He felt sick the moment he saw it. He even puked twice. He was a trained doctor but how many psychiatrists have to face such horror. In his imagination, the splat was elegant, even beautiful. She lay there in the pool of blood, perfectly unruffled, just a little flattened out. What he saw was…
The police asked him expected questions, “Was she depressed? Was she capable of killing herself? Was there someone in her life that could’ve contributed to her death?” All they were interested in knowing was whether they could safely label it a suicide and wash their hands off the case. Once he had satisfied them, they thanked him and left.
What would he label it as? Who was behind her death? Was she depressed? She had all the signs, all the symptoms and yet… he hadn’t felt the need to question his diagnosis while she was alive. Something now made him admit to himself that what she was suffering from was not something he could easily label and categorise.
She was absolutely fine, sane and healthy. She just went into these spells of crying and screaming in great agony. She would say that she had no idea why she did that. She knew she was doing it, but had no control over it. It was almost as if her body was doing these things on its own and she could do nothing about it but wait for it to get over. It was very disturbing for those around her. She lost her job and her family got her admitted to the hospital. He was her doctor.