On the 33rd day after my breakup, I made my fifth attempt to kill myself in the therapist's office.
This time, I picked the frame around the Freud portrait on the wall. It was metal, with sharp corners.
I had just risen onto my tiptoes when the doctor calmly said behind me, “There's a blast-proof transparent panel behind that picture. Taking it off will cut your hands. I suggest you try the cactus on the windowsill instead.”
“A cactus?”
“It's plastic. If you smash the pot, all you'll get is a pile of harmless foam pellets.”
I made a desperate lunge for the window. He added leisurely, “By the way, it's laminated bulletproof glass. The fitness trainer who came in last time tested it with his skull. It got an excellent rating.”
I turned around and saw him roll up his sleeves, revealing the familiar bite marks on his wrist. He smiled brightly. “Also, I'm wearing a full set of protective gear today.”
