“It’s adrenaline,” the psychiatrist tells my quaking body, my chattering teeth. He contemplates a 72-hour restraint, but decides against it. He’s well-meaning. Pitying. He asks what I remember from last night and I lie. “Nothing.” He does not need to know about the slump in the back seat of the car, the smell of dry vomit and Christmas wine, the scratch of rough leather against skin, the Barbie stuck behind the door panel, the muffled voices up front: Soft. Well-meaning. Pitying. Asking, “We’ll take you home. Where do you live?” Who cares? This can't be real. This is not happening.
Varsha Venkatesh writes from Bangalore, India. She's been published in The Cabinet of Heed. X: @VarshaWrites86