by Olivia Evans
Admission Date: May 18, 2011
Presley Lilith Cooper
18-year-old white female
Attempted suicide
Vertical incisions on both wrists, accessory cephalic vein and radial artery damage
Recent abortion
Power of attorney assigned to parents Alexander and Lilith Cooper
First session set for 5/21/11: Dr. Sanders
Dylan skipped her first session notes, his brows drawing together as he read the pages that followed. The first few sessions seemed normal. Dr. Sanders had entered notes about her family history, behavior, the events leading to her attempted suicide and admission to Hilltop. What didn’t make sense were the medications she’d been given. None of the notes indicating her prognosis required any of them. It seemed she was suffering from depression, but her treatments were for symptoms she didn’t have. At least, not until the fourth session. The tone and the sudden change in diagnosis were as drastic as the medications.
Session Four: Patient continues to present symptoms of bipolar disorder. Bouts of depression cycling longer. Night terrors have increased, dark circles rim her eyes. When pressed to talk about the abortion or her parents, patient becomes visibly angry and deflects with demands to speak with her boyfriend. Behavior aligns with parents’ claim of a codependent relationship. Contact has potential to undermine treatment progress. Adding Triazolam to medication regime. Will evaluate progress next session.
“What the fuck,” Dylan whispered as he moved back to his computer. His hand shook as he directed the mouse over the video files, realizing there were only a few clips left. He clicked on the file for session four. That was when everything started to change. It was almost as if Dr. Sanders was intentionally drawing specific reactions out of Presley for some kind of sick agenda in order to slowly add one new medication on top of another.
His heart sank when he looked at the video length. It was a little more than two minutes long. The video began abruptly, and when Dylan saw Presley, his eyes widened in shock.
“I want to go home,” Presley sobbed, tears streaming down her face.
“Do you think that’s best for you, considering what happened there?” Dr. Sanders asked.
“I don’t want to be here. Anything would be better than this.”
Dr. Sanders’s mouth lifted in a condescending smile. “Like the place you were checked out of to come here? Was that better, Presley?”
“Fuck you,” she spat. “You don’t know anything about what I’ve gone through!”
Dr. Sanders nodded, seemingly unperturbed by her outburst. “You’re right, I don’t. And until I do, I can’t help you. Now, if you’d like, we can skip to the part of why you ended up here. These baby steps are for you, not me.”
Presley’s hands balled into fists, and her body trembled. “What kind of doctor are you? Doctors aren’t supposed to be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel,” Dr. Sanders sighed. “You’re emotionally overwhelmed and lashing out. I’m happy to absorb your anger if it helps you work through what brought you here.”
“Are we done?” Presley snapped.
Dr. Sanders scribbled something in her folder and dropped his pen to the desk. “You’re free to go. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Dylan fell back in his chair. Presley looked crazed. Unstable. He had a feeling there was much more to that session that had been conveniently removed from the video. Refusing to let his anger derail him, Dylan clicked on the next video, his brows pulling together when he realized it wasn’t a video of a session, but what appeared to be surveillance footage of Presley with a little girl. He looked back at the notes, his eyes flying across the page. Presley had befriended a six-year-old child named Mia. A child that had almost killed her baby brother.
“Do you want to hold Dixon?” a childlike voice asked, breaking the deafening silence surrounding Dylan. He looked at the screen as a little girl with long, bouncing brown curls and a cherubic face thrust a plastic baby doll wrapped in a blue blanket toward Presley. Dylan’s stomach dropped when he realized it was the same blue blanket she carried around now. It had belonged to Mia.
Presley gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Why would you call him that? Why would you say that?”
Mia’s face colored with confusion. “That’s his name.”
Presley shook her head, the motion frantic. “His name is Dixon. You called him Dylan.”
“Oh, fuck,” Dylan groaned, his eyes burning with unshed tears. The video blurred as the voices continued.
Mia shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I called him Dixon.”
Presley pressed her palms to her eyes and began to rock back and forth. “I must have misunderstood.” After a long pause, she shuddered. “I don’t want to hold him.”
“Is Dylan the reason you cut yourself?” the child asked, unaware of the way Presley’s face had paled. Dylan’s grip tightened around his beer.
Presley stared at Mia for a long while before tracing one of her scars with the tip of her finger. “I was really sad.”
“Why?”
“Because I did something horrible.”
The screen went black once more, but before Dylan had a chance to close it out, it began again. It was Presley and Mia, but a different day, different location. It looked like they were in a patient room, Mia’s from the dolls and such lying around. Presley was on the bed, and the sight of her caused Dylan’s stomach to drop. He watched as Presley shivered and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes were sunken with dark circles underneath. Her hair was stringy and knotted, and she looked so frail, her skin clinging to her bones. She looked a lot like the girl he’d just found. Beside her, Mia was changing the outfit of the baby doll she carried in the blue blanket.
“How much longer?” Presley asked, her words slurred. The sound was like a bucket of ice water on Dylan’s head.
Mia smiled. “Any day now! Can you hold this?”
