Dead Man’s Shoes

"If you don't talk to me I'm going to kill myself," she says, a week after my best friend took his own life. But what she doesn't know, is that I already feel dead inside.

"Don't talk about it," I tell her, "be about it." And in this moment, I DO NOT CARE.

"I'm taking all these pills now and it's all your fault," she screams at me through the phone. 

I hang up. 

What 

the 

actual 

fuck. 

I look down, and I'm wearing a pair of shoes he'd left at my place the last time he was over. 

Tears well up in my eyes. You god damn prick, I think. Not sure if it's about me, or him, or her. 

I message her best friend and neighbor. "Jane's trying to kill herself. I can't handle this right now. Can you please go check on her?"

No response. 

I call an ambulance and give them the address. It's all I can do because I'm 300 miles away. 

The next day I get word that she is ok. They showed up, took her to the ER, and pumped her stomach. 

Another week goes by and she shows up on my doorstep, says she's sorry, she was just going through a lot. I'm wearing his shoes again. I can't help but laugh. Fuck it. Come in.  This is how you fall prey to emotional manipulation.