On A Cold Winter's Night
She slipped into the room silently. It was a room that would only admit the most sorrowful, the most despairing, those most thoroughly bereft of hope. "Psyche Triage" said the sign on the door. No one saw her, no one heard.
The room was bare. Ugly plastic chairs lined up against plain walls, no pictures, no carpet, scuffed tile floors, no music, no TV, nowhere to look. Except at the people, lost souls who could only see an abyssmal absence of light, a black hole from which one might never return. One, a young man with his head shaven, tatooes covering both forearms, wept silently into his hands. A young woman sat on the floor under the pay phone, sobbing into the receiver. Another sat quietly with her husband, nodding as he spoke to her softly. One man, handcuffs just removed, walked back and forth, feet touching the patterned tiles only. Another young woman talked non-stop, to no one.
The tatooed man looked up as he felt a stream of fresh cold air pierce the suffocating room. His eyes were red and filled with pain. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a woman say "You know it will be all right, don't you?" He thought maybe it was something his mother had said once. When she was still alive. Maybe that was true, he thought. He had been here before. The only thing he really knew for sure was that he had to hold on.
It occurred to him that his situation was like a battle. He was a soldier fighting for his own life. He vowed to advocate for himself. If one person refused to listen, he would insist on talking to someone else. He would not back down from the medication mix-ups, the bungling bureaucracy, the failures of "the system." But now, for right now, all he had to do was take the next step. Talk to the counselor. Even though this was a hell of a place to be, it was better than being outside, doing the things he had been doing outside.
It occurred to him that his situation was like a battle. He was a soldier fighting for his own life. He vowed to advocate for himself. If one person refused to listen, he would insist on talking to someone else. He would not back down from the medication mix-ups, the bungling bureaucracy, the failures of "the system." But now, for right now, all he had to do was take the next step. Talk to the counselor. Even though this was a hell of a place to be, it was better than being outside, doing the things he had been doing outside.
And then there was a flutter, on the top of his shaved head, like the lightest touch of a feather or a mother's gentle kiss. His tears flowed freely now, no longer tears of anguish, but a cleansing wash of relief. Even from this deepest well of paralyzing depression, he could see the stars. And even though they were very far away, he knew it would be all right.
She silently slipped out of the room. This night's work was done.
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