Bleak

I am standing next to my nephew, Matt, at the funeral. On my other side is my sister. She weeps at the loss of Kitty Clemente-Watts as her husband caresses her shoulders, bringing her into an embrace. There are about forty in the room, a good fraction of them being my mother's friends since childhood. They make chatter amongst themselves as we stand in silence, staring emptily at the open casket.
There lays my mother dolled up to the point where I do not recognize her. Her face is encrusted in makeup that smells unlike her. An aroma of dust and esters serenades her coffin, her flowers bought scented mildly as they dangle above her dead body. I desire nothing more than to leave and abuse heroin.
Matt shuffles next to me, uncomfortable as he holds his girlfriend's hand. She is an Italian lass with eyes that are cold. She stares hard at the people around her, undoubtedly to some degree sickened by the amount of cut-rate attire she is surrounded by. Matt often calls her a "fucking bitch with the neck skills of a hooker" when I ask her how she's doing. They've been going for two years. He cheats on her inevitably.
The service begins. The mortician drones on about death being a part of life; he is merely thirty years old and his philosophy major he articulates is that of an eleven year old. I could easily hold a lecture on death to this ill-favoured crowd. Surely I have seen it many more times than this fellow, who adjusts his hair nervously every time his eyes meet someone else's. I realize he is strung out on acid fifteen minutes in.
My arm is sore from shooting up the night before. I have not been taking care of myself well. I'm left to ask Matt if he has an oxycodone to slip me during desperate times. To my luck he carries two on him at a time. He accepts fifty dollars for one pill. I slip it in my car desperate for relief from stiff muscles that ache tremendously.
My aunt and I speak over coffee. She tells stories of she and Kitty I've heard before. I hear Matt and his girl fighting in the background of our conversation, he swears at her and she calls him an asshole. Eventful.

She appears in my dreams and in her sweet innocence she plays her eloquent harp. She scowls at her fuck ups like the perfectionist she is, undiplomatically cursing in between chord changes. The melancholic sounds match her face as a tear forms in her eye and trickles down the pale skin of her hollow face. The tear glistens at the top of her cheekbone and she lets out a breath before it drops to the floor. The splash causes her pet cat's ear to bat sideways.
It is then, during the peak of her presentation of sorrow, her step father enters the room. His hands are unwashed after a day's work; his greasy hair is flattened by his cap that one can only imagine smells of his filthy, oily scalp. She makes no reaction as he creeps closer and closer to her, the floor creaking with every besetting step he makes in her already darkened room, interrupting her private recital to the excessive point in where screws up her song again.
He grabs her neck. She continues to play her harp. The strain changes. What was once saddening is now a disparaging melody, each string performing a different annotation that elucidates her innermost stirring layers. She plays her personality through the harp, her stepfather playing with her raven locks that slip in and out of his free hand.
Impassioned Melody lifts her head to meet the eyes of her life's enemy. Her cat leaves the room. He bends forward slowly to meet her face. He licks the tip of her upturned, cartoonish nose with his frothy tongue, holding her cheeks with one hand. Her fingers begin to move against the strings of her wooden harp faster and faster, the pace picking up to what seems to be a heart beating surreally throughout the room. The room is a collection of her emotions. Each wall begins to crumble as her step father initiates touching her.
She wears no panties under her gothic black laced mini dress.


It is nearing 7:00p.m. when I arrive home. Matt has messaged me on our encrypted communication app, titling the subject of the message as urgent. He speaks of a "mental girl" who needs help desperately.
It is uncommon for my drug dealer nephew to show sympathy for anyone. This means it is a rather serious case. He is a psychopath by textbook, and if I know anything about the primal brain-injured complex, it takes a lot to phase someone who does not generally give a shit about the welfare of others.
"She's, like, fucked, man. She slit her wrist in public by the subway for attention the other day. Someone ran to help her, but… she said she was trying to die." His last words sound like they came out of the mouth of a confused young boy.
"This is very common in teens with untreated borderline." I tell Matt. "They are fixed on death like we are on prevalent things in everyday life."
"Why?" He sounds belligerent. "She's a brilliant fucking person. I deal ketamine with her every day."
I sigh. My answer will either depress him or send sexual whims to his decrepit, opportunistic brain.
"She has no one, Matt."
Silence.
"What do you mean, no one?"
"No one to trust. No one to love. Borderlines want to feel needed and reassured. She likely goes about her day to day life feeling empty and alone. On that particular day, chaotic and suicidal. She is missing something. Has unfulfilled needs."
"I see it everyday in the psych ward. Middle aged women who have been left by their husbands. Especially teen aged girls who have been raped and attempted suicide. It all has to do with who affects you in your supports. "
"If someone cannot reach you inside for whatever reason, it is debatable if that is depression driving the patient to a selfish, impulsive or careless outlook or if they truly cannot relate to those who care about them." I explain. He makes a concerned sound in return.
"Huh," he concludes. "Never looked at it that way. Do you think you can accept her as your patient when she comes in?"
I already have four patients to be admitted along with an extremely busy outpatient schedule which involves the mandatory psychiatric checkup every six months starting tomorrow. I will be seeing a cluster of old patients for follow up in the office. Most of them being people who did not fundamentally require the care of a psychiatrist after their discharge.
"She might attempt suicide for real if you meddle with her head. Take caution. Call the ambulance for her when the time comes. And you'll be watching her all day through her webcams." It is not a protest I am making, but extra work I am putting in Matt's hands. If he cares about this cause, he will do it properly.