James Mandarin

Psychiatrist

"Real men don't cut."

I'm standing at the bottom of the staircase with a stack of paper in hand. I'm dressed in brand new jeans and a t-shirt, bought especially for today. A thin layer of sweat on my forehead slowly dries as my temples ache. Dad wears a suit and a tie. I know he can't wait to rip the damn things off.

The session with the psychiatrist was like walking through the gates of hell and burning in the flames.

My psychiatrist's name was An. I saw the name badge he unsuccessfully tried to hide. He asked about my life, my problems and even more importantly, why I began cutting.

I didn't talk much. Maybe it was because mum and dad were in the same room with us (they didn't want to leave). Maybe it was because my secret had so suddenly been thrust out in the open for everyone to see, explore, prod and poke, without warning.

The doctors at the hospital said I needed help.

I was depressed and suicidal. I needed guidance. I had to be fixed.

I watched as they wrote reports in my file: James Mandarin has a problem. He cuts.

Dad repeats himself. "Real men don't cut. They find a way around their problems."

I want to say, "I'm seventeen. I'm still a child, not an adult." But that would be pathetic. I look him in the eye for a moment. Drinking liquor doesn't help real men solve their problems. Anyway, what does he know about solving one's problems.

I cut. He drinks.

We both have our own addictions. We both look for something to fill the void between us, to make us feel alive; human, to help us survive.

But dad isn't human. He's a monster. And James Mandarin is a pathetic loser.

He walks away, muttering under his breath. It's been two weeks since Chloe found me sprawled on the bathroom floor. Mum refuses to look me in the eye. She's hurt, angry and ashamed. What will her rich friends think of her as a wife and mother when word gets out that her son has problems? She'll never become the leader of the Ladies' Tennis Club at this rate.

I slowly make my way into the bedroom. It stinks of disinfectant. I place the stacks of paper on the bed. They're the class notes the school sent for me to read. I'm supposed to return back to school on Monday. That's when we get out exam timetable.

I'm not ready for first semester exams.

I don't want to do them.

I open the bathroom door. The blue tiles have been scrubbed clean. The cupboards are virtually empty. Only the body soap, cream, deodorant and shampoo remain in the cupboard.

Razor is gone. Mum took her away.

I feel so lonely.