The old man shifted in his wheelchair. He punched some keys on his computer’s keyboard. His wife hollered across the room at him, “Are you at it again?”
“Yes, dear,” he said.
“Well, you’re stupid,” she said. “All you do all day is get yourself worked up about politics and one day, someone from the government or some Muslim is going to come to our house and kill you.”
It would be a blessing, he thought.
“And quit breathing so hard!”
“I can’t help it, sweetheart. I’ve got allergies.”
“Well, go in the other room! All that snorting and sniffling makes me sick.
He finished typing and entered his comment on Facebook, turned off the computer and wheeled himself back in his bedroom. Once inside, he twisted in the chair, grabbed hold of the door and began to shut it. It took him three maneuvers with the chair to close the door.
Her voice rang out through the closed door. “Why don’t you just kill yourself?”
He wheeled himself to the dresser, slid open a drawer, and grabbed a prescription bottle. He unscrewed the top and popped two Opana capsules into his hand. He swallowed them without water.
Go inside, he told himself. Go inside.
He took a few deep breaths.
Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five. Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five. Inhale, count to five. Exhale, count to five. He looked inside his lower dan tien and his filled it up with chi. Then, he focused on his Third Eye. Sparkling lights, like fireworks, went off underneath his eyelids.
Soon, he was in his Safe Place, the Place where he always went, the Place where he went so many decades ago when his parents hurt him and when the other children hurt him.