YELLOWJACKET

After hours of lying helplessly in the dark, the time had finally come to try my medication.

From my pillow, I shot a glance at the bottle from the corner of my eye. If I’d been obedient, I’d be due for a refill about now, but I just kept putting it off with every excuse imaginable: I didn’t want to worry about the side effects, I didn’t remember to take it with me to the station, and - most honestly - I didn’t want to admit that it could actually help me. That I actually did need it.

Just like seeing a cardiologist for your heart, Dr. Oh had said. Funny how a cardiologist couldn’t fix a broken one, though.

I glanced at the clock on my phone. It was late into the night, far too late to still be debating this, but I was in such a pitiful state I yearned for company.

Each second that passed before Mercy answered the phone was drawn out and tormenting. My eyes darted from each corner of the ceiling until refocusing back on the capsule in my hand. When she finally answered, I breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Hey, you.” I could tell by Mercy’s voice that she was sleepy, a fact of which I was envious. “I didn’t think you’d still be up by now.”

“Well, you know me— I’ve always been kind of a night owl.” I set the pill back on the end table. “Um… this isn’t a bad time, is it?”

She made a neutral little noise. “No, it’s fine, I’m just moving money around to pay off some of these cards. Why? Did you need something?”

My heart rate sped up, which made the room feel like it was closing in. When I wiped my forehead, it was sticky with sweat. Why the fuck was this stressing me out so much?

“Manny?” Mercy prompted.

“Sorry, I…” I trailed off for a moment, holding my head in my hands. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?” Her tone stiffened. “Manny, what’s going on?”

Inhale, exhale. “I’m seeing a therapist. And she wants me to take stuff. Medication.”

Mercy said nothing, her silence making my stomach tighten. Still, I pushed forward.

“And… I’m having a hard time making myself take it,” I stammered. “I just thought maybe you could… I dunno, give me some reassurance or something.”

“… Wait, is that it?” She asked.

Reflexively, I scowled. “The hell do you mean ‘is that it’?”

“It’s just a pill, it’s not a lobotomy.” I could see her rolling her eyes. “From how you sounded, I thought you killed a guy or something.”

“Seriously?” I tried not to make it obvious, but I had to admit, I was hurt. “I’ve been sitting here having fuckin’— palpitations or whatever over this shit for weeks. You know I almost skipped out on my first appointment? It took everything in me to go in, and I could still barely talk to her. I was hoping you’d be a little nicer about this.”

“Oh, Manny…” She sighed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve wanted you to go to therapy for years. If anything, this is probably the best news I’ve heard all week.”

“The fuck are you saying?” My face grew hot with embarrassment. “So you think I’m weak? Weak and crazy?”

“Oh for God’s sake, no, but let’s be honest with ourselves here— you’ve got a lot going on. More than you can handle by yourself.” There was an unexpected tenderness in Mercy’s tone. “I can tell how hard it’s been for you since Feliz died. And I think it’s been hard on you in a way that it hasn’t been on me, so…”

“How?” I spat harshly - harsher than I’d meant. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t watch him die,” she replied simply. “The last time I saw him, he was alive and happy.”

He can’t

stop

bleeding.

“He kissed me, and said he couldn’t wait to be home for the holidays.”

His mouth is moving

but I can’t hear him.

“And the next thing I know, two men in uniform were at my doorstep, and they gave me his belongings.”

I tear the dog tags off of his neck.

“I know you don’t like talking about it, but…” She paused. “It hurts to see you this way when it wasn’t even your fault. To see the pain in your face when you hear his name.”

I look into his eyes

and I see nothing behind them.

Nothing,

nothing—

“… Manny? Are you still there?”

Silently, I blinked, having been staring at the wall until my eyes burned. On the end table, the little pill sat precariously close to the edge. I picked it up with my fingers, rotating it.

“I just wish I was stronger than this,” I said quietly, folding the capsule into my palm.

“You know what makes you strong?” The exhausted huskiness of Mercy’s words made me guilty for keeping her up so late. “Knowing when to get help. There’s nothing noble about suffering. You get that, right?”

I didn’t say anything. It felt so patronizing, so embarrassing, that I wished I’d never called at all.

“You gotta take care of yourself, Manu. We can’t have you falling apart on us,” she continued. “We need you. I need you.”

Still, I felt too humiliated to reply in anything other than a quiet, affirmative hum. Then, Mercy let out a yawn so big, I nearly felt it through the phone.

“Look, I’ve got some other stuff to take care of before I head to bed,” she said. “Try to get some rest, okay? For me?”

I closed my eyes. “I’ll try.”

And with a click of a button, I was alone again, as I always was.

With eyes shut tight and eight ounces of water washing down the pill, I shut off the light, determined now more than ever to give it a shot.

When I finally fell asleep that night, for the first time in months, I didn’t dream of Feliz.

I dreamt, instead, of Raja.