“I want to touch the sun.”
Angela parked her car and opened the door. She pulled out her cigarettes and lighter. She lit up with trembling hands. The heat from the flame warmed her face. The quivering inside her diminished. Her hands calmed; she exhaled across them. She finished the cigarette.
Avoiding the sidewalk, Angela strolled across the lawn. She pressed the call button, and the door unlocked.
In the foyer, half of the lights flickered, and the other half were dim. The walls had evolved into yellow. Angela walked to the opposite end of the room and opened a blue door labeled “Behavioral Health”. The lights were bright and vivid. The walls were painted a light blue, but peeling. The furniture was clean and sagging. At the reception window, short blond hair looked up at her.
“Angela?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, we’ve got you. Take a seat.” The smile wore black lipstick.
Angela sat down across from an old woman who was knitting. The woman looked up and wrinkled her nose. Nothing was said, and she resumed knitting. Angela was aware of the cigarette smell.
“Angela?”
Angela looked up. Long black hair was standing in an open doorway. She let Angela into the hallway. Her hand on Angela’s back guided her to a familiar room. It was empty.
“Doctor Hamming will be right in.”
The door shut.
Angela sat and crossed her ankles. She folded her hands on her lap. She stared at the clock. At five past, the door opened; short brown hair came in and sat down by the desk.
“Good morning, Angela. How are you this morning?”
“Same.”
“Ah, hm, that it?” Brown hair crossed his legs.
“I want to die,” said Angela.
The fan on the desk whirred quietly. “I think I understand.”
Angela leaned forward sharply, “You do? Your husband and child are dead, too? Tell me how you understand.”
Brown hair sat calmly, uncrossing his legs. He said nothing and wrote something brief in his notepad. He said, “No one’s keeping you here. Do you want to continue?”
Angela continued, “They’re never coming back. I’m never going to see my baby’s face again. Or hold him.” She paused with her mouth open. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on something close. “It should have been me. It was my turn.”
“Ah, hm.” Brown hair wrote in his notebook.
“I smell like cigarette smoke.”
Setting his notepad on the desk, Brown hair folded his hands in front of his stomach. He sniffed the air. “It’s fine.”
“I want to touch the sun.”
