My Life with Death

Eric Stevenson Psychiatric Office, 454 North Monroe Street, Washington, D.C.

 "Why me?"

"Will you tell me what happened to you?"

"I want him dead. I want to finally kill the one who has tortured me all my life, the one who hurts me."

"You told me you believed in justice more than anything else."

"What is justice?" I sighed. "I don't know if I still believe it. Will we end up in the courtroom," thoughtfully. "Revenge is the most powerful weapon, stronger than common sense and judgment and stronger than the determination not to kill. Revenge must be bloody, cruel, and evil," I said. "my revenge will be eternal. He spilled my blood. I'll spill his, too," I added. "I put the gun barrel between his eyes and pull the trigger."

"You know everything you say will be heard by your superiors at the FBI. I have to send Deputy Director Sollermann everything that is heard here," he announced.

"That's none of my business anymore," I replied.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm no longer with the FBI. It's official," I said seriously and looked at my watch. "For exactly fifty-six minutes," I added.

"What happened?" curiously.

"Why should I answer you? You certainly know that. Everyone knows it. Everyone is looking at me, just like you are right now. You look at me like a living corpse." He said nothing. He seemed at a loss for words. Did he consider it inappropriate to continue meddling in these matters?

"What about your mother? Why do you run away every time I start talking about her? What are you so afraid of?" he asked.

I immediately started shaking. I felt cold on my skin. I was freezing, and at the same time, my heart was so heavy. I felt like my chest was going to explode from the heat. And so it was every time I started to remember her. I tried to remember the beautiful memories of my childhood with her, but I always saw her death first. That beautiful spring day—the day of my birthday, the day of my sister's birth—when she died, when almost all of us died. And even twenty years later, it still hurts like it was yesterday.

"He killed her," I screamed.

"Wasn't it an accident?" he asked questioningly.

"No," emphatically. "It was a heinous murder," I began to rage again.

I couldn't sit. I stood up and walked confusedly around the chair I was sitting on. I waved my hands around. I felt addicted, like drunk, to the situation and the memories. I felt like a fool.

He looked me in the eye and said, "We've been talking weekly for over five years. My opinion is that what you are suffering from is not PTSD. It is something much stronger. Just the memory of your mother's death awakens states of aggression and depression in you simultaneously. You could hurt yourself or someone else," he announced. "I would recommend institutional help," he added.

I grabbed the back of the chair with my hands. "So it's true. You all think I'm crazy," indignantly. "Is this justice? Is it justice if I let him die?" I screamed at him. "I killed him, didn't I? I apologized to myself that it was revenge and nothing more, but now I wonder if he was right..." I thought. "He told me once that nothing lasts forever... not even the beautiful dreams that delay impending death. Because it is death that destroys every dream and turns it into a nightmare, and so it is again and again. One cannot change one's destiny; one can only fight it. And I want to fight. There are people here that make me at least try."

"Who told you that?" he asked curiously.

I didn't answer. I didn't want to and probably couldn't say his name.

I turned my back to him. I covered my face with my hands. I tried to hold back the tears. I tried to keep my emotions entirely under control.

"Who told you that?" he repeated in a calm voice.

"Why do you care?"

These words are critical to you. It's something you want to follow for the rest of your life. Did your mother say that?'

"No," curtly. "No. It wasn't mom. It was someone else," I emphasized.

"Was he your man?" I snorted in disdain when he mentioned him.

"No."

"What happened?"

"I have to disappear. I need to be alone."

I left the room. I ran through the corridors and down the stairs. I wished I could turn into a dove and fly away on wings of freedom back to a place where I felt healthy and happy.