Dylan looked on in horror as Mia thrust the blanket into Presley’s hands. Presley stared at the blanket, a sad smile lifting her sunken cheeks as she pressed the blanket to her face and inhaled. “Dylan,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
“Stop,” Dylan choked, shaking his head. Watching her detach from reality felt like a piece of his soul was being burned from his body.
“I’m going to miss you,” Presley whispered, her head moving in a drunken way as she looked around the room. It was like she had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there.
A nurse Dylan didn’t recognize knocked on the door and moved to Presley’s side. “Dr. Sanders is ready for you.”
Presley nodded and stood, her body swaying before she found her balance. “I’ll see you later, Mia.” She reached out to give the blanket back, but Mia shook her head.
“You can keep it. You look cold.”
Presley looked from Mia to the blanket before hugging the soft material to her chest. “Thank you.”
“Goddammit,” Dylan roared, the glass from his bottle shattering against the wall. He felt like he was losing her all over again. Guilt settled like concrete on his chest. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known, that there was nothing he could have done. He felt like he’d abandoned her. After a moment, he looked back at the case files. As much as it hurt, he needed all the answers. He needed to know how to bring her back.
He flipped through the pages, stopping when he reached the eleventh session. He squinted at the screen. Eleven was the last session he’d been able to download. He pressed play, and like most of the other videos, it had been edited. Presley was on the screen, and she looked nothing like the girl he remembered.
“Oh God,” she choked, her words frantic.
Dr. Sanders stood, moving closer as Presley clawed at her chest, blood pooling under her nails. Her eyes widened when she noticed Dr. Sanders’s proximity.
“Get away from me,” she screamed, stumbling to her feet. “I can’t breathe, oh my God.”
“Presley! You mu
st calm down. You’re hyperventilating.”
Presley scrambled to his desk. “I have to call Dylan. I have to speak to him!”
“I’ve already told you—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’ve told me! I’m not a prisoner! You can’t do this to me!” Presley grabbed the phone from the desk and circled around behind it, her body trembling. Dylan watched wide-eyed as she started to dial before Dr. Sanders attempted to wrestle the phone out of her hands. In the blink of an eye, Presley pulled back her arm and slammed the phone against Dr. Sanders’s face. Blood gushed from the wound above his eye as he stumbled back, his eyes wide as he lifted his hand to the cut. Presley dropped her hand to her side as a pair of orderlies rushed into the room, the tip of a needle glinting in the sunlight. She collapsed into their arms seconds later.
The video cut away to another room. Dylan knew it instantly. It was an observation room in solitary confinement. Silent tears tracked down his cheeks as he looked at Presley’s body strapped to the bed. She groaned and tugged at the restraints.
“Hello?” she croaked, her voice rough. She looked around the room, stopping when her eyes landed on the tiny crib in the corner, a blue blanket lying across it. “Is anyone here?” Her panic seemed to swell as she kicked and pulled at the cuffs around her wrists and ankles. “You can’t do this,” she screamed. “Let me up!”
Dylan hadn’t thought his heart could possibly break any more than it already had. How wrong he’d been. He watched as the door to the room creaked open, and Dr. Sanders stepped inside. Above his eye was an angry cut, held together by delicate stitches.
“Hello, Presley.”
Presley shook her head, her breaths coming out in short, choppy pants. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
The smile on Dr. Sanders’s face sent a chill up Dylan’s spine. Dr. Sanders moved to the IV stand beside her bed and pulled a needle from his pocket. Presley tried to pull away, but it was pointless. Dr. Sanders sighed. “I wanted to let you know that Mia’s gone. She was rather upset that she didn’t get the chance to tell you goodbye, but after your little stunt, we felt she might not be safe around you. She left you a few things of Dixon’s, though. She thought you might enjoy them.”
“She’s gone?”
Dr. Sanders hummed and pushed the needle into the tube connector.
“Please let me up.”
Dr. Sanders tsked. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to remain sedated until we can determine you’re no longer a threat to yourself or others. At the very least, until your parents arrive.”
Presley’s eyes dropped, and she relaxed back into the bed. “My parents are coming? Are they taking me home?”
Dr. Sanders let out a sinister laugh, and when he spoke, his voice was dark and hate-filled. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“But you said…”
“You rich brats are all the same. Self-absorbed, entitled assholes who think only of themselves. Not once have you shown even a tenth of the concern or remorse for the baby you carelessly murdered that you’ve shown for your precious Dylan. ‘I need to call Dylan, let me talk to Dylan,’” he mimicked, his face twisted into a cruel sneer.
“I didn’t—”
Dr. Sanders leaned over Presley. “What kind of a person are you?” he whispered in disgust. “You deserve everything that’s coming to you.” He grabbed the blue blanket and thrust it into Presley’s hand before straightening his coat and smoothing his hair. “You’ll stay here until they arrive. Maybe baby Dixon’s blanket can keep you company. It’s the closest you’ll ever come to having a child in this lifetime.”
Dylan looked away, devastated and filled with rage. There were no more videos, and as cowardly as it was to admit, he was glad. He flipped to the final pages of case notes, his body numb.
