by Angel Lawson
We’re All Mad Here
Angel Lawson
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Copyright © 2012 by Anna Benefield
Book Cover by Samantha Marrs & Anna Benefield
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Lawson, Angel.
Chapter 1
The counselor’s office has a wide window behind the shiny, wooden desk. Unlike the other windows in the facility, this window has no bars and is big enough to get my body through. You know, if I wanted to. Not that I do.
I don’t think so, at least.
I consider the risks though, noting that the main drawback is that we’re on the third story of the building. Broken bones for sure, if not actual death. Leaving this hospital for another type of hospital (or the morgue) isn’t really my game plan right now.
Still, I like looking through the clear glass and the optimism it holds. I guess they figure no one will actually take the plunge right in front of the doctor.
“Still adjusting to your meds?” Dr. Cross asks, breaking me from my thoughts.
“Better, I think.” I shift in my chair. My legs are too long to sit comfortably in the space between the chair and the desk. “The dizziness is gone. And some of the spaceyness.” Not to mention the urge to kill myself. My apathy has become greater than my suicidal tendencies.
“Sleeping okay?”
I nod, watching as he scribbles in a notepad with his fancy gold pen. We don’t get pens in here. I have to draw with pencils, which is okay. I don’t mind, but when I see someone else using something as basic as a pen and then realize pens are off limits, it makes me feel crazy.
Of course, that’s why I’m here, right?
I wonder if he describes the bags under my eyes or my weight loss. I notice he looks well-rested. And has a normal haircut—not like the standard-issue, lice-preventing, buzz-cut that me and the other boys sport.
“Appetite?”
I pat my belly, eyeing the rumpled McDonald’s bag in the trash and coffee cup on his desk with envy. “Fine. If only there was something edible around here.”
Haha. My use of humor gets me a quick scribble. Plus one for me.
“How about hallucinations?”
“None.”
He nods and flips my folder shut. My case-file, they called it. I imagine all the dirt inside. Legal papers, doctor notes, counselor reports, school records. Everything in my life, bound between three inches of hard paper.
Almost everything.
“Marcy says you’ve been participating in group. How has that been?”
A large bird lands on the window sill, feathers shining bluish black. I lean to the side and its beady eye follows my movement.
“Connor?”
“Uh, sorry. Yeah, I don’t mind talking.” It’s easy when nothing that comes out of my mouth is the truth. The hard part is convincing a roomful of liars that I’m the same as them, when obviously I’m exactly the same as them. “It feels…” I pretend to search for a word, like I’m seriously contemplating how speaking in group feels. “Liberating?”
The word earns me another jot on the pad. Another point for Slytherin.
“Good. Talking about what happened is the best way to get results. Exploring your emotions and feelings helps you understand why you took the actions that got you here. Why you put yourself and others in such risk. I’m happy to see you making progress.”
I nod in agreement, like everything he said made perfect sense. Which it would have, I guess, if my entire life hasn’t been one giant fabrication. I mean, I know why I set that fire. I know why I’d put myself and the rest of the family in harm’s way. I know these things. And trust me; I never, ever want it to happen again. That’s why I take my meds. And participate in group. And keep away from the kids huffing paint and rubbing alcohol in the back of the janitor’s closet. I want to go home. I want to see my family. I want everything back to normal.
*
On the way back to my dormitory, I witness a fight. Not unusual by any means—rage being a fairly common symptom or side effect here. When I still lived at home, before the meds, I had my own anger-fueled outbursts. My standard M.O. in situations like this has always been to keep walking, but not today. When I pass by the common area and see the wild, blonde hair, I stop dead in my tracks.
Girl fight.
“What happened?” I ask, sidling up to Max. He’s been my roommate since I got to Brookhaven. He bounces on his feet by the door, shadowing the moves of the girls.
“I don’t know. Ouch!” he cries, flinching in sympathy when the blonde pushes the other girl, Vera, to the ground. Even then she continued her assault, slamming her fists into Vera’s face. Vera struggled beneath her, finally grabbing a handful of that wild hair and yanking hard.
The blonde howls. Vera kicks her with her rubber-sole sneakers.
“Who is that girl?” I ask about the blonde, because she must have been new, as I’d certainly never seen her before. I definitely would have remembered.
“Bitch!” The blonde dodges her feet and jabs her elbow into Vera’s stomach.
“Crazy, devil-whore!” Vera shouts back. She’s breathing heavy—her cheeks flush.
“Oh man.” Max bites his fist. “This is awesome!”
There is nothing funny about a fight like this. The sound of skin and the grunts and cries. They’re real. People are getting hurt, but when you’ve been without real television for month, a fight is the best form of entertainment we can ask for. Toss in two girls and it’s better than cable.
“Well, who started it, then?” I ask.
Max glances away from the fight and licks his lip. “I was sitting at the table over there when they started going at it. I think that tiny one just hauled out and hit Vera. I mean, damn, look at her go!”
