Tortured Teardrops

by P. D. Workman

  “Why?”

  “Different protocols than in General Pop,” Dr. Sutherland dismissed. “Don’t get concerned about it. Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you want to talk about what happened in court today?”

  “I just tried to kill Glock.” Tamara could be dismissive too. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Dr. Sutherland gave her a small smile. “We’ll talk about it later, then. I expect you’ll want to stay in your cell the rest of the day. If you want to, you can shut the door. Someone will come take care of your injury and bring your dinner.”

  “Fine.”

  Tamara went to the bunk and sat down. Dr. Sutherland watched her for a minute, then smiled, nodded, and left the room.

  Tamara remained sitting on the bunk, examining her surroundings. It wasn’t much different from her usual cell. Just built for one person instead of two. At least there wasn’t a big observation window like in Psych. There were probably a few cells like that in the Forensic unit as well. There was a security camera in the corner, inconspicuous, which appeared to take in the whole room. No dresser, but a small cupboard or closet for her things. No plastic shoebox. Everything would have to be out on the shelf, fully visible.

  She didn’t want to be there, but it was quiet and she was exhausted after her adrenaline-fueled fight, the hallucinations and flashbacks, and lying on the cold, hard floor for hours with her hands chained behind her back. Her shoulders were stiff and her fingers still tingling as full circulation was restored. Tamara tentatively felt her cut, swollen lip. It was tender and still bleeding but, like the guard at the courthouse had said, it wasn’t going to kill her.

  Tamara wondered how Glock was doing. They probably hadn’t kept her at the hospital. No one liked to keep a psychotic convict like she was in the hospital instead of the prison where she could be properly secured. As long as Glock were able to walk around, they’d have her back in her own facility. Was she in General Population, or had she been singled out because of what she was? She had proudly admitted to being a psychopathic sadist. Was that something they put a person in the Forensic unit for? Was Tamara going to be surrounded by people like Glock, free of conscience, who enjoyed hurting others?

  She didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to be surrounded by crazy people. She wanted to be back in her own room.

  23

  “KNOCK, KNOCK?” A pleasant voice chimed, startling Tamara out of her state of half-sleep.

  Tamara sat up, rubbing her eyes and looking at the woman who hovered in the doorway. She was dressed in a nurse’s smock and had glasses, reddish hair in a bun, and a pleasant smile. Seeing that Tamara was up, she entered, carrying a meal tray, which she set on the floor.

  “Hi, Tamara. I brought your dinner. But before you start on that, why don’t we have a look at your mouth, huh?”

  Tamara fingered it.

  “There now, don’t touch it. Let me have a quick look.”

  The nurse pulled on gloves. She tilted Tamara’s head back to look at it.

  “Ouch. Bit it, huh?” She turned Tamara’s head back and forth. “I actually don’t think it’s going to need any stitches. Facial injuries always bleed like the dickens. Lots of blood vessels near the surface.”

  She had materials in the pockets of her smock and efficiently cleaned up the cut and bandaged it.

  “I’ll get you some ice, which will help to take down the swelling. That will feel a lot better. I’ll wait until after you have had a chance to eat, though.”

  Tamara wiggled her lips, stiff and awkward with the bandage. “Thanks.”

  “I’m Mary Anne,” the nurse said, tapping the name bar over her pocket. “It’s nice to meet you, Tamara. You make sure you let me know if there is anything you need.”

  “Dr. Sutherland said they’d get me my stuff.” At Mary Anne’s blank look, Tamara clarified. “From my room… in General Pop. My personal property.”

  “Oh. Of course. I’ll make a note of it and if no one ships them over, we’ll follow up.”

  Tamara nodded, feeling more reassured. She didn’t trust Dr. Sutherland to look after something so menial himself and she didn’t trust the prison administration to do it. More than likely, her books would just be turned over to the library without Tamara having a chance to read them first and her hygiene kit wouldn’t matter to anyone but her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Tamara looked at her. “I dunno. Fine.”

