There are different kinds of guilt; the kind that drowns you until you feel worthless, and the kind that fires your soul to purpose...
...there's also the kind that cuts through your neck until it feels bone, but by then it's too late to feel anythi...
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Camille finally left her mother's office at the hospital after what seemed like hours of parental obsession and paranoia. The distilled smell of disinfectant gel and years old paint hit her immediately as she exited the room, as off-putting as it was when she first arrived several hours beforehand.
"Mom, I swear I'm fine." Camille tried to reason with her mom to not be a complete nutcase about what had happened. Her mom had to work the night shift, again, and had demanded Camille to come meet her at work after she heard about Shannon's murder on the staff radio in the breakroom. Nothing but overprotective mom issues. But that was the last thing that Camille wanted to talk about. She had already recounted the scene for Deputy Whitfield not an hour ago, and just wanted to get out of the one place she could not stand to be in.
"Are you sure? You just saw your friends dead body. I completely understand if you feel scared." Her mom spoke like a worried mother would do in a...situation like this. With dark blue scrubs and her bleached white tennis shoes, her face seemed drooped as if she was miserable. Or maybe she just had not slept in days. Seems likely. Camille cringed at her mom's words. She did not know what she hated more. The fact that her mom referred Shannon as a corpse, or as her friend. She hated herself for thinking like that. Now was definitely not the time to correct her.
"I'm not scared, just shocked."
Her Mom looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Cleary she wasn't buying it. "I don't need to call Dr. Gonzalez, do I? He'll listen to you if you need counselling." Her mom usually offered her a psychiatrist after something from their dog Rufus' death, to a bad breakup. Between me and Travis. Proof again of her annoying overprotective naggering. Talking to a psychiatrist would mean that you cannot handle your emotions and admit that there was something wrong with you. Which there isn't.
Camille joined her mom in an eyebrow raising stare. "I'm pretty sure being scared does not constitute for being mentally unstable. I don't need a psychiatrist."
"That is both insensitive and insulting to psychiatric patients. If you won't talk to Dr. Gonzalez, then talk to me."
Camille's eyes wondered to the distraught family that just entered the same ward that her and her mom were on. From all the way across the blinding white corridor, she knew who they were. The Riggs'. It was only a matter of time before they arrived. Identifying a family member's body was procedure after their death. But she did not think it would be so soon. Best to get the worst part over with, I suppose.
