“Just breathe” He says, at loss on what to do with me.
So I breathe.
Inhale. Exhale.
“I still feel it” I whisper, my head in between my thighs, blood rushing into my head.
I hear him fret, wristwatch hitting bracelet with every fretful twitching of his  hands.
“Talk me through it. Would it help?”
I swallow.
“It’s a burning rage. Slow fire. It threatens to consume everything in my path. It would start with me. I feel its little licks of flame in my head. It would scorch me from the inside until I’m nothing but a walking Molotov cocktail. And everything I touch… Please.  Let me drink. Just a little”
He rubs my back,  kneading my shoulders.
“No. Please. I can’t let you drink.”
“Please.  If you ever loved me, just a little.”
He shakes his head and I hear the distress in his voice.
“You can’t. Talk. Talk to me. Keep talking. Don’t think.”
I take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Then let me jump. Because if I can’t have it, I might as well jump. It won’t hurt. The jump. He keeps whispering. Telling me it’s a good idea. Can you just pass me a bottle. See? I need to shut him up. He keeps suggesting in that slow voice, his breath in my ear, hot and moist. Fetid stench of death.
If you won’t let me drink,  then leave me to join him! He wants me to join him!”
I rock back and forth, biting hard on my lips till I feel a bead of blood. The metallic taste as well as the sting hits and I wince.
“I need my drink. It is the only sanity I know”

And nothing is scarier than a true story.