Are you going to tell me to get away, now?" he asked anxious whether she might really do so.
She gave him a scrutinizing look. "What do you think about it?" she asked after a while of reflection.
Apparently, his opinion mattered, and he felt relieved upon learning that. He already knew what he wanted to do. "I... I'd like to stay," he said in a soft voice yet firmly. "I mean... Just as you said, I'd like to visit Esperanto. It's a good idea, for... I don't think I'll be able to return on the ward right away..." He lowered his eyes and gulped before looking up at her again. "But I want to complete this practice here, that one month," he said with emphasis but quickly added hesitantly, "Is that possible?"
She kept staring at him intently. Her face expressed composure again; her hands were calmly clasped at the desk. "Many people working in psychiatry suffer from depression," she answered. "We don't really know the direction of that relationship: is it the work that provokes the symptoms or, rather, it is people prone to the symptoms who are attracted to this work... In any case, it's not a contraindication, as long as illness... as symptoms are under control," she stressed. "If you're of the opinion that you will manage, then there is no reason to send you away. Especially, like I already mentioned, you are of great help. However, if you find the work too burdensome, you had better resign. No-one would hold it against you. Before anything else... remember to always take care of yourself. You won't help anyone if you're not well," she warned. "Well, it applies to every area of living."
Josh shook his head and clasped his fingers. "I will manage," he replied whole-heartedly; he was more and more convinced of it. "I don't know if I'll grow up to be a clinical psychologist... probably not... but I still want to stay here longer. I like it here and... I will manage." He paused, realising he was repeating himself. "Unless... something like that... happens again," he added in a lower voice, fixing his gaze on the dark wood of the desk.
"I think the limit for this year has been used up already," she said with a wry smile that could be heard in her words. "But don't think I don't understand you. Even if no-one is at fault, a man's death always touches those who have spent some time with him. Getting used to it isn't easy. And it's more proper this way."
Josh nodded. His throat clenched again. "I didn't imagine that work... in psychiatry was so hard," he admitted, clamping his fingers.
"But I'm telling you that such things happen very rarely. You just were unlucky," she said lightly, but he knew her enough to realize she was concerned about him.
"I always am," Josh replied quietly but didn't feel like talking about it and, instead, said, "I'm sorry but I can't return you those sedatives... They floated to... to the Rhone, I guess."
"Well, we're not going to fish them out. If there were other alternatives of their use, then they can as well stay there and be happy," she decided, but then her gaze filled with guilt. "I am happy, too," she added in a soft voice. "I shouldn't have left them. I apologize."
Josh shook his head. "How could you know? But... it's your words about freedom of choice that stopped me... so thank you," he replied, looking her directly in the eye. "Like I said, you saved one life today, Madame..." He felt his lips trembling again and clenched his jaws.
"Something good, if nothing else," she muttered. "It's a tragedy to lose one young man already."
Josh wiped his eyes. "Then, am I allowed to leave for a few days?" he asked to make sure.
"I think I suggested that to you myself? Why do you ask me?" she replied with fake harshness; she didn't like to repeat obvious things. "Of course you should go. And visit your family, friends..."
"I have no family," he replied quietly, staring at the wall behind her. "I lived in an orphanage... But I'd like to go to the town that I moved in with my grandfather... with a man who took me in. Go to his grave. He was my only family," he whispered.
"What about Paris?" she asked discerningly.
Josh rubbed his forehead and answered, thoughtful, "In Paris... it's not very good either. Well, at least it wasn't before my departure." He shook his head and focused his eyes on her. "But I'll take care of it later," he added vigorously.
Madame stared at him intently. "It seems to me you're a person that tries to always take care of everything alone," she said in the end, and there wasn't much of respect in her voice.
Josh snorted. "Is it so obvious?" he asked.
"For me, yes," she replied loftily, but then, quite untypical of her, uncertainty flickered in her gaze. "Do you promise me to come back?" she asked, and Josh knew she didn't refer to his returning to work.
He nodded, trying to overcome a sudden lump in his throat. "I promise," he choked.
She looked at her watch. "But you're going to leave tomorrow morning, aren't you?" she suggested. "Today it's too late."
"Yes. I apologize for taking your time, Madame," he got up.
"As long as it's not wasted time, I have nothing against it," she replied seriously.
He smiled, although he realised it was rather a weak smile - but better weak than none at all. Heavy load over his heart had eased a bit. One hour ago he hadn't believed to be able to smile ever again. Now he felt he had regained something important.
"Then, see you again next week, Madame," he said, bowing his head.
"See you. Have a nice trip."
Josh left her office to head for his room at a leisurely pace. There was nothing to hurry to... so he might savour every moment, enjoy it... be happy with his own steps, more and more firm, with hard ground under his feet, warm and clean air as well as sweet fragrance of the flowers... After some time, he was able to raise his head and stare at the sky. The beauty of the world no longer hurt him... even though the last time he had admired it, had been with Gilles.
Gilles had found peace; if nothing else, Josh could console himself with this one belief. He would never experience disappointment, betrayal, contempt, rejection... He would never be forced to look how his love turned against him... He would never feel sad. He would never suffer.
His eyes fixed at the blue skies over his head, Josh prayed, 'Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord.' He believed that Gilles was being in much more firm hands now, under much better care. For ever.
Josh had chosen another way. Maybe he would one day regret his choice and curse himself for having made it - many, many times - but now, today, he decided to stick to it and be glad about it.
He decided to live.
Julia Marcell, "Echo"