Killing a Loved One

A Short Story

Josh was a loved one. He loved me, and he wanted us to be a couple. My name is Elsa, by the way. I am a young girl; just turned 28 last month. Josh was a year younger than me. We met in the train to Chapel about fourteen months ago.

I was coming back from a trip to New York, and so was he. We both lived in the same town, but we had never met before. In the train, he sat next to me, and I saw him smiling as soon as he saw me. Something happened inside of him that moment, and we both noticed it. He fell in love with me.

He started a conversation. He told me about his writings, and how he liked to read. He’d stay up late at nights, so that he could read in peace, in silence, only under the sounds of music. He was depressive, and I figured it almost right away. I am a therapist, you see, and have experience with people suffering from depression.

As soon as I understood the problem he was facing, he had lost me. I saw him as a possible client, and not as someone I could have a relationship with. He was handsome, he seemed pretty smart, he was a writer, for Christ’s sake, and I love literature, but in my heart, I felt sorry for him. Well… what kind of a therapist am I, to feel sorry for Josh, one would think, and maybe he’d be right. I think that the reason I felt sorry for him was that I understood how he liked me, and how I couldn’t do anything about it, and I would have to reject him. Funny thing is, I stopped caring about it in a little while. That would be two weeks… perhaps.

We went out for a coffee when we arrived at the Chapel, the town where we both lived. We had some fun, but he was all anxious, and couldn’t help himself not blushing as he was talking to me. I also noticed how he couldn’t look me in the eyes as we were having our conversation. I tried to be helpful, but he couldn’t handle that, as well. His pride wouldn’t let him set himself free of his anxiety. He liked me, and I could smile at this, I felt flattered, but still… There was nothing I could do about it. I wouldn’t say I didn’t care, because I did, and I would like him to be my friend, since he wasn’t going to be a client of mine, but that was all I could give him. There was nothing else.

Fourteen months had passed by the day we had met in the train to Chapel, and he had talked to me about his feelings. I knew how he felt, and I knew what his problem was. I knew how much he needed me, and I still felt flattered, but I made it clear to him: There was nothing I could do about it, other than be friends with him.

Josh left that day, and I never saw him again, for he committed suicide. He died, after jumping down from the roof of his apartment building. I felt sad about it, that’s for sure, but what can I say…?

There was, simply, nothing I could do about it.

Reviews

[Marie]

A good storu, somewhat sad. This therapist comes across as somewhat cold, her attitude being "there's nothing I can do about it." Was there really nothing she could have done? Or did she just not care enough?