My Life with Death

Eric Stevenson Psychiatric Office, 454 North Monroe Street, Arlington

January 9, 2019

 "I'm glad you came," he said. "What? Has something happened to you?'

"They shot me," I said with icy calmness.

"They shot you," he wondered. "how do you feel?"

"What do you think? How do you think a shot person feels when the life is drained from them with every drop of blood?'

"You were shot years ago and had PTSD sessions. Are you experiencing post-traumatic symptoms again now that you've been shot again?'

"I was shaking. I could not sleep. I had nightmares. I was worried. I was afraid of every loud sound, every blow. Again. It's the same as then."

"Why did you leave the house?"

"How do you know that? Who told you about it?'

"Your husband," he replied. "He called me to see if I knew where you were or where you might be. They say I know you better than anyone else," he added.

"You hear about a cruel killer who takes down innocent women, innocent men... You're looking for a reason why they had to lose their lives," I muttered to myself.

"Are you scared? Do you think this case is related to you?'

"Yes," I replied. "maybe...," I hesitated. "and that's the worst part," I added. "You then consider whether it was an affectation or a premeditated crime. The perfect plan? You dig through old cases and hope you don't find a similar one. You blame the dead that this cruel killer wiped off the face of the earth."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"You read in the papers about a sadist who was burned in the electric chair because he didn't deserve anything else, and you hear praise for a job well done... but those are just satisfying words. You're scared inside and trying to come to terms with the fact that you let a person get killed. And you know there is a risk. The lifetime risk of this job."