I start to count. This is the important part. I have to count right. Not too fast, nor too slow. All the way to one hundred. It must be spoken aloud, without interruption. Whispering is acceptable; the count keeps my wolf to the Dark Wood. It keeps me on safety’s slender path.

~ Michael F. Stewart

Michael F. Stewart Count Dark Wood Fear Mental Health One Hundred Wolf Wolves

The Goth boy stares at me, and I give him a what-are-you-looking-at stare right back. “I’m dead,” he says in a dull monotone. “Pardon me?” Adriana asks, but he keeps staring at me. “You’re dead, too. Look at your veins. They’re blue.” He points at my forearms where dark veins run their lengths. “You’re rotting like me.” I glance to Adriana, hands clasped and praying that she won’t leave me here. Adriana’s stopped crying now and squints at the boy before standing to pull closed the curtain that rings my cot. “Crazy,” she says with an uncertain smile. “You’re not rotting.” . . . ninety-nine, one hundred . “No,” I reply. “But I will if you leave me here.

~ Michael F. Stewart

Michael F. Stewart Count Mental Health Mental Illness Psychiatric Hospital Psychology Rotting Wolves

I hear a siren and, if we weren’t already in a hospital, I would have assumed they were coming for nearly everyone in this room.

~ Michael F. Stewart

Michael F. Stewart Counting Mental Disorders Mental Health Mental Illness Psychiatric Hospital Siren Therapy Therapy Session Wolves