This obviously isn’t his first time here, by how the nurses treat him. I hadn’t realized he’d been here more than the occasional admittance. “It seems you love being here as much as I do, Red. First time?”
Great, he wants to chat.
I nod my head. He begins to eat his food, drumming his fingers on the table in between bites, but doesn’t talk again.
Grabbing his pencil, he jots something down in his journal and continues eating. I hadn’t realized he still had it with him. He catches me looking and says, “Lyrics.” Like that would simply explain it all. I guess he’s a musician. That would explain is hard edge look. I shrug my shoulders, indifferent to what he does or doesn’t do as long as it doesn’t involve me, and push my food around. I’ve had enough and it’s cold. As long as these people see I’ve eaten half my serving, I’m good to go.
I stand to throw my food away, and Sam catches up to me. “Never seen Tyler sit next to anyone. Interesting.”
“Whatever.” I walk out of the cafeteria and make my way to my room. I can use some quiet time.
“Knock, knock.”
“Really, Sam?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“God, you’re such a bad liar.”
She walks into my room and stands in the corner. “I used to be an excellent liar.” She almost seems offended.
“Well, what can I help you with?”
“I’m not the person you have to pretend with.”
“I want to be alone. Don’t we get quiet time after lunch? You’re interrupting that.”
“You gotta stick to your therapies. You keep skipping out, and they’re going to question you and your paintings.” She raises her brow.
“Whatever.”
“Mikayla, if you want to keep your secret hidden, you better start blending better. Or . . .”
My head snaps up at her. “Or?”
“Or you can talk about it and heal.”
“Sam, don’t give me the therapist card. We both know the shit they try here won’t work.”
“I disagree, but I used to think like you once. I’m more perceptive than I look. Trust me. There’s a way for you to release your anger if you begin to open up. Let’s make a deal. You give art therapy a real try for one month. If it doesn’t work, then I’ll try to get you out of here early, because you clearly have no issues.” My nostrils flare at her sarcasm.
Before walking out, she turns and looks at me. “By the way, the ghosts of our past can only haunt us if we give them the power to do so.”
I feel like I’ve been stuck in this place forever. The days begin to blend into each other, rolling into one blur. It’s the same thing each day, the same therapy, the same faces, the same judgments. If I wasn’t crazy before I came here, I definitely feel like I’m losing my mind now. The anxiety bubbling within me is ready to boil over. My nails don’t do the job of imitating the cutting sensation that so often calmed me.
Yeah, yeah, self-harm isn’t healthy or calming. I’ve heard that bullshit in therapy. It calms me.
Sam’s visit to my room the other day doesn’t help my mood. She’s supposed to be the only cool one in here. Now she’s making bets and calling these therapies useful. And what the hell does she know about the past haunting you?
I have been taking more notice on what I’m painting during art therapy, making me more present during that hour and more aware of the people. Right now, I’m letting my frustration out through the brush, not painting anything concrete, but using colors and strokes to mirror my feelings.
“Good to see you’ve decided to use other colors besides red,” Tyler says, looking at my canvas. I roll my eyes and keep my focus on the task at hand. He doesn’t go away, always there, a permanent figure, a shadow lingering nearby. But I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s not like the devil. If he wanted to hurt me, he would’ve done so already. If not physically, he would’ve done so emotionally or mentally.
I can’t help but peek over at his canvas.
“God, you’re terrible at this.” There’s no passion poured onto his painting. It’s more like squiggles and meaningless strokes of the brush.
“I’m not much of an artist. I prefer my writing.” I remember him mentioning lyrics when we had lunch a couple weeks ago.
“So what are you, a musician?” His eyebrows furrow at my question.
“Seriously? Have you been living under a rock?” He dares to look offended. Like if it mattered to me who the fuck he is. I shrug my shoulders and keep painting. “I’m a country singer. A pretty darn famous one, at that. I thought you were being a pain by not noticing. You don’t know who I am?” His incredulous expression makes me laugh, only a little.
“Nope, sorry,” I say, but I’m not sorry. I don’t care what he does for a living, although that would explain the hard act and drinking problem.
