Part 1: The Loss of Sanity, but not of Reality.

"It's like she doesn't even know she's dead," I muttered to the doctor, facing out into the garden, light barley catching through the walls of the greenhouse.

 

"What do you mean Emily?" She asked, hearing the sounds of her black felt tip pen scratching against the paper, jotting down things to bring up later.

 

"It's as if she's ignoring the fact that she isn't breathing," I said, turning to face the 50 something year old woman, "like she knows it’s over, but she's still fighting for life."

 

"Have you told anyone else about... Lily?" She asked, lowering her glasses to the tip of her nose, and setting aside her papers and pen. She starred at me as I returned to my seat across from her, grasping the cold tea cup, sipping at what was left of so called tea.

 

Being British, I knew what American's counted as tea was s**t compared to British tea. The tea left a dull sour flavour in my mouth as I held onto the cup in my hands, gently examining every crack and chip in the fine china.

 

"No one that doesn't already know of her death," I said, forcing myself to take another swig of the horrid tea, my throat burning as I swallowed hard.

 

"That's good then," she snapped, "you should keep Lily's death as quiet as possible Emily, do you understand?"

 

I looked up at her, confused at what she was asking.

 

"Why is Lily's death such a secret to you people? She was as much family as I or mother." The words burned as the left my throat, watching as she paused before answering. She looked away and released a pent up laugh, removing her glasses and twiddling them between her finger and thumb.

 

"Why are you doing this to yourself Emily?" She asked, reaching for her tea cup and taking a big gulp of the cold tea.

 

"Doing what?" I asked confused, "whatever do you mean?"

 

Another laugh, putting her glasses back on and re-examining her papers before responding to me.

 

"You were much better Emily," she said, "so why did you change that?" She almost sounded as if she cared there for a moment, it took me a moment to come up with a suitable response for her need.

 

"I'm not suicidal anymore doctor," I smiled, "I still am better."

 

"I can see what you're hiding Emily dear," she leaned in closer to me and whispered, "I know you are again, so why don't you just help yourself and talk about it?"

 

"But I'm not doctor," I said, "truly, I'm not."

 

She starred at me again, this time without making a sound. She didn't write anything down, she just stared at me with this look of obviousness on her face.

 

To be honest, since Lily's death, I had been depressed. One thing I had learned since being adopted out of the UK was that when you were sad for a longer than normal period of time, people gave you names. Once you had one of those names, you were either given a load of medication to take, or thrown in a mental institution, both of which were horrible.

 

The medications left you with a numb feeling through your whole body, while the mental institutions did almost the complete opposite, depending what hospital. My first 3 months here were spent in one of the worst ones in America, where the suicide rate was high, and so were the lack of reports on who was causing all the harm.

 

Where I was, women had been in there so long, they had resulted to raping one another. It truly was the worst experience I had ever been through, excluding the amounts of times I had to fight for my own safety.

 

"Take care now Emily," I heard the doctor say, my mind millions of miles away, "I hope you... Take out your grievances in the proper manner."

 

I heard the front door slam, and before I heard the roar of her old truck start up, I began to weep. I brought my knees to my chest and hugged them there, trying to keep my mind from Lily or the shotgun that was hidden in the grandfather clock not 6 feet from me.

 

6 feet away could be my own death if I very well wish so, I thought, watching the time tick by on the clock, wondering if I had time. The family that adopted me thought I was treble, so they only left 15 minutes between my doctor updates and getting home for me to be alone.

 

6 feet away until I could be 6 feet under.

 

I stood up, my arms and hands shaking, as I made my way towards the clock, my eyes taking notice of the lack of a lock. Most days there would be a lock on the door, so no one could get into it and use it.

I placed my hand over the glass, so easily breakable, I thought, running my hand over the tinted glass. I reached the door handle and pulled it open slowly, savouring the feeling of holding my own life in my hands for once.

 

The gun was bigger than I thought it was, running my hand up the barrel of it, wondering how loud it would be. Will I suffer long? Will I have a longer death than most? Could I get away with it?

The clock said I had 10 minutes before anyone would be home, so I guess it would be up to me what I chose...