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My Friend, Rachel




Rachel was one of the most beautiful and free spirited people I had met in my short life of nineteen years. She was the perfect balance of recklessness and caution. Rachel was one of those lucky human beings who knew when to stop. She knew her limits like the back of her hand, and although she was a blast to be around, she always knew when to call it quits for her or someone else’s safety.

But Rachel isn’t like that anymore. Rachel isn’t much of anything anymore.

It was so subtle at first that nobody noticed. Her slight changes in behaviour. A sudden tendency to cancel plans. Rachel was isolating herself, withdrawing from society. I assumed she was going through a hard time, maybe she was even depressed, but as her best friend I expected her to confide in me. Rachel said nothing.

Then Rachel stopped taking care of herself. She stopped showering. She spoke strangely of the things around her. She rambled on and on about things which were nearly incomprehensible, and soon enough Rachel drew further into herself.

Fearing for her well-being, I had urged Rachel to seek help. To talk to a doctor, or a therapist, or even just a friend. I was afraid; especially as she continued her decline in social activity.

Eventually my pleading paid off and Rachel, under the condition I accompany her, agreed to seek help. So, there we sat, confined by the bright and dismal walls of the local medical clinic. Rachel was nervous of course, she was convinced that the doctor wouldn’t be able to help her. And as the man entered and took a seat, she had turned to me to say as much.

The Doctor frowned at her, and this sudden development had frightened Rachel even more. She grabbed my arm and attempted to leave the room but the Doctor stopped her. She pleaded me to help her as the Doctor had continued to frown.

"Who are you talking to?" He had asked.

Rachel doesn’t see me anymore. But I still see her.

—
Credits to: thesecretofnimh

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