The girl stared with wanting at the large crowd of people, playing volleyball at the beach. Her mind races with millions of scenarios, phrases, anything to try to connect. I smile slowly.

“They won’t except you,” I whisper in her ear. “Just stay over here.” And as always, she obeys. She stays seated in her chair, all alone.

• • • • •

Later, I follow the girl home to find an invitation for a birthday party lying on the kitchen counter. She picks it up, examining it carefully. I glide over to her, leaning in.

“They don’t want you there,” I whisper. “They’ll be better without you. Just stay home.” The girl let’s out a defeat sigh, sets the invitation down, then walks away.

• • • • •

Years later, the girl is sitting on the edge of her roof top in the Bronx. She stares down at the bustling street, filled with tourists, natives, and drug dealers. This girl is none of the above.

This girl is broken. This girl is without a job because I have made her too scared to apply. This girl goes to therapy, but it does her no good after all I’ve told her. This girl is alone.

Slowly, she positions herself so that way she is ready to jump. I watch from afar as she hesitates. She doesn’t have the guts to do it. I roll my eyes, then walk over to her.

“It’s better this way. For everyone.” Her eyes fill up with tears. Then, she pushes off. I hear the crash. Then some screams. Sirens blare.

For my job as torturing people with depression and social anxiety, I should be happy. Happy that another victim has taken their life. But now, I’m just tired. And ashamed.

But it’s not like I have a choice. This is what I do. This is what I was made for. Slowly and somberly, I walk away from the edge of the building, off to find my next victim.