Malcolm Steadman will dial the suicide hotline in 27 days.
His knuckles white, and his sweat cold, Malcolm Steadman gripped the chocolate toaster strudel in front of him as if it were a neck he was trying to strangle. He watched, almost paralyzed as it crumbled into pieces and fell to his kitchen floor like grains of sand in an hour-glass. It was done. All of those poor giraffes, he thought helplessly, gone, forever.
His mental crisis was over, and though his breakfast was sacrificed in the process, he was relieved that he was done with it. He could go about the rest of his day knowing that he would not be assaulted by another epiphany. Relieved, but saddened. He could never eat chocolate again. All of those poor giraffes, he thought again. At least the worse part of his day was over. Malcolm Steadman looked down at his smart phone to check the time. It was seven ‘o clock. His attacks were getting longer, and though this last one had gone on for twenty minutes, he still had time to get to work. He ignored the red numbered notification at the corner of his texting app and put away his phone.Continue reading →