  “You had a hard time at court today, I understand. The guard who brought you back reported that you were talking to yourself and not entirely coherent.”

  Tamara avoided her eyes.

  “And you attacked someone today. Sounds to me like you might need some help.”

  Tamara folded her arms over her chest. “Guess that’s why I’m here.”

  “Tell me about it, then. We need to know what’s going on to know how best to treat you.”

  Tamara shrugged.

  “Who did you attack?”

  “Glock. She… used to be here. Not in this unit, I mean.” Tamara felt her face flushing. “She was my cellie for a couple of years.”

  “And why did you attack her?”

  “Because…” Calmer now, Tamara wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Mary Anne ‘because she needed killing.’ She didn’t think she could explain her thought processes to the nurse. Tamara scratched her ear, thinking about it. “She hurts people. She’s dangerous. I wanted… to stop her.”

  “I see.” The nurse nodded. “I guess you caused quite a scene. And talking to yourself?”

  “I can talk to myself.”

  “Of course you can. But it can be a symptom that we need to consider. Why were you talking to yourself?”

  “Nobody else to talk to.”

  “And were you experiencing confusion? Having trouble communicating with those around you?”

  Tamara weighed her answer. “Dr. Sutherland thinks I have PTSD.”

  Mary Anne nodded encouragingly. “Yes. That wouldn’t be surprising. A lot of the girls here have been through serious trauma.”

  Mary Anne waited for details, but Tamara didn’t offer any. “We’ll be getting your meds sorted out. See what we can do to help you.”

  “I’m not on meds.”

  “We’ll find a combination that will make you feel better.”

  “I don’t want meds,” Tamara insisted, letting her voice get louder. Making sure not to let it go higher, making her sound girlish or uncertain. She wanted Mary Anne and the others to understand. She wasn’t there to be put on drugs.

  “Patients are often resistant to medication at first. But when you find out how much it helps, you’ll change your attitude.”

  “You can’t put me on anything against my wishes.”

  “There are exceptions,” Mary Anne said placidly. Tamara was ready to argue every one one of them, but the nurse didn’t offer anything further.

  “You can’t put me on anything!” Tamara repeated, raising her voice so that it bounced off the walls. There was stillness around her. The quiet ward was listening to her. Judging her.

  “No need to get yourself worked up. Here is your supper,” Mary Anne picked up the dinner tray and set it on the bunk beside Tamara. “And you tell me if you need anything else. Do you need something to help you sleep tonight?”

  Tamara’s sleep in her own unit had been disrupted ever since she had gotten back from the prison break. She sometimes went all night without sleeping a wink, restless, uncomfortable, and hypervigilant the whole night long.

  “No.”

  She wasn’t going to ask for a sleeping pill when she had just said she didn’t need any meds. Mary Anne gazed at her, seeming to be able to read her thoughts.

  “Okay. But if you change your mind, all you have to do is ask. A good sleep is vital to mental health.”

  Tamara rolled her eyes. She picked up the dinner tray, looking the bland meal over. She would have told Mary Anne how disgusting it was, except that she hadn�
�t eaten since breakfast and was starving. The institutional food might not be good, but it would fill the hollow space inside her.

  “All right, Tamara. I’ll talk to you later. Let us know if you need anything.”

  Mary Anne gave her a smile and headed back out. Tamara caught a glimpse of a guard in the hallway. Someone who had been standing by and keeping an eye on things in case the nurse needed any assistance. What was Tamara going to do? Attack the nurse for bringing her dinner and bandaging her lip? For no reason at all?

  Tamara didn’t just go around attacking people.

  The night passed slowly. Tamara fell asleep right away, but she kept waking up, terrified, disoriented, unable to separate out the images of what had happened during the day from what had been in the more distant past, and what had just been part of her dreams. It seemed like every time she got to sleep, she just woke up again ten minutes later. The sleeping pill that Mary Anne had offered would have been a welcome relief, but Tamara wasn’t going to bend to ask for one. They had to understand that she didn’t need their medications. She could do just fine without them.

