Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#19)

The week had been long; he'd been despondent and silent again. Maybe it was the humid weather. When he finally emerged from the basement, he was dressed in nothing but skivvies, and he had the hunting knife. I found him in the kitchen just sitting in a folding chair and holding the knife. "Brian," I said. He whispered: "Dare me." I grabbed my cellphone and called 911 from the damp front lawn. They didn't even let him put pants on, and he looked thin and sad when they came outside. "I'm not suicidal," he called. They took him away anyway. 

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The wet grass felt good on my bare feet. The neighbors were watching, and if my hands had been free I would've waved. I told everyone that I wasn't going to kill myself. "I'm just despondent," I said to the woman who took my knife and put the handcuffs on me. "We're all despondent, sometimes," she said, but I think she was confusing despondence with despair. I've felt deep despair before, and I do know the difference. Despair is when everything--everything-- seems black and cold. This time, I just needed to be alone. The knife was only a prop.