"Everything's going to be alright, sweetheart."
After seven days, they let me take a call from my father. "Daddy, are you alright? Are you here or in Montreal?", I sobbed. "Everything's going to be alright, sweetheart. Don't worry", he said.
On my return to Montreal, psychiatrists at the Montreal General Hospital treated me for an "emotional disorder" for one month, off work, a zombie on tranquilizers.
Two years later, I wrote to Peter when I returned his $1,000 he so nicely lent me for my stay at the Clinic. I asked him to please tell me if my suspicians were right-- that he or Dave had slipped me some drugs hoping for a good time. He never answered my letter.
Tammy isn't a "friend" of mine anym ore. My parents aged ten years with worry. I'm OK now, but I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to Chariots of Fire again.
P.S. I am revisiting this paper I wrote for a McGill Creative Writing course in 1986. I did get 9 out of 10 for the paper, my teacher mentioning that I had a wonderful imagination. If he only knew!
2 comments:
This story is as rivetting as it was the first time you showed it to me. But you survived it, and although you may never know what really happened, you don't ever have to "go back there".
I love you!
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