The Quiet Man

Cracking Up

I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. I’m tapping my fingers on my knuckles like I’m nervous, or lying. I wouldn’t want her to imagine either, so. Take a breath, calm down. Jesus.

I stare up at the bit of damp on the ceiling. That’s even worse: probably looks like I’m avoiding her. Or guilty of something. I push myself back into the chair, uncross my legs. Look out the window. Another grey day. It will probably rain later. Rub my temples. God. This is terrible. Look back down to her hands: fingers covering a blank page. She’s not writing anything at all. She’s just looking at me. Observing me. Evaluating me, probably. Waiting for me to explode.

You would know right away. If not from the fidgeting, then from the way my collar is buttoned, or from some stain on my trousers I didn’t notice, or the way I tied my shoes. You’d know. You’d take one look at me and say, So, you’re finally cracking up, are you? It’s been coming for a while. I’m surprised it took you this long to notice.

Well, I’ll just tell her. That’s what she’s here for, right? To help. I’ll tell her. She’ll probably prescribe me something.

“I stopped a man on the street,” I say. “No: I ran a man down on the street. I chased him like a criminal. Because I was convinced—”

I interrupt myself, swallow. Breathe. God.

This is hard to do. Take a breath, exhale. I hate therapy, why am I in therapy? Why can’t I just repress all this like any other man in my family? Like anyone else? Does everyone crack up when their best friend—

Wait. Breathe. Okay, focus. Focus. How do I say this?

“I saw him in the street, looking at me. I could feel him looking at me, you know how you can—”

That part isn’t relevant. Don’t be boring, John. Get to the point. Let’s try this again.

“I saw the long coat, you know. And curly hair. He was tall. Skinny. The collar pulled up. It was from a distance. You know what I mean.”

“Tell me,” she says. She’s not going to help me here at all. She wants me to say it. Dig my own grave.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. “I thought it was him.”

Swallow again. It’s embarrassing how close to tears I am. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to see ghosts. I want to be all right. But I’m not, I’m really, really not. It’s like it happened yesterday, or earlier this morning: blood. Too much blood. I didn’t see the impact, but I feel like I did. I can see it perfectly well anyway. Your head must have struck the pavement first, and broken. You would have known, you would have felt it, for a few seconds. Did you see me, before you were gone? I don’t think you did. As far as you knew I was still across the street where you told me to stay. Eyes fixed on you.

If you had to die, Sherlock, which you didn’t, I would have rather been with you. Not an impossible span of feet away. That was so incredibly unfair.

Why did you want me to see that? You could have called me from anywhere. Why did you do that to me, Sherlock? Why did you make me watch?

That’s a good question.

Yeah, sure it is. You want me to ask Ella that? Hey, Ella, why do you think Sherlock forced me to watch him throw himself off a building and land on his head? Do you think he might have been, I don’t know, a psychopath with no understanding of human emotion? Or do you think he just didn’t give a shit about how it would tear me to pieces? Was I supposed to be impressed? I know you’re not much good with social cues, Sherlock, but christ. That was a cruel thing to do. Such a fucking cruel thing. You die and you make me watch. You fucking tit. What were you thinking?