Mr. Hill

You closed your eyes. Emptiness. All that remained inside was deep pain and a desire to escape to where angels' wings spread. Your condition frightened your friends. From a cheerful person, you became a rag doll, thrown into a dark corner.

There was no more sunlight in the apartment. All the windows were curtained, so as not to hear the birds singing and the joyful cries of children. Life had become gray, and your bright eyes had grown dull. A knock on the door brought you out of your murderous thoughts. You opened it and saw your brother.

"Do you even air out the apartment or are you just wallowing in tears?" he asked, walking inside. "Yes, the apartment smells bad, but you've gotten used to it."

— Get ready. Let's go see a psychiatrist. I don't want you to turn into a mummy.

You shook your head and sat down on the bed. Your brother was finalizing his plans, and soon you were on your way to see a psychiatrist on the outskirts of town. You looked out the window, hoping for an accident, but everything went well. Your brother led you out of the car and shoved you into a house that smelled of leather and tobacco.

A psychiatrist, a brutal, older man, was sprawled on the sofa. He pointed to the chair opposite:

• Sit down, don’t stand in the threshold.

His voice sounded strained. He picked up a notepad and pen:

"Your brother said you're acting strange. You can trust me, I'll help you."

You were silent, but when a black cat jumped onto his shoulder and stared at you, something inside you stirred.

It was unpleasant until the cat turned away. The psychiatrist wrote something down in a notebook:

• It's an unpleasant feeling, isn't it?

You nodded, and he continued:

• Let's talk about problems, not magic.