Session Twelve: Patient’s violent outburst and physical assault because of denied contact with her boyfriend resulted in a joint session with her parents. Over the course of the session, parents informed patient her boyfriend had moved on. Newspaper clipping was provided showing the young man with another female at a going-away party. After learning he had left for college early, only a short time after her attempted suicide, patient had to be sedated.
Dylan blinked back tears as he looked at a scanned copy of the newspaper clipping. He didn’t need to read it to know what it was. He remembered it like it was yesterday. It would have a picture of him standing in front of his car with his cousin’s new girlfriend, who was also on her way to Penn State. He wore a fake smile as he waved to the camera. His parents had planned the going-away party without his knowledge or his blessing. Presley’s parents had used Dylan to break what was left of her.
Dylan bolted for the kitchen sink and heaved, the meager contents of his stomach spilling onto the stainless steel. He gasped for air as he fought to find the will to contain his anger. He wanted to get on a plane to New York. He wanted to kick down the front door of Presley’s parents’ penthouse and beat them within an inch of their lives then expose them to the world for the monsters they were. She hadn’t tried to kill herself again, and they’d never sent her to Italy. All of it was a lie. All she’d asked for was him, and they’d made her believe he moved on without a second thought.
Pain racked his body, each lungful of air burning as his vision finally came back into focus. Grabbing a glass and a bottle of rum from the cabinet, he walked back to the table. After filling the glass halfway, he returned to the notes on the table. He didn’t need to read them to know how Presley ended up in her condition. He understood now; she gave up. The medications caused one side effect after another, and they just kept giving her more. Conversations with herself led to confusion, hallucinations, depression, and finally, the baby blanket. For nearly six years, her mind had been poisoned by drugs, and her parents and Dr. Sanders were content to allow her to stay that way. They never intended to help her. She had become a liability.
Dylan dropped the notes on the table and leaned forward. With his elbows pressed against his knees, he cradled his head in his hands and cried like he hadn’t since they’d told him Presley was dead. He cried for everything she’d been robbed of; her grief, her future, and the love she so desperately deserved. The fight to bring her back was going to be long and painful, but Dylan was prepared for whatever was necessary to do exactly that.
“How are you feeling today?” Dylan asked as he handed Presley the cup of medication he’d modified.
Presley’s brows drew together, and she licked her lips. “I feel sick. And really thirsty.”
Dylan reached out and pressed the tips of his fingers to her forehead. She was warm, but not alarmingly so. A thin sheen of sweat covered her skin. It had been four days since he’d decreased her dosage by half a milligram. If he weaned her off slowly and kept her anxiety at bay with the Xanax, her symptoms should be minimal, at least her physical ones. As for her mental state, she was a ticking time bomb.
“Let me get some more water for you.” After filling a cup, Dylan did as he had the last couple of days. He moved to the chair across from her and eased into it. “Better?” he asked after she took a small sip.
“Not really,” she whispered. “I—something’s wrong.”
Dylan leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Can you tell me what you mean?”
Presley’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. It was clear she was struggling with whatever she wanted to tell him. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before shaking her head, her frustration clear. “I’m confused. I feel like I’m missing something, but there’s nothing there.”
Dylan closed his eyes and reminded himself it had only been four days. She wasn’t going to magically remember her life and everything that happened. That was the last thing he wanted. There were no documented cases of a patient coming off antipsychotic medication they never needed in the first place. He had no idea how her mind and body would react. What he did know was that he had to find a way to introduce facts about her life before Hillt
op so she would have at least a little familiarity.
“Maybe you’re coming down with a cold,” he suggested, a thoughtful expression pursing his lips. “Whenever I was sick, I’d go to my girlfriend’s house. She had a housekeeper named Judith who made delicious lobster bisque and grilled cheese sandwiches. The best in Manhattan.”
Presley started at him in silence, her brows furrowed and her lips creased into a frown. There was something about her eyes that sent a wave of apprehension over him, the way they lost focus and sharpened before dulling once more. He knew the Xanax was beginning to pull her under, but this was something more. She seemed almost angry. It caused a chill to skate up his spine.
He waited for her to speak. But instead, she turned toward the large window overlooking the courtyard and began to hum as she rocked. After a few minutes passed, he realized he’d been dismissed. With a heavy sigh, he stood. “I’ll come check on you later,” he murmured before joining Cody on the reading mat.
“She’s started to dream again,” Cody said, his words weighted with worry.
Dylan stiffened and leaned closer. “How do you know?”
Cody kept his eyes on the book in his lap. “I can hear her scream.”
“Dammit.” Dylan scrubbed his hand over his face and looked around the room. “If Dr. Sanders finds out…”
“He won’t.”
Dylan’s eyes snapped to Cody, his gaze locking with Zach. “How—”
“Because I reminded her not to. I know my way around this place. When I heard the screams, I got to her before anyone else. I reminded her if Dr. Sanders found out, she would have to meet with him, take more medication.”
“And she actually listened?”
Zach shook his head, his expression showing the first crack in his steely demeanor. “I stayed with her until she fell back asleep.”
“Thank you,” Dylan whispered, his throat tight.
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for her.”
Dylan nodded. “Whatever your reasons, I’m grateful nonetheless.”
“I’ll go to her when I can, but that might not always be possible. You’ve got to push her harder.”