Beep beep beep… Beep beep beep…
My eyes shoot open and it’s time to start the day. I have to shower, shit, shave, get the kids up and drop them off at their Grandparent’s house then go to work. The warm water shooting from the nozzle is relaxing and no sooner than I turn it on that I have to turn it off. My shaved face looks rough and uneven but that’s okay. I can fix it tomorrow. My wife’s dinner escapes my bowels with no issues and I see she refilled the toilet paper before leaving this morning.
The kids are sleeping soundly when I enter their shared room. They are curled up in their sheets and look like little cocoons on the bunk bed.
“C’mon, kids, time to get up.”
Timothy gets up first, as usual, he stretches and lets out his usual morning grunt that sounds very similar to my own. Samantha gets up next in her own soft way. She’s still wearing the pink tutu she has been sleeping in. It makes me smile.
“Cereal or Peanut Butter & Jelly?” I ask.
“Cereal” they both murmur as they rub their eyes.
I walk down the hall to the kitchen to prepare their breakfast. Hanging by magnets on the fridge are late bills to pay. A reminder not to spend too much money. It helps. I sit with the kids as they eat, while keeping my attention on the time. During breakfast, the kids start having a conversation about Sugar.
“Sugar will eat the grass and then, and then, she will lick all my head.” Samantha said with a giggle.
“No,” Timothy began “She, she will lick my head and then I will get on top her with Grandpa and ride to the forest again.”
“Finish your cereal so we can go,” I remind them not unkindly.
Buckling the kids in their car-seats, I notice Timothy looks distressed. “Dad,” he said “Where is Sentai?” I look around on the floor of the car for his toy. It doesn’t take long since the toy is a bright green with white accents. Looks like Tim got jelly over his face again. I lick my thumb and rub the jelly off the black biker helmet before giving it to Tim.
“Here’s your robot,” I say with a smile.
“Sentai is not a robot, dad. He’s a super, awesome ninja!” He begins to flip the toy and make action sounds like punching and shooting. I give a laugh.
The freeway is clear today and I’m thankful for it. The last thing I want to do is show up late to work again. As I’m driving I hear the distant sounds of a familiar song on the radio. I immediately turn the volume up on blast and rock out. The kids are laughing and dancing behind me in their seats. The music is simmering down but I know the song isn’t over yet…
“(1, 2, 3, 4)
The highways jammed with broken heroes
On a last chance power drive
Everybody’s out on the run tonight
But there’s no place left to hide
Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness
I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul
Oh, someday girl, I don’t know when
We’re gonna get to that place
Where we really want to go, and we’ll walk in the sun
But till then, tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run”
I look in the rear view to watch the kids silly dancing, but something’s wrong. They are looking around back and forth to their sides. Did they drop something? I make to turn the volume down when I hear a very loud BANG. I’m panicking, Samantha starts crying, and Timothy is shouting “Daddy! Daddy!” over and over. The car starts veering into oncoming traffic. I turn the wheel frantically to get out of the way. Nothing happens. A semi-truck starts blaring his horn
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BEEP! BEEP! BEEP… BEEP! BEEP! BEEP...
Right before the semi-truck hits the right side of the car. My last thoughts are of my wife and the kids.
The “social worker” Victor calls me into his office ten minutes after the agreed time. Obviously, punctuality is not a prerogative of the mentally ill. As soon as the door to his office closes he starts.
“How’s your week been, Samantha?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good. How are your-”
“My dreams? Same shit. Still in my dad’s ‘94 Toyota Camry getting hit by a semi and watching my big brother being decapitated.”
“I see. Did the medication your psychiatrist prescribe not help?”
“I won’t take it.”
“Why not?” He asked with his usual sympathetic voice. A practiced voice. It sounds and feels genuine like he understands what I’m experiencing.
“I don’t trust Clarissa. If it wasn’t for her job duties to see over my safety she wouldn’t spare a glance at someone like me. I think if I were to die tomorrow she might even be relieved at the notion of never seeing me again.”
“I don’t think that’s true, Samantha. I think you just think that. What did we say about fighting those thoughts?”
“C. B. T.” I curse the acronym. “Teach yourself to live in denial. To never fully express yourself because precious society deems it destructive.”
“It’s destructive to your mind...” As Victor goes on and on about his stance on CBT and how it works for PTSD. I imagine the accident again for the millionth millionth time. My brother Timothy taking the brunt of the crash. Watching the large shard of window break free and cut through him from cheek to shoulder. Watching his head bounce around in the backseat floor. I feel the tears begin to flow. What little I have left. Victor starts making that face again and trying to look away. An ex of mine once told me that I look beautiful when I cry. I never understood what he meant but after a year of therapy with Victor, I finally get it. Men just have some natural instinct to nurture and protect a crying woman. As he crosses his legs to hide his growing erection I almost pity him. A profession to suppress your own being in order to cure another. It’s all so ridiculous when you think about it.
I fantasize about Victor making love to me on his desk as the pictures of his wife and children look on when he finally asks me another question.
“Fantasizing again?”
“Yes, about you fucking me on your desk.”
“You use your sexuality as a coping mechanism. It’s for that reason I have to tell you this, Samantha. I don’t think I have the capability to help you and it’s time to transfer you to someone else who can help you.”
“Justification again, Victor? A plus B must always equal C. No room for experimentation? Not enough self-control to even try? Follow the books, follow the training and then help none?”
“I… Can’t… My license.”
“Oh, how could I forget about your precious license? The real meaning of any of the hundreds of appointments we have had. I am just another name, after all. Just another disease in your precious profession. Remember this, Victor, when you are on your death bed and you think of all the people you failed; clutch your license to your chest until you fade away.”
He got up from his chair and opened the door to his office. “Get out.” He said coldly. “Now.”
I accidentally rub his crotch as I leave to let him know I’m sorry.