Butterfly Season

Jack

Maybe I'll die at 17. Maybe...

Not now, though. Not here.

Not. Right. At. This. Moment.

Lately, I've been having this thought stuck to my mind, glued to every neuron I possess, reluctant to lose grip until I figure the shit out of it. It has to do with kinetic energy, and where mine would go once I'm deceased.

Kinetic energy is everywhere: in hydropower plants, windmills, moving cars, even in a bullet from a gun—tempting, very tempting, but not really my cup of tea, or should I say poison?

Anyway, it's there when I walk to school or run away from my problems. So, since this sucker of a thought wouldn't let go of me, I did what any teenager would do: Googled it until my eyes went red. I also mustered the courage to casually bring it up for debate in Professor Lucas' class, where we discussed the issue openly, with all my classmates convinced it was important for next month's AP exam.

I know, I know. Brilliant, right?

"Jack? Are you with me?" someone says, and it sounds familiar but like a thousand miles away at the same time. A voice reminding me I'm not in a classroom, but a hospital bed, wearing a gown. Damn it.

"Jack? I'm going to need an answer here, please."

"Yeah, I hear you," I croak in defeat, with all my moronic words strangled up in my now dry throat. "Hi, Elena." I greet her, looking at her shiny, golden name tag.

I don't want her to see how confused I am after what I tried to do; hence I give nonchalance a go. It backfires quicker than the speed of the fake apology I gave Mom a couple of hours ago.

"Can you tell me what happened?" She looks tired, as if she were the reflection of my inner turmoil, and because I don't answer, she keeps going, "is this the first time you've tried to take your life?"

I nod, and the ache of it all comes crushing down my temples.

"Have you come close before? Thought about it before?" She leans in closer, her voice almost a whisper.

"Is this the part where I get to play my doctor-patient confidentiality card, doc?" I ask her, earning a tiny smile in return.

"I think you are confused, Jack."

"How so?" I try sitting straight, and the weight of my failed attempt at whatever this was slaps me right down. Or maybe it's gravity pulling me under, finally granting me my wish.

"First of, what you mean is more like doctor-patient privilege, where everything you say is afforded such privilege. But we are not—I'm not your physician yet."

"That's an easy fix. By the power invested in this gown, I now declare you my doctor. Welcome to the shit show, Elena. Hope you brought gloves." I fake a smile, but she remains motionless.

"Can I continue to explain the difference between what you said and what this is, Jack?" Her face gives nothing away, but her tone is warm.

"By all means, doc. Carry on..." I feel like a total freak. Which I am...

"Doctor-patient confidentiality refers to the protection of your medical records and information outside the context of a lawsuit. Okay?" She tilts her head to the side and her auburn hair casts the afternoon glow. A brief movement of her right hand shows me elegant, manicured fingers that prompt me to carry on answering her questions. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

I nod once more.

"Have you had these kinds of thoughts before?"

"You mean death thoughts?" I stress the death word, wanting to punish her for unknown reasons.