The Hidden Statistic

Chapter 1

"You can start whenever you're comfortable."

Comfortable? Are you kidding?

"Are you alright?"

No, I'm not fucking alright.

"Here."

He pushes a glass of water across the table between us. It was a rather a nice table. Oak, maybe. Some kind of wood. Solid as a wall. A barrier between myself and the man in the chair across from me.

"Take your time."

"I don't know how to start," I say. My voice cracks on the last word, making me cringe internally. I hate the sound of it. How weak and unsure it sounds. Just like before.

He nods, shifting in his plush chair as he crosses his legs, notepad perched on his knee. A pencil rests lightly in his hand, the eraser twitching now and then as he idly bounces it against his forefinger. A nervous habit, I suppose. Or a planned one? Designed to lull people sitting where I am into a sense of security, demonstrating how he is also human and fallible? Impossible to guess. I dismiss it.

He seems a nice man. Average height. Unthreatening. Clad in dress pants with a crease so sharp it looks like it could cleave diamond. Button-down white shirt and generic tie under a light blue sweater vest. Glasses perched on a slightly hooked nose. Unkempt hair above warm hazel eyes, currently staring at me with compassion and understanding.

I hate him.

I also wouldn't be alive right now without him.

Shit is complicated.

"I guess I'll start at the beginning," I say.

He nods again, pencil poised to begin writing.

I look away, back to the table. The glass of water looks inviting. I take a small sip.

"I was walking home from work. I do it all the time, since I live so close to my job. I'm a marketing analyst at...you know that though, huh?"

He only nods, his eyes inviting me to continue.

I sigh.

"Anyway, it was like....ten? Eleven? I don't know. You probably know. It was dark but I had walked home that late a million times before. It isn't a bad area."

I take another sip of water, frowning at my hand. It starts to tremble and I will it to stop. After a moment it does and I breathe a small sigh of relief.

"My route home goes near an alley by some bodegas. I usually barely notice them. They're kind of tucked away, you know? Sometimes there are a few kids smoking pot or whatever, out of the way of the main roads, but they never bothered me. Mostly they're empty. I've been wondering what would have been different if some of those stoner kids had been there that night. Would it have been any different? Or would they have just run off? Joined in? That's stupid, I guess."

"It isn't stupid. Many people wonder things like that in the aftermath of a--,"

I cut him off.

"Don't say it. Please."

Again my voice cracks and I burn with self-loathing.

He appears to consider something, seems on the brink of saying something. But then he only nods. His pencil scratches on the pad.

"What are you writing? 'Patient too damaged to even say what happened?' 'Patient a weak piece of shit?'" I ask.