By Omar Hussain
It starts with a conversation. Turns into an interrogation. The room raging with homicidal silence. I squirm on this crusty velvet couch. Purple like Prince. She stares back. Blankly. Like every therapist in every movie or show. With her hair cropped high and tight, she prods about dad. Dares me to unload.
So I do.
It continues with the prescription. Turns into my new, unwanted, perfectly pained identity. The amber bottle lying still in abuse. I take the twenty milligrams contained within each green soft-shell pill, notorious Prozac, day after day. Smiling, she asks how I feel.
“Better,” I lie.
“Every day I’m force-fed life. Writing helps me digest it.” – the writer