With all these people addicted to addicts now, where are the humble murderers of the city supposed to turn for our mental health support? I ask you. We have been reduced to complaining about it in our weekly meetings. Not that there are murder support groups in Vancouver. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Alternative outlets for the murderous of the city are sadly lacking. Private therapists can cost an arm and a leg—so to speak—and it's not like you can find community discussion groups on the topic, either. The closest I've found is one for people with eating disorders, but I don't expect people who have done terrible things to their appetites to understand that I killed a person or two last year. In self-defense, but still.

During my share, I settle for telling my fellow nutjobs that I feel like I'm being shadowed by my demons, and they nod in understanding. We are strangers who all know one another's deepest secrets, bonded in the sacred circle of a urine-stained meeting room in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside. They lift their anemic arms in polite applause afterward and we disperse from the collapsed circle. We are blessedly strangers again.

From It All Falls Down by Sheena Kamal ©2018. Published by HarperCollins Canada.