118: The doctor was staring at me.
Back in his office.
My knife on the corner of his desk.
A heavy hand on my shoulder belonging to someone I could not see.
The doctor leaned in close.
His breath smelled of onions.
“Anson?”
I should take my knife.
I should forget my plan and take my knife and—
I screamed.
I screamed so loud the sound burned at my throat, a thousand razorblades rushing up and out.
Suppressed time.
Back in my room.
On my bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
I wanted to leave, but the girl did not cry anymore.
My plan did not work if she did not cry.
More days of this.
More nights of this.
Why didn’t I take my knife?