The Happy Treatment

My thoughts are empty. I think nothing as I drive. I know in the back of my mind which turns I took, which stop lights I passed, but I have no memory of taking the turns or passing the stop lights. All I know is that I am now sitting in this car in the hospital parking lot, specifically the emergency room. I parked in the closest parking spot I could without any chance of getting a ticket. I sit expressionless, but with a hint of tiredness, holding the knife tight in my hand and feeling the cold blade against my fingers.

I notice my phone in the passenger seat and I pick it up, opening up my text messages. I look at my texts with Mom and I want to text her, but I can’t risk her showing up too early, since she sees my texts right away, usually. I look at my texts with Zophie next, and I click on the typing bar, not sure exactly what to say, but knowing I need to say something.

I type, “Please take care of yourself, Zophie.” I click send and switch over to my texts with Eva, seeing the same empty texts I scrolled through earlier. I want to write a whole paragraph for her, a whole letter like she did for me. I want to pour my heart out for her one last time. I want to tell her one last time that I want her back and that she should’ve talked to me then, that everything would’ve been okay if she just talked to me, but she won’t understand what I say. It won’t make a difference, and I’m desperate to finish what I came here to do. After forcing myself to rush through my thinking of what to say, I type simply, “I love you, Eva, and I’ll always miss you.” Though the last part is a lie, because after today, I won’t miss her anymore.

I won’t have that pain anymore.

I click send and throw down my phone into the passenger seat, along with my wallet containing my identity and car keys. All I have on me now is the clothes on my back and the sharp, cold knife in my hand.

Finally, after everything that’s happened these past few days, a tear manages to force itself through my wall of numbness and escape, running down my face. I take a deep breath, and time stands still for a moment.

I press my knife hard into my wrist, harder than I ever have before, and I drag it deeply and rapidly straight down my arm. I gasp at the jolt of pain as the skin on my arm opens up. Blood instantly pours, covering my pants and shirt. Before I can allow myself to think or process my surroundings, I switch the knife to my other hand and do the same to my other arm, feeling the tension and weakness already forming in my bleeding arm from adding pressure to cut my other. I’m not sure how long I’ve stayed here, but I feel the time slow down and speed up all at once.

I look down at myself, and I feel a bit of fear creep up my body as I watch the blood pour dangerously fast from my arms. My vision becomes blurry, either with tears or blood loss, probably a little of both. I step out of the car, leaving all of my important belongings in the passenger seat. I drop my bloody knife on the pavement and start stumbling my way to the emergency room entrance, thankful I had parked as close as possible. I start to feel dizzy, and my breathing slows, but I force myself to keep going. I’m almost to the entrance. The edge of my vision grows black, and I can feel my heartbeat in my chest.

I make it to the entrance and the sliding glass doors open, detecting my motion. I step inside, blood dripping down on the hard, white floor of the emergency room. I look up with what energy I have left to see the receptionist nurse sitting in her cubicle, a glass wall with a small hole in it dividing us. She looks up at me, her face expressing boredom and appearing unimpressed by my appearance. She stands up from her chair and quickly but not eagerly runs around her office space to reach me.

I say what I came here to say. “I need emergency Happy treatment plea -”

The nurse stands over me along with the fluorescent lights shining in my eyes, and I feel the cold floor touch my skin. My vision turns completely black.