  Morning brought with it a bustle of activity throughout the unit. Tamara listened, ears pricked for any trouble. While the reveille bell rang at the same time as Tamara was used to, there was no obvious rush for the showers or canteen. There was no canteen. All meals would be brought to her in her room. Tamara was uneasy about that change. It sounded good, because it meant avoiding the confrontations that inevitably occurred whenever a group of juvies were jammed together in one place. But after being habituated to the schedule and procedures in the General Population, any kind of change made her anxious.

  She got out of bed and ran her fingers through her hair to untangle it, leaving the hygiene kit untouched. She paced, waiting for the breakfast they had promised to bring. It wasn’t long before she heard the rattle of wheels in the corridor. Pushing her door open a few inches, she saw a multi-shelved cart filled with meal trays being pushed from one room to the next. Tamara ducked back into her room and paced, waiting for it.

  There was a cursory knock on the door and then it was opened all the way, snapping into the magnet that held it open during the day. A nurse—not Mary Anne, but a new one—came into the room with Tamara’s breakfast tray.

  “How are you this morning, Tamara?” she asked in a loud, intrusive tone people used for old, sick, or crazy people. Expecting a positive answer, if any answer was given. But not really expecting even that. “I’ve got your breakfast for you.”

  Tamara’s body was tense. She didn’t like the habit of the nurses to just barge into the room whenever they pleased. She was used to the protocol, written or unwritten, in the General Population. No one entered a cell without the resident’s permission, other than for security reasons. When someone wanted to talk to her, they waited outside the cell or in the doorway until she invited them in or she exited the cell. If a guard wanted to search her cell or take her to an appointment, they asked her out and did not come in unless she refused to cooperate.

  She took the tray from the nurse without comment, scowling. It was the usual full breakfast and Tamara didn’t usually have more than a piece of toast and juice. Not since her return.

  “I don’t eat that much. Can I just say… just bring me toast?”

  “Sorry, no special orders except for allergies and dietary needs.”

  “It’s just a waste.”

  She nodded. “We throw a lot out,” she admitted, “but processing different orders for everyone would be a huge administrative time suck. Just eat what you want to. Leave the rest.”

  Tamara rolled her eyes.

  The nurse handed Tamara a small cup with three pills in the bottom. “There’s your meds.”

  Tamara didn’t take them from her. “I don’t take meds.”

  The nurse set them back down to pull out a clipboard of orders and flip through it. “I see they are a new prescription,” she agreed, “but they are correct.” She held the little cup out to Tamara again. “Down the hatch.”

  “I don’t want anything. You can’t make me take them.”

  She gave a sigh. “Honey, you can swallow the pills, or I can come back with some help and three needles. Do you really want forcible restraints and three jabs instead of one simple swallow?”

  “You wouldn’t do that. You can’t. I have rights!”

  “You’re in treatment. You’re a minor. You’re in custody. Do I need to explain what each of those means?”

  “I don’t want…” Tamara stared down at the pills in the cup, a lump in her throat.

  “Why don’t you put a little trust in Dr. Sutherland and give them a try?”

  Tamara stared at them mutely.

  “There’s juice on your tray.”

  Tamara picked up the sealed cup of orange juice. Was she really going to let the nurse bully her into taking the pills that she had said over and over again she wouldn’t take?

  If they were going to physically force her anyway, what was the point in fighting?

  Tamara peeled off the tinfoil top.

  “Down they go,” the nurse prompted.

  “I don’t want them.”

  “Noted.”

  Tamara sighed and swallowed the three pills down. Her throat ached.

  “Good girl. You want to start feeling better, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.”

  Tamara turned her face away, refusing to answer. The nurse departed, going out to the hall to her cart and pushing it down to the next cell door.

  Tamara just sat there for a long time, staring at her breakfast tray and wondering how long it would take the pills to kick in. Would she be able to tell when they were working? Would her brain suddenly just start working again, like it used to? Would they make her sick? Dopey?

