Psychiatry #1 (Fiction)

“On today’s news, the bodies of two young girls have been found in…”

I sprint for the remote control and frantically smash the red button in the top-right hand corner.

The ancient fossil TV turns black.

Not today.I let out a sigh of relief, before leaping back to the kitchen.

They look fabulous! I squeal, as I slide the steaming, golden pancakes onto the corroding plate with an old, greasy spatula.

Perfection.

As I pour a scrumptious load of syrup onto my fresh work of art, I jolt in delight. The recipe I stole off Subtle Asian Baking worked!

I snatch my scrappy iPhone 5 from the tabletop, ready to capture my success with my shoddy 144-pixel camera.

The notification bar drops.

“NEWS FLASH: HUNDREDS OF BODIES REFRIGERATED IN CARTS, AS ALABAMA, THE HEART OF DIXIE, BECOMES THE HEART OF COVID-19”

I click my phone shut.

Not today.

I close my eyes. Deep breath. Count.

3.

2.

1.

Another deep breath –

Red. Blotches of crimson red across the screen.

Tissue and cartilage splattered across the pavement. Remnants of a dog.

My feet tremble, my hands quiver.

Count.

3.

2.

1.

Red. Streams of blood roll down slowly, before the video pans to a man who licks the camera with his tongue and grins.

“He’s dead. HE’S DEAD, MY BROTHERS.” He rejoices with his people: men dressed in black pleated robes and balaclavas.

I reach for the kitchen drawer with all my might, but it’s just out of my reach.

Red. Decline.

The supervisor hollers across the office, “STAY. There are more videos for you to go through.”

My face muscles clench and my teeth grind.

Red. A fountain pen slashes my face, as it traverses the supervisor’s office and leaves a crack in the glass door. Red continues to trickle down my cheek.

She’s angry. How dare I accidentally approve a video and “ruin the lives of thousands?”

With every last bit of adrenaline, I fight for my limbs to do something. Anything.

How dare I screw up the screening of thousands of videos, when it’s “literally in my job description?”

I finally fling open the kitchen drawer and grapple for the orange container of Prozacs.

1 tablet. Swallow. Water. Drink.

Count.

3.

2.

1.

Red.

No, fight it. The therapist reassures me. Deep breaths. Count.

3.

2.

1.

You got this.

3.

2.

1.

My eyes are wide open.

Clock in the far-right corner, calendar above the dining table, the pancakes, now cold, still on the kitchen top.

I am still in my house. Not the office. Not the office. Not today.

As I finish the last munch of my now-crusty pancakes, another notification appears.

“Message: Come into work today. Staff needed. TRIPLE PAY.”

I glance at my almost-dysfunctional phone, my silverware that isn’t really silver anymore, and the bits of wallpaper coming off the walls of my fourth-generation home.

Shit. I guess it is today.

I grab my workbag from the bedroom and smuggle the Prozacs into a secret compartment.

As I reach for the door, I mutter. Deep breaths.

3.

2.

1.

The Facebook Moderator (2021).