Suicides for Christmas by Matt Wall
The woman on the phone said,
“Behavioral Health Center”.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m really fucked up,
I need to see a doctor.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have anything.”
“No, listen:
I’m super down right now.
I need to see someone.”
“We can put you on the list,” she said.
“The list? What the hell is that?”
“The waiting list,” she said.
“Waiting list? How long is that?”
“We are about…”
There was a long pause
“…three months behind.”
“Three months?”
I shouted,
“You gotta be fucking kidding me!”
“Sir, please don’t use that language with me.”
“Who am I calling?”
The woman stuttered.
“Oh! I’m sorry, sir, this is the Behavioral Health Center.”
“Good cuz my fucking behavior is in bad health,
And I need to fucking see somebody!”
“Sir, it will be at least three months.”
“But in three months, I might be fine,
I might not need to talk to anyone!”
“Then, everything would’ve worked out fine,”
She said.
“This is crap,” I said.
“It gets very busy this time of year,” she said.
“What if I told you I was going to kill myself!”
There was a long silence.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to kill yourself?”
“…no.”
“Then it’ll be three months.”
“But, people need help now!
I’m people!”
“You know how it is with the holidays coming,
Christmas you know.
It gets very busy this time of year,” she said.
“Well I’ll cross my fingers for some fucking suicides.”
“What?” She gasped.
“Suicides!” I said. “If people kill themselves,
Spots will open up, right?”
She cleared her throat.
“Well, I suppose…”
“Then let’s hope for some fucking suicides.”
I hung up.
Lit a cigarette.
I was mad at the system,
But felt I won a small victory.
Minutes later,
I cried,
Then crossed my fingers.
