Theo had been going through a bad patch which grew worse over the weeks in my opinion.
Some intense stuff about his dad came up in group and he was declining gradually
but quietly, like a snail pulling its horns in when it hits something large that
it can’t get around. It was difficult for me to see him peeling the skin off
a problem that big. After another jarring exchange with our facilitator, he got
up and made for the refreshment station. Two seconds later, the door was swinging
and a full cup of tea sat abandoned on the fold-away table.
I rushed out and downstairs to the toilets. All the cubicles were open except the
middle one. After getting down on my hunkers to peek, I recognised his shoes under
the door and saw blood splashing red and shocking on the white tiles.
There wasn’t much room for me to run between the wall of urinals and the cubicle,
four steps maximum, so I had to make them count. I placed my foot against the wall
as a spring for extra speed and launched myself at the door. It gave in easy enough.
Theo sat on the toilet seat, which was still down, with two crimson wads of soggy
toilet tissue up his nostrils. The door latch had torn free of its screws and landed
in his lap. With his hands and knees raised in defence he looked down at it, then
up at me.
“I saw blood,” I said.
“Jesus Christ, Phil, it’s just a nose bleed!” he spluttered.
“What are you, the suicide police? You’re always watching everybody, why
can’t you just mind your own damn business!?”
lives in Dublin where he works as a university administrator and writes fiction
in the tiny spaces between work and family. His fiction has appeared in The Powers
Short Story Collection Volume 1, The Irish Times, The Incubator Journal, 100 Words
100 Books, and Crannóg Magazine. He was shortlisted for the
2015 Cúirt New Writing Prize.
