Would you like to leave?

TW: death, substances

“Life is not as strange as those around us make it out to be. We all agree in the charade that life is disorienting and difficult, but what is difficulty? What is strangeness? I never understood the relation to life as anything but life. Being alive, being a person with my thoughts, and imagining others. The infatuation with death is the real problem with the entirety of life. Yes, we talk about death and how you must live to die, and it is the reason we live. Though that is not true, is it? IF there were no death, we would simply do as we would. Would we take more significant risks? Most likely. Would we be kinder? Maybe. Many people are kind because they expect a reward when they face demise. But if you intend to get to the good at the end, and by that fact, you are simply faking your kindness and genuineness, are you worthy? If you were to take away the idea that you only live once, what changes? Wouldn’t the world be even crazier if people who believed in reincarnation and conspiracies about heaven and hell truly believed? Are we all conforming to a charade? Am I conforming to the charade of acting nonchalant about life as a coping mechanism for not having my own religion or sense of urgency to rely on?”

‘I just asked you for the time,’ the bald man to my right prodded. Though he was right, he did ask me the time. Except the time on my phone was different from that on my watch and further from the clock on the wall inside the coffee shop we were at. I rechecked my phone.

‘10:35.’

‘Thank you,’ he pronounced every letter. As he walked away, I could see his phone light up in his back pocket. The time displayed mocked me for granting a kindness that he so obviously did not need or deserve. Lazy, I thought. On his way out, he opened the door for a woman in a wheelchair. The woman in the chair looked more annoyed than grateful. He looked pleased. I looked empty, she said.

‘Do you have the time?’ She asked after ordering a coffee, unsure why she didn’t ask the barista.

‘10:36.’

‘You seem upset.’ She furthered.

‘No.’

‘Empty then, perhaps.’

‘Do I know you?’ I asked, with an answer in mind.

‘No.’

She got up and left after that. Reconvening with the bald man outside the doors, as though playing a trick on me. A cruel trick, considering the next thing I remember is the sound of screaming and the thick layer of fire and smoke in front of me.”

“And that’s it?” My government-issued therapist pushes.

“That’s it. Then I was here.”

He scribbles down nonsense, his pen moving in any way but that of forming letters.

“What caused your spiralling response on life and death when he asked the time?”

“Does time not remind you of life and death?”

“What do you see?”

“Physically? You. This room that smells of Clorox, citrus, and carpet freshener. Most likely to mask the scent of hopelessness.”

“No. What do you see when you imagine that day? Not the scene, the idea.”

“Bees.”

“Bees?”

“Are you deaf?”

“Why bees?”

“They buzz.”

“So, you see buzzing?”

“I hear it.”

“When?”

“When I try to remember more.”

“Can you describe the man and woman you saw?”

“Bald, and blonde. That’s it. You know that already.”

“Just checking.”

“Why am I still here?”

“Do you want to go home?”

“No.”

“Why? What’s at home?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you believe in life after death?”

“Perhaps.”

“And you believe life is not strange and death is the problem with life?”

“I think that we all feel differently in our own way, but there are too many public thoughts to know for sure what is ours and what is choosing the comfort of the closest thing.”

“What did the bald man look like?”

“Bald.”

“Thank you for today. I will see you tomorrow.”

He claps his hands twice as the door behind me swings open, and the female nurse, dressed in stereotypical white, stands ready to take me back to my room. She asks me if I want something to eat, and I do, but I say no. She asks me if I want to go outside instead, and I say yes. Though I don’t. It’s hot outside. Too hot. Too reminiscent of fire. Too reminiscent of the fact that I do remember that bald man’s face, and that he didn’t ask me for the time. He asked me if I wanted to live. And I said no before relaying my overcomplicated thoughts on life. Too reminiscent of the fact that the bald man was in front of me moments ago. Except he wears a wig, and asks me questions he knows the answers to. And the nurse is the woman, though she dyed her hair instead, and she tries to give me more pills than I need, which is none. There is one other person outside from that day. She wears a grey outfit instead of the blue one I wear. She looks at me in fear before the nurse takes her back inside, because she knows the truth, too. She was working that day, so she served them. We both play dumb; we both fight to confuse them.

The sun beats down against the grass that was trimmed yesterday, and the few wildflowers that sprouted were cut with it. I can see Minnie in the window, sitting in the chair I was just in, but the blinds are pulled. The sound of the door jolts my shoulders in unprompted fear, but it’s just a man, though I have never seen him before, with a folder and a pen in the other hand. He sits across from me on the picnic bench, opening the folder to expose forms and a photo—a photo of me, on the day, intake day, only three days ago. Scribbles under it note that I’m rude and stubborn.

“You seem stable.”

“I am.”

“Are you ready to leave?”

“Am I allowed to?”

“Only if you want to. It was a traumatic day.”

“You know I still don’t know what happened.”

“It was a bomb; you and the barista were the sole survivors in the vicinity.”

“And the man and woman.”

“They were out of the blast vicinity.”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No.”

“Very well.” He closes the folder and walks to the double doors that boasts Staff Only.

