Page 6 of Kill Me

Still a bit selfish though, in my opinion. Not that anyone cares to ask.

My last memory is of a very awkward family dinner where my parents brought up my apparent need for ECT—or electroconvulsive therapy. For the people who are fortunate enough to have never entered the mental health space and have never heard of it, it’s a medical procedure that uses controlled electrical currents to induce small, quick seizures in the brain, in the hope of treating severe mental health disorders. Introduced around eighty years ago by a doctor in Rome, things like severe depression, mania (bipolar), catatonia—those types of fun things. It’s the neurological equivalent to hysterectomies being performed to treat hysteria in women, in my opinion. It’s extreme, cruel, and not needed. While many believe that it’s been effective—they’ve even trialled it on patients with dementia, as if those poor souls weren’t going through enough—most ‘normal’ professionals frown upon it.

My parents have decided that this is the cure for my issues and ailments, both psychological and physical—the delusional fucking idiots.

Pot, kettle.

You’re the definition of delusional.

Sometime in the year before the ‘accident’.

So, Quinn,” my mum, Andrea, starts, pausing mid-meal and laying her fork down on the table.

Oh, this should be fucking good.

“Your dad and I have been talking about ways in which we can help you.”

I half chuckle, half choke on the remainder of my mouthful, frustrated at the fact that she’s interrupted my dinner. I’m a foodie after all; that much would be obvious just to look at me.

“Respect our fucking mother, you fat little bitch.” As always, my brother Eric is the delight of my life.

My dad just sits there in silence. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. He says sweet f-fucking-a. It shouldn’t surprise me, yet each time I want to jump from my seat and slam his head against the dining table.

Yes, my inner rage is a problem.

OOOOOOO, sounds like fun to us!

If my voices could clap hands and jump up and down on the spot, that’s exactly what they would be doing right now based on the tone inside my brain.

The voices inside of me I call monsters. I should probably give the main one a name; she’s stalked me my entire life, so why not? Herpes. That’s what I’ll call her, because once you’ve got her, you can never get fucking rid of her. She goes dormant for a while, and then when you least expect it, boom, she pops back up again.

“You’ve spent the last decade of my life telling me it’s in my head and to get a grip on reality, so what’s changed?”

“Well, it’s not like you seem to be able to stick to anything, so we’ve been doing some research on alternative therapies.”

“We? Holistic therapies don’t help me. We know this; I’ve tried them all.” I look over to my dad. “And you’re in agreement with all of this?”

“Whatever your mother decides, I will support.”

“And what about what I want?”

“I don’t think you know what you want, Pumpkin.”

“Don’t call me that. You lost the right to call me that a long time ago.”

If a person could shatter into pieces, he would have in that moment, but my empathy for my father has long since run out. “So what holistic shit are you forcing on me this time?”

“Not holistic—alternative—shall we say. They’re a little bit more…extreme. Still legal, but frowned upon by society, and we believe that it’s worth a go. You’ve wasted the first 21 years of your life feigning illness and fighting for attention—”

“So, being just like you, then?” I quip, which earns a frown from my dad, before the edges of his lips tip as if he’s trying not to smirk. He spends so much time hiding his real, true self. If only he were brave enough to stand up to her, his life could be everything he could have ever dreamed of—well, if he picked a different woman, maybe. But I know better. I mean, look at me, still living with my parents, unable to function because my brain hates me. And the longer this goes on, the more it’s starting to affect me physically.

My brother’s face is an epic shade of beetroot right now. His hands are balled into fists, and I could swear I can see them vibrating. If looks could kill, I’d combust into dust, with no evidence I ever existed.

“There’s no need to be rude to me, Quinn. I know my health issues have been hard on our family, but I’ve done everything I possibly could to get better over the years. I just haven’t been as lucky as you are to have a family who cares so much for me, and is willing to pay for me to get help.”

I scoff. “What are we? Chopped liver?” There’s a clatter of cutlery as my brother's fist pounds the table.

“Stop. Talking. To. Her. Like. That.” Every word is exaggerated to within an inch of its life, Eric’s tone getting louder, more eerie, as he talks. There have been moments throughout my life where I could never understand why my brother was allowed to lord over us the way he does. Why he was awarded some kind of power that none of us ever seemed to want to talk about out loud. But the look on my dad’s face so far tells me everything I need to know—terror. I’d never considered the fact that he could be afraid of his own son, but now it all makes sense. The control. The anger. The fear that he exudes from everyone he deems unworthy of his time and attention. I had never thought that stretched to his father. Maybe we do have more in common than I first thought.