Lucy in the Sky
3 A.M. Her sobbing rides the heat vents, travels through walls, permeates the house.
I approach my daughter’s room, knock lightly: “What’s going on?”
“What do you want!” she snarls.
"Can I help?"
She answers with a rant ... the Hell’s Angels are after her ... someone has told them that she’s ratted out her drug dealer ... her boyfriend has poisoned her friends’ minds against her ... he’s dumped her ... the police are harassing her ... they’re Nazis ...
I open the door a crack: "Do you want me to take you somewhere?"
“Where?” she sobs.
"The Emergency Ward?"
“They’ll just tell me that I should sleep it off. Nobody cares!”
I want to talk her out of these ideas, but say instead: "What do you want me to do?"
“Quit attacking me! Everyone is attacking me.”
She’s shrieking now, her face broken out in what the street kids call ‘speed bumps’.
I back away, say: "I don’t want you to use the car—I’m taking the keys".
“That’s all you care about is the f...ing car. Nobody cares about me.”
She moans, rolls on the floor, her hands curled into knots.
"What's wrong with your hands. Are you in pain?"
“Am I in pain?” Her face is contorted, spittle flies from her lips. “What do you think you stupid shit?”
I want both to hold her and to slap her into rationality.
a spray of diamonds
across the floor
Note: Title taken from the Beatle's song, "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds".