The Fireworks and the Hebephile

Malina Chavez
Jul 23, 2017 · 2 min read

Toward the end of visitation, the man in the green shirt slithered toward by friend to try to pick up his sister. My friend told her age to which the man replied “That doesn’t matter to me, the Brazilian I dated was much younger.” I know his kind. And he is a waste of the air we breathe. So, where do I find compassion for the snake? Not today, asshole. I wanted to escape after the altercation. Full fight or flight in effect. But, I was told I had to wait 72 hours and then could be involuntarily committed still, if the doctors thought it best. I guess that’s the right thing to do because I just wanted to die — this world is fucking sick. Then I got pissed. Not at the doctors, but at myself, that I’d let this man get to me, that I’d let him bother me to such a point that my health no longer mattered.


So, I decided not to let anyone make such a decision about my life. Especially not him. I will choose to struggle through the pain, the memories, the meaninglessness. Then, I took a shower and joined the world worth joining. My friends were waiting. One gave me her weighted blanket and taught me about the ice pack to the back of the neck trick. Then we had a party, of cheese, crackers, painting our nails; and the best view of the university city fireworks. When they began, we gathered into one patient room — bringing in chairs, sitting close in the dark, watching the best show in town, meant just for us. As the fireworks over the stadium lit up the night of the fourth floor of the psych unit, there was a sense of shared experience that you just can’t put into words. The next day, the hebephile was gone.

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