Mental Health


Dad shuts the door to his bedroom and pulls his chair out from the desk to sit down. He presses the button to power the hard drive to the desktop. The screen loads, and the computer doesn’t have the chance for the ball to bounce from each side of the wall.

The door is locked, and the dad is zoned in on the video game. On the outside of the door, the water from the bathtub faucet runs. The baby climbs the couch and jumps. She loves to climb and jump. The baby now hangs from the noose of the blinds.

Swinging, he saw her, her brother. Four years old, two years older than her, but too young. He watches her swing back and forth. He is scared. He knows something is wrong; he can see it, feel it. He runs and bangs on the locked door. The dad is startled, young, and confused. He sees her blue and purple, hanging, swinging, foaming at the mouth. She is gone, no more. He put his mouth on hers. For the first and last time, he resuscitates her. Their mother flies back home from her conference meeting. She slits the blinds with a knife. The mother then becomes the stay at home wife, and the dad goes to work, as they always say because that’s how life works.

And then she smiles as she reads it out loud, for she isn’t hanging anymore


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