A Five-Minute Life

At home, I sat on my couch in the falling dark, wracking my brain for what went wrong. Thea had been so happy, dancing to her music, and her painting was perfect until…

Black streaks across the blue of the sky. Black against the perfection of the Empire State Building. Black mourning bands. Something lost. Something ruined.

I pulled my guitar on my lap and sang Pearl Jam’s “Black.”

All the pictures, washed in black…

I sang and played, not caring if the neighbors heard. My hands hit the strings harder, slapping instead of strumming. My voice raised until the lyrics vibrated my bones.

Turned my world to black…

The last notes faded. Something turned Thea’s world to black, and I was going to get kicked out of Blue Ridge before I could find out what. I put the guitar away, disgusted and helpless, and fell into a fitful sleep.

Around nine the next morning, when I knew Thea would have eaten breakfast, I texted Rita: How is she?

The answer came a few minutes later: Was just about to text you. Better. She ate something today, seems a little more like herself.

Relief and pain gripped me as I typed, Glad she’s okay.

Because I’m not there. It’s better for her. This is better.

So far so good, Rita texted. I’ll keep you posted.

The hours crawled. The day was hot and sticky and quiet. My phone chimed with another text from Rita around two o’clock. Thea’s rec time.

She’s drawing again. Word chains. Egypt. Darker stuff than her usual, but Anna’s taking her off watch.

I stared at the words. Good. Thea was better. It was all that mattered.

Thanks, Rita. I guess it was painting that triggered her after all.

The reply came quick. IDK. She was happy painting. And happy taking her FAE with you. But maybe the painting was it.

Point taken. I fucked up because I was just an orderly. Not a damn doctor. Stupid of me to try.

I heated a frozen dinner in the microwave, hardly tasting it. The night grew blacker. The silence outside deeper. Like Thea’s silence, I imagined. Deep and dark and endless.

Around ten, I thought about going to sleep, but something kept scratching at the inside of my consciousness. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through Rita’s texts.

She’s drawing again. Word chains. Egypt. Darker stuff than her usual…

Darker than usual. What did that mean?

It means she’s still re

covering from the snake incident.

But the answer wouldn’t stick. The itch dug in deeper, with claws.

I typed a text to Rita, Send me a photo of Thea’s drawing?

A pause. The rolling dots of a response came then, I’m in the parking lot.

Please. I need to see it.

Another pause, and then, Hold on.

My chest was tight as I waited. Finally, a photo appeared on my phone. A desert bathed in shadow. Clouds darkening the sky. A pyramid casting a long slant of darkness. And in the center, a coiled snake made of words. If Thea was talking through her word chains, then this was her story.