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Erik, have you ever thought about or tried to kill yourself?” Dr. Connors tucked a strand of ash blonde hair behind her ear and widened her bright blue eyes.
She was beautiful, Erik noticed, as if for the first time. For him, it was the first time. She looked like the portrait of his great-great-grandmother that his Uncle Brian had kept on the wall in his house in Chicago. What had her name been? Catherine? Katrina? No no, it had been Caroline. Caroline Olsen Andersen…
“Erik, did you hear me?” Dr. Connors snapped her fingers inches away from Erik's face. He blinked and smiled, hoping that it didn't look like he had been daydreaming. That had been a habit of his that José had hated, and that he had tried to beat and bully out of him.
“Yes to your first question,” he admitted. “And as for the second...” Erik shrugged and held out his cuffed hands, palms forward. He didn't have to say anything. The good doctor had access to his medical records for the last six years, and possibly even further back than that.
She had to know about the half-hearted suicide attempt he had made back in July, at least. Then, in a fit of despair, Erik had spent about a week hoarding Xanax pills, hiding them under his tongue and then slipping them into the slip cover of his pillow. He had taken the handful of pills all at once, washed them down with a carton of milk, and then he had slept.
He had slept so deeply and for so long that no one thought he would wake up again. When he did wake up another week later, Erik had found himself in the hospital, with a wide-eyed nurse assistant staring at him as if he were Jesus Christ risen from the dead.
And, from what he had seen and heard over the years of the trial, at the courthouse and in the hundreds of letters sent to him, for some folks, he might as well be. The nurse assistant had taken one goggle-eyed look at Erik and had run out of the room, screaming hysterically that he was alive, alive!
Dr. Connors frowned and made a note on her clipboard. She had probably written something about how Erik was being more moody than usual, and sarcastic. Normally, Erik was reserved, almost shy.
As quiet and reticent he can sometimes be, it is my professional opinion that Erik Menendez is a very bright, dutiful individual. Years of abuse and trauma have left their mark on him, but I feel that Erik has begun to make progress.
Dr. Connors sighed. “Alright, Erik, our time is up for today.”
That night, Erik had a weird dream. He and Lyle took a boat out on the ocean, not to go fishing, not to catch sharks as José had liked to do, but just for the heck of it.
Suddenly, the smooth, calm waters became choppy, and the blue sky became cloudy and dark. Erik and Lyle hunkered down on the deck, wearing life vests, holding each other's hands.
Erik laughed dizzily, horrified. “If we make it through this, Lyle, we can make it through anything!” Lyle grinned and nodded, pressing his cheek to Erik's.
In the dream, Lyle was 28, his true age, not 21, like he should have been – like he had been when they had killed their parents. Erik wanted him to say something, but Lyle just sat there, smiling dopily. Suddenly, Erik heard a loud crack, and Lyle’s face caved in.
Erik woke up screaming.