Don't Leave Me Alone With My Thoughts

4 - Blind Yourself and So Neglect the Truth

<A/N> Picture on the right is kind of what I imagined the psychiatrist to look like (but maybe just because she has a british accent) WOOT

I had thought it would be easy.

Distancing myself from a person I had only seen a few times in my whole life should have been simple. Hell, I found it was practically effortless to abandon my family to run off and become a self-sufficient author.

It should have been easy to turn my back on someone I hardly knew.

Instead, it was the hardest thing I’d ever attempted.

I didn’t know exactly how long I had been without him. All I knew was that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I couldn’t write a word of my book and I kept forgetting to eat. It was maddening. I tried to distract myself with videogames or outings with friends I never really liked that much, but my mind would always fall back on Chris. I wanted to see him again. Talk to him again. Hear his laugh. Just be in the same room as him. I wanted to know if he was doing better now that I was gone, but everything would be ruined if I went to check.

It was for Chris’ own good, I told myself. It would be selfish of me to go and see him, since it would be simply for my benefit and possibly cause him to try and hurt himself again.

I found myself subconsciously walking towards the mental hospital sometimes, as if my feet just decided to carry me there when I had some free time. I always caught myself though, and promptly headed back home. I visited my publisher to collect some revenue from the books I’d already published. It wasn’t much.

I had just sat down to spend another unsuccessful hour of trying to get into writing-mode when my phone rang. I sighed and looked at the caller ID. Some unknown landline.

I answered the call. “Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Dash Penn?” and unfamiliar, British-accented female voice rang fiercely in my ear.

“Yeah, it’s me. Who is this?”

“I’m Linda Roberts, a psychiatrist. I understand that you have been visiting a nearby mental hospital in order to see a patient named Christopher Cithara?”

I assumed she worked at the mental hospital. “Yeah, I did for a few days. But that was weeks ago. Why’re you asking?”

“Mister Penn, we need you to come back.”

What? “Why?”

“On the last day you visited, after you left, Christopher began lashing out at anyone near him and was silent for a few days. He refused all food for a while but began eating again. He seemed to be getting better and we took off his constraints. As soon as we did that, he tried to commit suicide. We put the constraints back on, he acted normal, and we took them off. And another attempted suicide. This happened many times. I’ve been talking to him daily, trying to figure out why he suddenly wanted to kill himself so badly when he’d gone so long unhurt. He wouldn’t tell me at first, but yesterday he let your name slip. I got him to admit that he kept trying to kill himself because of your absence. He keeps making up more and more creative ways to die and I fear one of these days we’re not going to be able to save him in time.”

“Why’re you telling me all this?” My stomach was suddenly churning painfully with worry. He was trying to commit suicide again? But I had left! My presence was what was driving him, so why was he like this? It didn’t make sense.

“Please, Mister Penn, come back to the mental hospital for a visit. I think that Christopher’s life rests in your hands. Your absence is killing him. Literally.”