Where are the god damn police in all of this? I remember one cop when I first woke up here, just at my door, and then nothing. How am I supposed to tell them what I know if they never ask? Is this even a real place? Am I ever actually going to go home, even if I say yes?

“He was bald, and she was blonde; they both ordered a hot coffee, one small and one large.”

“Can you describe their appearances?”

“Bald and blonde.”

“Do you recall their clothing?”

“No.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“No, I’m tired. I’d like to go.”

“Okay, we’ll try again tomorrow, thank you.”

He claps his hands, and the nurse takes me outside and offers me a snack, like I’m an incompetent child. I say no, thank you. I don’t know how much longer I can take the questions. I just want to move on with my life. I’m alive. I don’t know why they asked me if I wanted to live. I said yes, and Blythe said no, and yet we’re both here, with them. Whoever they are. I don’t want to try tomorrow; I want to be home tomorrow. There is no reason for me to be here; maybe today they’ll ask. Maybe tomorrow. I miss my bed, my boyfriend, and my cat; being here is only making my nonexistent PTSD worse. I'd rather be questioned in my house by the police, not in this glorified playground for insane people.

“Excuse me? Miss Colt? Minnie?” A tall man with perfectly gelled hair catches up to me as I exit into the yard, his clipboard cracked from the weight of papers.

“Yes?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Homesick.”

“Would you like to go home?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll get your papers.”

My eyes sting. It hasn’t been that long; maybe I’m being dramatic. I mean, I did survive a bombing; I guess I’m not dramatic. If anything, I’m not dramatic enough. Blythe locks eyes with me from the picnic table across the sidewalk; her tongue slithers against her lips as her head shakes side to side like a disappointed mother.

“What? Don’t you want to leave?”

“More than anything!” she shouts back.

“Then leave! We’re allowed to.”

She speed-walks to me. “I feel like we aren’t. Something isn’t right about all of this, and you know it. They are here; they are responsible, and we were chosen somehow, someway. It doesn’t make sense that we survived; we weren’t close to eachother and yet everyone else died? I don’t believe it. Where are the cops to question us about what we saw instead of our fake bombing doctors?? I don’t thi-”

“Stop! Stop. Look, I know this is all beyond fucked up, I do, but… I can live with not knowing if it means I get to live. Curiosity killed the cat. Right? Right.”

“So you give up, move on with your life. You think it’s that easy?”

“Isn’t it worth a shot? They are letting us leave, and I’m sure as hell not going to stay here if I don’t have to.”

“Fair enough. I’ll leave too then.”

“Good.” I sigh. Blythe calls over one of the caretakers to see if she can also get discharge papers. They mutter something while shaking their head, and in an instant, she loses it. Blythe starts yelling.

“I KNEW IT. I KNOW YOU WON’T LET ME LEAVE! MINNIE! MINNIE! THEY SAID NO!”

The man from before runs out with two folders in hand and grabs Blythe by the arm, his grasp firmer than I would expect. They make their way over to me and sit down in silence.

“Minnie, do you think Blythe is ready to leave?”

“Of course. She’s just upset about the situation and has every right to be. We want to see our family and friends and be in our own rooms. We were in a traumatic accident.”

“It is normal to keep survivors of an event like this on a psychiatric watch because of guilt.” he looks through his papers and clicks his pen on and off.

“Oh, I am not feeling guilty. If anything, I WANT to live my life now, more than ever!” Blythe’s cheeks flush as her eyes strain to hold back tears,

“Then why did you say you didn’t want to leave?”

“I-I don’t know. I guess I was hoping to continue therapy without paying for it.”

“Why didn’t you say so? We can certainly arrange for a therapist to meet with you daily or weekly in their office, virtually or even at your home. If the medication has been helping as well, then we could also arrange a prescription.”

“No, no more drugs, please.” She sits, her voice lowering a tone with a quiver.

“Very well. Please, sign here.”

He lays down our files and a new page with highlighted lines beckoning for initials and signatures. We flip and sign, flip and sign, and in tandem, as though we are connected, halt on the final document.

Please acknowledge the following:

I will not mention this facility

I will not mention any more details related to the accident to the authorities

Which of the following would you like? (please choose one)

Wealth

Fame

Power

Immortality

Do you acknowledge the following?

I will accept Satan as my lord and saviour

Failure to comply will result in permanent readmittance. Terms and conditions dependent on selection.

Blythe

I look up to the man, his eyes piercing mine with intent. He does not speak or blink, but his chest is jumping to a finish line.

He mutters, “You have to pick one. You have to sign.”

“I can’t. I won’t.” My pen drops from my hand, the tip bouncing off the page, tapping immortality. “No, no, no, no, I didn’t mean that. Minnie, this is a sick joke. We have to get out of here.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t end up back here. This was my last chance.” She mutters, hand shaking as a swift X hits the immortality line, her signature following. She nods to the man, stands, and walks away through the doors. I see her through the windows, her slow jaunt down the hallway and into the office we both said we dreaded. The blinds suddenly pull open, the bald man and blonde woman standing proudly with open arms as Minnie embraces them.

“Ahem. Miss? Your signature.” He points to the final line, a single stream of crimson dancing down his cheek to escape and stain the page.