“That chick is crazy,” I say, watching the staff finally intervene, separating Vera and the other girl. It takes a minute to drag them apart, arms flailing, even with three guards and an attendant.
Max snorts. “Obviously.”
Bravo, crazy chick. Way to make an entrance.
“You ever see her before?” I ask, definitely intrigued.
“Nope, and it will probably be weeks before they let her back into the general population.”
Paul, one of our attendants, walks Vera past us. I stare at the forming black eye, all puffy, and the bloody scratch marks down her face. She’d probably spend the night in the infirmary. The blonde is on the ground, flat on her stomach while another guard straps her wrists in restraints. She bucks and twists until they pull her back on her feet. Like Max suggested, she’ll end up in solitary until she gets her shit together.
“She may be nuts,” Max said, “But she’s feisty. We need some spunk around here.”
“I room with you, remember? You’ve got plenty of spunk.”
He cups his crotch and I shove him off, before quickly moving out of the way of the guard heading our direction. I can’t help but smile when the new girl walks past us, mouthing off to the guard the whole time. That is, until she walks past us.
“What are you looking at?” she spats at me and Max when she gets close enough. She turns those ice blue eyes on mine, daring me to back down.
Not a chance.
“Nothing.” Max steps back.
I stand my gr
ound and shrug, refusing to be intimidated. There is something behind those blue eyes that makes me nervous, though. I’m sure we’ll find out why soon enough.
*
“So what was that all about?” I ask Vera the next morning at breakfast. Her eye is swollen shut and she has bandages over the scratches on her face.
“Mother-f-ing puta,” she grumbles, spreading butter on her toast. Her knuckles are also bruised and red.
“Puta? What’s a puta?” Max asks, between mouthfuls.
Vera is Hispanic, with long, dark hair and cunning eyes. She came in around the same time I got here and we’d established a semi-friendly relationship. Half of what she says is in Spanish, so we’re always clueless to what she’s talking about.
“I called it like I see it.”
I eye her carefully. “What did you call her?”
“An evil whore.”
Max cackles with laughter. I shake my head. “Do you know her? Like outside?”
“No. I just know,” she looks to the side and back at her plate. “I can just sense it.”
“That she’s a whore?”
She shakes her head. “No, that she’s evil. The whore part is just speculation.”
Here’s the thing about Brookhaven and the residents inside: we’re all here for a reason. The judge and screening committee decided we would be better off in a treatment facility rather than detention. But that means everyone in here comes with a little extra baggage. Vera’s okay. She’s funny and typically easy-going, but there’s something unhinged about her. I definitely wouldn’t hang out with her—or Max even, on the outside. But in here, things are different.
Vera’s constantly going off about evil people and the devil, so taking her opinion on the new girl being an evil whore isn’t wise, but then again, who knows. I have a feeling she knows more about me than I want to admit.
“I, for one, am okay with the addition of some whores in here. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten any,” Max declares.
Vera glares at him and mutters, “Pervertido.”
No need to translate that one.
“Hey!” Max laughs, because really, what’s the point in arguing?
“I know you won’t listen to me, but don’t go near that girl. She’s got secrets. Big ones and she’ll get you both in trouble.” Her eyes flick to mine. “Especially you.”
“Got it,” I say, finishing off my milk while fighting off the shiver running up my spine.
Vera is weird.
The bell rings, letting us know it’s time to clean up and move on to our next activity. I happily hop up, looking for some fresh air. Crazy or not, Vera is right about one thing; I don’t need any trouble.
*
After days of gossip and assumption, she appears in group. Hair tame. Clothes straight and smooth. Her expression carries a firm, ‘out of fucks to give’ vibe.
Marcy, our group counselor, has just finished writing the inspirational message on the blackboard. In flowing letters, she’s written today’s cheesy mantra.
Think Happy Be Happy
“Settle down, guys,” Marcy says. I never understand why. There are only eight of us in here, and no one ever gets especially loud. The drugs make us slow and less likely to react. I think it just gives her a feeling of authority. Or maybe it’s just something to say to a room full of psycho kids.
Whatever. She can waste her breath however she wants. No one wants to be here. Although today, I’m admittedly curious.
“We have a new member. Charlotte, would you like to introduce yourself?”
I wait for the tantrum. I know she has one boiling in her, like the rest of us on the first day we each arrived in this room. Max spit in Marcy’s face the first time she asked him for his name. Carlos, never speaking, gave her the bird. Vera cussed her out in four different languages. I don’t think she actually knew all those languages, just the bad words. It was pretty hot.
When Marcy asked me those same words the first day I sat with the group, I flipped over my chair and kicked it across the room. I ended up face-first against the wall by the guard, feeling the cool cinderblock against my lips. I struggled even in my drugged-out state—hoping that maybe he’d get too rough by accident. That he’d finish me and do what I was too weak to do myself.
That was before the meds fully kicked in. Once they did, I realized being a dick wasn’t the way out of here, and I definitely wanted out of here. Sort of. Now I answer Marcy’s questions dutifully, even if it’s not with the truth.