  Her stomach started growling, teased by the taste of orange juice and expecting the rest of her meal. Tamara picked up a piece of toast by the corner and examined it. She didn’t know whether the pills would make things look or taste different. She nibbled at the toast. It was just as stale and greasy as the toast she normally got in the canteen, which made her feel a bit better. Not everything was different in Forensic.

  She was able to linger over her breakfast, something she never would have done in General, but eventually didn’t want any more and put her tray to the side. She was restless and wanted to get the lay of the land.

  She peeked out her door and looked up and down the hall. All was quiet. The nurse who had brought the breakfast trays around was gone. Tamara turned to the right, the opposite direction from the reception area she remembered coming to her room from. She hadn’t seen the common room the previous evening, so it was logical that it must be the other way.

  Tamara allowed herself only brief glances into the other rooms that she passed. She didn’t want to get in trouble for looking or staring at someone, but she was curious about the other girls in the unit and what issues they had.

  At the end of the hallway, she found a small common area. There were a couple of girls there already, staring at the TV playing some morning show. Tamara took a careful look around, alert for any threats.

  Only two girls in the common room, and no sign of a gang banding together. Had she actually escaped the gangs by being transferred to Forensic? Maybe she should have been trying to get there a lot sooner. One of the girls watching the TV was spread out sideways over an easy chair, legs over the arm. She looked away from the TV to examine Tamara.

  “Sit down if you’re gonna stay. Don’t hover.”

  Tamara selected a chair that wasn’t too close to either girl, watching for any changes in their body language. No one stopped her, so she sat down.

  “You’re new.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Welcome to the loony bin.”

  Tamara laughed shortly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  They both watched the TV, not saying anything. Tamara kept an eye on the girl out the corner of her eye. The second girl hadn’t said anything or g
iven any indication that she even knew there was someone else in the room with her. Neither of them looked at Tamara or got up or said anything to indicate that they saw her as a threat. Both were average size, bigger than Tamara, but not huge. She could take either of them on in a fight. Tamara breathed out, trying to calm her pounding heart.

  The morning show broke for commercials and the girl turned slightly to look at Tamara.

  “Sarah Brinkley,” she introduced herself.

  “Uh… Tamara French.”

  If Brinkley recognized Tamara’s name from the news or prison grapevine, she didn’t give any indication.

  “And what’s your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “Yeah, you do, actually, or you wouldn’t be here.” Brinkley looked back at the TV and watched part of a cat food commercial. “I’m schizoaffective. What about you?”

  Tamara shifted. “I… uh… I don’t think they know yet.”

  “Yeah?” Brinkley kicked a foot. She didn’t seem to think there was anything unusual or concerning about this.

  “Dr. Sutherland thought maybe PTSD.”

  Another look at the television screen. Another kick of Brinkley’s foot. “People don’t usually come here for just PTSD,” Brinkley observed. “Not saying it doesn’t happen, but they can usually manage that in General.”

  “What does schizoaffective mean?”

  “Like a combo of schizophrenia and mood disorder,” Brinkley said, her voice just as casual as if she was announcing the day’s weather forecast.

  “Oh.”

  “Lots of fun,” Brinkley said. “Like a box full of kittens.”

  “Uh…”

  “Just shut up,” the other girl in the room snapped. “It’s back on and no one wants to hear your stupid crap.”

  Brinkley looked back at the TV and Tamara followed suit. But she wanted to learn more about the unit, so she wasn’t really watching the show, but watching the two girls and trying to glean what she could from their spare surroundings. There was a video camera bubble in the corner of the room which presumably gave remote observers a full view of the common room and recorded everything that happened there for playback later. There wasn’t a lot of furniture. Some easy chairs, a stained couch, and a few ugly orange-upholstered stacking chairs like a hotel would use at a banquet or lecture. The unit wasn’t very big, or not very many people ventured out to use the common room. There was one guard, leaning casually on the couch, his eyes on the TV instead of the inmates.