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By M. Willow
The woman crossed
her legs, regarding him under hooded eyes. “So when did you feel that your life was falling apart?” she
asked.
“I guess a little over a year ago,” he said, clearly uncomfortable discussing such a private
matter with a woman he hardly knew. Still, he wasn’t ready to discuss it with Starsky. Starsky would freak
if he knew. Starsky would stay with him night and day. Starsky would ask him what the hell was wrong with him.
It was a question even he couldn’t answer.
“A little over a year ago,” he repeated, forcing his
attention away from her legs and back to the problem that had brought him here on an early Monday morning. “I
just started to hate myself. I don’t know why. I just became so…so depressed.”
The
woman tapped her pen against the pad she was holding. “Did you talk to someone about how you were feeling?”
“No. I mean I couldn’t. If I had…if I had…people would have been worried about
me.”
“And you didn’t want that?” she asked, her question sounding more like a statement.
“No.
I couldn’t understand it myself,” Hutch said, settling himself in a more comfortable position on the sofa, his
head propped on the soft leather of the arm. “Nothing had changed in my life, but I just felt,” he closed
his eyes. “I just felt so empty. I feel dead inside.”
“Did you consider taking your
life?” she asked.
Hutch said nothing and then he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
He opened his eyes to stare into the midnight blue depths of the woman’s eyes. “I couldn’t do that,”
he said quietly.
He watched her write this in the notebook, her legs milky white against the wingback chair.
He could see that she didn’t believe his answer. He wasn’t too certain either. He did remember a night
less than six months ago when he’d been cleaning his gun. He’d fingered the trigger, caressing its cold
steel, thinking of how many people he’d saved with that gun, and how easy it would be to take a life with that gun.
His life. Images of Starsky had popped into his head—Starsky crying at his funeral. Starsky asking
why he’d done it. Starsky hating him for not coming to him in the first place. And then he’d put the
gun down.
“But something brought you here today?” she asked, her eyebrow arched.
The
truth was that he’d gotten up this morning fully intending on enjoying the first day of his vacation. He’d
stood in front of the mirror and saw his reflection and he hadn’t known who the hell he was looking at. It had
scared him enough to make an appointment with a psychiatrist. Now he was lying there, his back smarting from being on
the sofa for nearly an hour, and telling her something he normally wouldn’t share with anyone but his best friend—he
was hurting. Had been for over a year. On the outside he was still the efficient cop. He was still smiling
and living his life. But on the inside he was a dying man. A man who hated himself more each day. And this
morning he’d finally realized what he felt on the inside showed on the outside as well. Gone were his boy-next-door
good looks, sun-kissed blond hair framing a face that still seemed innocent. In its place was a man with long, thinning
blond hair that framed a world weary face--old before its time. The droopy mustache was the final touch. No wonder
Starsky had been unrelenting in trying to get him to shave it.
“I came here for help,” he heard
himself say. “I want to feel good about myself. I want to feel the way I did before.”
Hutch
realized the words sounded desperate, needy. But that was the way he felt. Yet, not that long ago he’d been enthusiastic
about life. He’d thought he could make the world better. Make a difference. But it hadn’t happened.
“It will take time,” the doctor murmured.
“How much?” he countered.
“Unknown.
Depression can’t be cured overnight.”
But it seemed it had all started overnight. One day he was
happy, and the next, well the next he was nearly sobbing in his drink. He was pushing everyone away, drinking too much,
sleeping with nearly every woman he met. And he hated himself more each day.
And then there was Kira.
He had slept with a woman Starsky loved. And his friend had found out. Still he’d forgiven him, showing
his love and respect for a man who hardly deserved it.
“Oh god,” he said, covering his face
with a shaky hand. He felt hot tears spilling down his face and felt shame for displaying so much raw emotion in front
of a complete stranger. He’d only cried in front of Starsky and then only when he’d been at his lowest.
The doctor said nothing as he released the pain through his tears. After a time, he sat up on the sofa and regarded
the petite woman. She was a redhead, with a splay of freckles across her nose. Most would describe her as pretty,
but not overly so. She wore a charcoal-grey suit, high-buttoned, that more than hid her assets. All except the
legs, Hutch noted. She had the shapeliest legs he’d seen in a long time.
“Tell me why you made
the decision to come here today?” she asked, her proper Boston accent crisp in the sedate grey office.
He
took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I saw myself today for the first time in nearly a year. I saw
the pain, the despair written on my face. I don’t’ know why I couldn’t see it before.”
The
doctor showed no reaction, just scrawled something in her notebook, then looked at him with ocean blue eyes.
“And
how does that make you feel?” she asked slowly.
“Like shit,” he said sharply, meeting her gaze,
feeling apologetic for the harsh word. “I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s just that I seem
to keep messing up my life…lately. I just feel so…so…”
“Alone,” she
concluded. But that was hardly the truth. He had Starsky.
“Not alone,” he said, his eyes downcast.
“I could talk to Starsky.”
She poured steaming tea into a mug, the aroma of citrus mingling with the
fresh scent of her perfume. She settled soft blue eyes on him— eyes that seemed to bore into his soul
“Then
why haven’t you?” she asked..
When he spoke his voice was sharp. “Because I betrayed him.
Because I don’t deserve a friend like him. Because I’m dirt under his feet.”
“How
do you know that?” she asked quickly.
He rubbed a tired hand through thinning hair then leaned forward,
folding his arms across his chest. He didn’t have an answer for that. His friend had caught him with
the woman he loved. Why would Starsky ever want to have anything to do with him? Yet he’d forgiven him.
He’d told him that what he’d done had hurt him deeply, but losing his friendship would hurt even more. And
Hutch hadn’t been worthy of that forgiveness.
“I need to talk to him,” he stammered. “I
need to tell him what’s been going on with me.”
She nodded her head, glancing at her watch.
“I have an opening next week.”
Hutch realized his hour was up. He stood. “I’ll call if I need
an appointment,” he said quietly and headed for the door.
A half-hour later he entered the apartment of
his best friend. Starsky was standing at the stove, the smell of fried chicken in the air. His friend turned when
he entered, a crooked smile crossing the rugged features.
“Glad you could join me, Blondie. I think
I cooked a little too much chicken,”
Hutch slid into one of the chairs, his eyes coming to rest on his best
friend. Starsky’s features darken with concern. Then the stove was switched off and he was sitting at the
table, his hand coming to rest on Hutch’s wrist.
“Starsk I…I…need to talk,” he stammered,
feeling some of the darkness already starting to lift.
Fin
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