Devonne Brown

***Warning! Trigger warnings. Contains thoughts of suicide and mental illness. Possible School Shootings.

“Do suicide hotlines keep a record of who calls when and why?” Bob talked suicide over with the shrink at his last appointment. 

“Probably,” she was taking fast notes on the computer as well as on the notepad beside her. Her soda bottom bottle glasses gave her anime cartoon blue eyes. She stared at him for a minute, blinked a couple of times, and waited for him to tell her more. Excellent counseling technique, “active listening” was the term shrinks used for it.

“I’m buying a gun after Christmas,” he didn’t say that out loud. He wondered if the confidentiality clause doctors, ministers, and counselors extended to gun shops.  Did she call the cops and tell them?  Bob couldn’t imagine that a pawn shop, or even Walmart, kept a “no fly” list, for potential gun buyers, at least not an updated one. She couldn’t call his work and let them know. How would his friend, the cop, feel about firing the fatal shot? 

Bob was becoming more creative. ”Since you increased the dose to twice a day and upped the dosage of my other meds, my focus is two hours at a time, and that gets me through the morning meetings as well as the afternoon work correspondences.” he said. 

“I like the sound of that. We’ll keep it right there.” The Shrink had to stop and type for a while, and ask him about his depression. “I still cry a lot.” It embarrassed him to admit it.

Suicide by cop might work. Bob had a toy gun that looked real, especially in the dark. He wouldn’t have to do it himself. He could call the cops to the house or even better, go to a school and just fire blanks. He wouldn’t even have to go in the building. Interesting headlines for the news. He’d never shot a gun before, but he was a big broad shouldered man. Yes, suicide by cop might just work.  

According to confidentiality laws, the shrink had to keep his thoughts to herself. He didn’t tell her half of his shit anyway. Anybody who’s ever been to a shrink knows what to keep to themselves. 

“I worry about insurance for my kids, it’s the only money I can leave them,“ he said.

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” the shrink told him.. 

“It needs to look accidental.”

She repeated herself. “I can’t have this conversation with you. Besides, cops and insurance always figure it out, they always do.” She wasn’t very helpful.

“When we talked last, I was concerned for your safety,” the shrink was sharp and her notes were good. 

“I’m better now, the new meds you gave me helped. They gave me more energy and kicked up my creativity. The white one takes away my feelings. My emotions are almost gone. I have crying jags, but they go away quick,” He didn’t lie, but Bob wasn’t upbeat and excited about what he’d just told her. The teary episodes exploded into debilitating sobs, short but intense cloud bursts, thunder and lightning included. He wondered what his psychiatrist of ten years was thinking. 

  Bob imagined lots of new ways to do it, besides the cop encounter. He remembered how to tie a noose from Boy Scouts. His long orange extension cord held promise, but the sound of the squeaking rubber against rubber irked him. He didn’t like the feel of the insulated electrical cord in his hands either, it was so stiff. He thought of the drama of dangling from the bridge crossing the river. There would be lots of flashing blue and red lights. Every cop in the county, maybe even two counties would come if it was a slow day.

He’d rather be found at night. The lights are so much more dramatic and beautiful against the night, especially the blue ones. It wouldn’t be too hard to pull his carcass up to the road, either. Bob figured it would take no more than four strapping strong men to pull him up over that spiking rail. He was a big guy, a big strong man.

He thought about the impact his death would have on his dog before he thought about how the boys would feel about it. He hated to leave her outside. Lucy was a house dog, 

She’d freak out, and wouldn’t be happy outside for long, even though she escaped from the back garden at every opportunity. He knew Susan would take Lucy, she spent half her time at his place with her anyway, She was a beautiful dog, beautiful dogs fared well in his neighborhood.

She’d have everything she needed for at least a couple of weeks. Work would come looking for him as soon as he missed a day or two and didn’t answer the phone. 

 The team would be less happy with the inconvenience of reassigning his projects than his death. They probably wouldn’t replace him for a while, just give everyone one more little thing to do. It was common practice. What’s one more little thing? Screw them.

No one had time to do their job anymore. It was full of “one more little thing,” foisted on them by other people with a brand new brain child every day. He couldn’t quit, where could he find a job that paid as well at his age now? 

“How is your dog, Bob?” The shrink switched his thoughts, bringing him back to the office visit with her. 

“What? Oh, She’s spoiled and beautiful. Huge. I’ve had to mop her feet and my floor more than I’ve ever had to in my life because of all the rain. She doesn’t like to have her feet messed with,” Bob’s voice was too flat. 

“You seem kind of far away today, preoccupied” the shrink was smarter than Bob liked her to be. 

“Just tired, work sucks right now. That’s all. I’ll get through it. I’m fine,” Bob spoke and looked at his thumbs instead of her face. 

“I’m sending you to the hospital. I’ll work it out with your job. You’ll be gone for a week. I think you need a time out. Your insurance covers it.”

“What good will that do? Nothing will change? Everything will pile up while I’m gone. I’ll have twice as much to do, then have to play catch up on policy and procedure. It will be a nightmare. I’m better off staying where I am. Nothing will change. It’s not like I’m going to the Maldives for fun, sun, and relaxation,” said Bob. He wasn’t happy. She ruined his plans and figured it out. Bitch.

All he wanted was out, and she was sending him to fly over the cuckoo’s nest. A week in a nut house wasn’t going to fix anything. “Will there be shock treatments?” He asked. 

“No, but you get to paint and go to therapy, a lot,” she smiled. “You’ll love it.”

“When do I go?”

“Now. Your chariot awaits.”