Charlotte, though, she looks like she’s ready to take prisoners. I lean back in my seat and cross my arms, ready to watch the show.
“I’m Charlotte,” she starts, glaring at her white, lace-less sneakers. “I guess I’m here for some ‘attitude’ problems. Or, you know,” she made a face and used finger quotations. “'The drugs’. It could be the shoplifting, or that time I ran away. Twenty-five times, really. Oh, and my parents are worthless twats and completely incapable of taking care of even one kid.”
“Charlotte, we try not to blame others in group,” Marcy interrupts. “Your parents aren’t here. This is about you.”
Charlotte snorts. Unflattering, but the wicked grin forming with her lips reveals a pretty face. My eyes roam from her mouth down to her fully covered chest, to her standard-issue sneakers. Since when did I develop a thing for demented chicks? Before I left school, I’d spent a fair amount of time trying to get Allison Morgan to go out with me. She had a bit of a mean-girl thing going on, but she was pretty status quo.
To my surprise, Charlotte adds, “I’ll remember that; thank you, Marcy.”
The rest of group runs like normal. How was your week? Anyone come to any revelations? Are you feeling any guilt? Would anyone like to share?
This is my cue.
I raise my hand.
“Connor?”
“Yeah, um…after some reflection, I uh, well, I realized this week that setting that fire was seriously stupid.”
“Duh,” Max says from across the room. I flip him a bird. He flips one back.
Marcy jumps to my rescue. “Maxwell, no interrupting.” She levels a hard look between us. “And no filthy gestures. Please continue, Connor.”
“I was super pissed about some stuff going on at home and in my life, and it was just my first reaction.” Not exactly a lie. “I guess I wanted attention from my parents, because I was just so lost and confused.”
I glance up from my hands and spot Charlotte out of the corner of my eye. She’s paying attention. Close attention.
“What did you think would happen when you started the fire?” Marcy asks.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe that they would notice I was having problems?”
Lie.
“The lighter was just there, almost taunting me and the kerosene from the lamp. It was easy.”
Lie.
“I just had this impulse, you know, to see what would happen.” Not exactly a lie. I look at Marcy, who gave me an encouraging nod. “Which I now get was completely batshit—uh, wrong. I now understand that I need to use my coping skills to get through stressful moments.”
“Like what?”
“Umm…” I stall, trying to remember the list she gave us a couple weeks ago. “Like counting, you know. Or walking away from the situation. Thinking it through—thinking about the consequences—writing them down before acting.”
Marcy smiles, her expression nearly euphoric at my confession. “Excellent, Connor. I think that shows real maturity and growth on your part.”
I offer a tight smile back, measured for what I know she wants to see.
“Anyone else?” she asks, looking eagerly around the room.
I relax back in my chair, happy the focus was off of me for the rest of the afternoon, and marvel in my success. It had taken me months to figure out how to navigate the group setting. Once I stopped fighting and decided to give Marcy what she wanted, things moved a lot smoother.
“I have something to share,
” a small voice says from across the room.
Everyone turns to listen to Bethany, the klepto, talk about the rush she gets from stealing. Everyone but Charlotte.
All of her attention is on me.
Chapter 2
“Nice performance,” Max notes on our way back to the room. After group, we have twenty minutes of ‘reflection’. I’d planned on using it to take a nap. Unfortunately, Max seems chatty.
“Whatever it takes, man,” I reply. Max stretches across his bed, feet bouncing against the metal foot rail. “It’s all about giving them what they want to hear. Marcy wants to hear my plan and that I’m ready to deal with stress in the real world. I can do that.”
“You think that’s all it takes?” he asks.
“My sentence was for 90 days minimum treatment. I plan on being out of here by the minimum. I already spent three months in detention waiting for this space to open up.” There was no way I’m going to be here longer than necessary. It’s not like I actually have a mental disorder like the rest of these kids. I still wasn’t sure what I did have, but seeing dead people wasn’t listed in the DSM-IV. I checked.
I reach under the bed and pull out my pencil and notebook. Like I said, we can’t have pens and stuff in our unit. They watch us for the first couple of days in an intake unit on the first floor. No laces, belts, or objects we could harm ourselves with. Before I came here, I never realized a pen could be used as a weapon. Or that you can start a fire with a battery. That’s the interesting thing about programs like this; you come out with more bad habits than you entered.
“What about you, don’t you want to get out of here?” I ask, opening the book and handing Max a sheet of paper. I’ve learned it’s easier if his hands are occupied.
“Sure, but my sentence is a lot longer than yours, so it doesn’t matter how nice I am. I’m not getting out of here anytime soon. As long as I behave, take my meds and cooperate, I’m okay finishing my sentence at Brookhaven.” He takes the piece of paper.
When we first started rooming together, I encouraged him to draw or write, but he doesn’t have the interest—or attention span. Even on meds, this kid bounces off the freaking walls twenty-four-seven. Tapping on things. Humming. Pacing the room.