What Makes a Man Walk Away from His Mind?

Bells sang and lights danced in colour, emotion radiated from the electric glow. I stared at the wall, shadows bounced in each direction, fighting to escape the chains of the cold concrete. Christmas. Didn’t feel much like it. With my parents at work all the tradition and delicate planning fell through the cracks, leaving me playing babysitter for the night. As I looked out the window, snow drifting downwards merrily, there came a panicked knock at the door. With each blow the door groaned with a sense of desperate urgency.



I jolted upright and felt for the knob. As the door crept open I was met with the face of a neighbour: hands shaking, body quivering and eyes glassy with fear. “Please come,” he stammered out in a thick accent, “my fr-fr-friend, he is sick… help!” The words rang out into the air like wisps of smoke and struck me, before he could finish I found myself racing down the poorly lit hallway. The words “here, quick please” echoed out as he directed me through the door into a room filled with thick cigarette smoke. With a grimace of pain my eyes adjusted, I caught the sight of a man sprawled on the couch shaking uncontrollably and muttering unintelligible things.



Time stopped. In half a second a hundred questions were asked and answered. I knelt against the battered couch, placing my hand on the man’s neck. His heart thumped a groaning monotonous beat, a sluggish jackhammer against my fingers. The man had been drinking, finding happiness by the bottle, the smell lingered in his clothes. I picked up the phone and punched in three numbers, the dial tone was muffled by the sound of anguished gasping in the distance.



Soon a voice crackled through, “911, what is your emergency?”



“His breathing is laboured, but constant.” I shot out the information in a tone of unversed routine, “I put him in the recovery posi - wait, he’s waking up.”



“Alright,” the voice answered calmly, “he won’t...