The voices in my head—if you count my thoughts (which I do)—mull about, like prisoners seeking treatment, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Men shuffle past, mumbling God-knows-what to God-knows-who. If you’re looking for an increase in meds, then scheduled appointments are mandatory. One inmate, who thought he heard someone telling him to kill his teacher, now goes to school regularly. He’s functioning quite fine.
The Secretary for Mental Health inhabits this area, this space; her three-walled cubicle faces the teachers’ office-computer where we occasionally check our email. She asks, “Do you think we’ll get more snow?” I ignore her. I delete my messages instead of reading them.
I’m sure she’s a nice lady. I’m sure a little conversation wouldn’t hurt. Even though there's no time for small talk. Maybe I’m too harsh; maybe I need to slow down, exchange pleasantries. But I won’t. I scan my thoughts, organize my tasks. I get sidetracked. I wonder if, instead of waiting for an answer, some sort of an acknowledgement, she thinks I’m one miserable son-of-a-bitch.
What disturbs me more than anything—and it’s no fault of her own—is the fact that a potted plant once sat on her desk, and buried beneath its soil had been the following treasures: a hunting knife, bullets, and a cell phone.
I don’t think about the weather outside. I think about how cold it can get inside.
