The psychiatrist said that the first attempt was merely a cry for help. This confused me, but I nodded when I was told this and looked at her. She was paler than the day before. No make-up either. The bland paper-gown didn't do her beauty justice.

       She was smiling now. I battled the muscles in my face to do the same without allowing the pools of water behind my eyes to find their way to freedom. The psychiatrist left the room. He insisted that he was merely checking up on one of his patients (for the second time today); although, I read through the bullshit and saw his eyes trying to escape mine as he tried to cheerfully force-feed his lies. He was worried he would lose another hospital-ordered patient (this knowledge was common among the nurses in the hospital and they weren't worried about those around them overhearing their revealing conversations). Three hours later, the two of us were finally alone.

"A cry for help," I said. "I'm sor--"

"Stop," she interrupted. "It had nothing to do with you or anyone else. I want you to know that right now. Sometimes things just spin out of control and as hard as you try to recapture the wheel, you still end up flipping into the ditch. I really thought I wanted to end it, and you know, I honestly think I still do."

I fought as hard as I could not to spout off any clichd messages of reassurance, but in this kind of situation it is a fight that one already loses due to the emotional exhaustion of the moment. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I just feel like I should be helping."

"No" she sighs. "You just don't know what else to say, and I understand, but right now I just want to be alone."

"But I don't th--"

"Please?"

I hesitated for a moment before working up the courage to look into her eyes. I expected her to be ashamed, to avoid my eyes. But, she didn't and the rising waters behind my eyes eventually made its way to daylight as I turned and walked out of the room.

The gap grew larger the past few years, and I saw myself struggling as hard as I could to fill that gap with love, support, and understanding, but it was getting harder to do when the person on the other end of the wants nothing to do with me anymore. When someone is more anxiously awaiting the gift of death rather than the gift of love, it's hard to take, so I took it badly. I thought love was the answer. I thought love was always the answer, pretty nave, huh? She received her gift though.

The next day came for most of us. The nurses couldn't understand how she broke free of the straps to eventually chew her way through the stitches; "she must have really ha--," looking down as they saw me brokenly approach. I walked around the now empty hospital room proclaiming over and over again in my head, "do not lose control do not lose control do not lose control." Even in the death of another, one cannot help but think of himself. It hurt and I vowed to never hurt again.

       The psychiatrist provided more gossip for the nurses of the hospital as he made his third visit in two days. This visit was a little less social as he focused his eyes on a Styrofoam cup, "the second attempt," he mumbled, "was a success."