“Wow,” he breathes out, looking confused. I guess he’s not used to the anonymity. Then again, I haven’t exactly had a normal upbringing, always preferring the quiet of my own mind to that of music or television. An escape from the yelling and hateful words thrown my way.
After our morning routine, I go back to my room to hide from everyone. I need to be in my head for a little while. I’ve opened up more to the idea of therapy, but that doesn’t mean I like these people.
I hear a beautiful sound coming from somewhere. A strumming that is sad and almost too quiet to be audible. As if possessed, I follow the noise, curious to learn more about it. The voice that begins singing stops me.
It’s so different than his usual obnoxious words and angered façade. Tyler is sitting on the edge of his bed, his bare feet tapping a beat on the floor, his eyes closed. His face is one of pain and sorrow. The words match his expression, and I feel like a voyeur staring at him in what seems like an intimate moment. I’m mesmerized by the calmness in his voice, contradicting to the pain on his face, lost in the words he is singing. Words of lost hope and regret. A song about inner turmoil.
His eyes suddenly open and see me. Afraid I’ve been caught prying, I turn and run, bumping into Sam on the way.
“Whoa,” she says. “You okay?”
“Um . . . yeah.” I feel my neck heat. That was embarrassing—Tyler seeing me look at him like I’m some kind of creep. I guess I can always use the excuse that I’m in a recovery center for my inappropriate peeking. I, of all people, know how valuable alone time is.
“You were listening to Tyler, right?” She gives me a knowing nod.
I exhale. “Yes. I heard the strumming of his guitar and went to see where it was coming from.”
“He’s a great songwriter. And a great singer. It’s a shame he doesn’t use what he writes while he’s in here on his albums.”
“Why not?”
“Apparently, it’s not edgy enough. That’s my take. He feels like he has a reputation to uphold. The bad boy country star that has no emotions.”
“Oh.” At that moment, I realize there’s more to Tyler than he lets off. Something we both have in common.
I walk back to my room more curious than ever about Tyler. He seems like the only somewhat normal one here, and the only one who speaks. It’s like the darkness hasn’t quite swallowed him up yet, and I wonder what that feels like. To not have the darkness completely take over. To still have some hope.
What’s the deal with Red? She’s so different. Deer in headlights kinda look in her eyes always. And she didn’t fucking know who I was. That alone makes her weird. Everyone knows who I am. At least everyone who has some sense of their surroundings. That makes me wonder where the hell she’s been living and what brought her here. I saw the scars, but what kinda life has she had that made her want to do that? And what kinda life is deprived of music?
Shaking my head, I put my guitar down, music in my mind interrupted by her brown eyes looking at me.
How much longer do I have in here? I can’t stand this place. The sterility of it. The fucking place gives me the creeps.
> “Tyler.” I look up to see Sam’s friendly smile.
I raise my eyebrows expectantly.
“You have a visitor.” She walks out of my room and I follow. I walk into the common room and see Joe sitting on the sofa, leg crossed over his knee, a conceited smile on his face. Fuck me.
“How you holding up?” He doesn’t even greet me warmly. If it weren’t for me, his managing career would not be what it is. I’m his biggest client, and he has the balls to smile like that and ask how the hell I’m holding up.
“Fan-fucking-tastic. What do you think?”
He chuckles and I glare. “You already know how this works, man. You shouldn’t get too worked up.”
“Please tell me you’re here because you got a way of getting me out of this place before my time is up.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, buddy. There was no way. We’re pushing your tour back a month. You’ll have enough time to practice before going out on the road.”
“Fuck. I’ll be out before the tour. I don’t need to practice. Come on, man.”
“Can’t do. Label demanded we do that. You’re lucky they didn’t cancel it all together. I had to fight for that to not happen.” He shrugs as if I owe him for that. Bullshit they would’ve pulled on the tour. The label knows I sell out stadiums. They’d never pull.
“Take advantage and write some great songs with your pent-up anger.” I want to punch him when he laughs again.
“Fuck you.”
Still laughing, he stands to leave. This was pointless. Why the fuck did he even come if he wasn’t going to get me out of here?
I storm back to my room, slamming the door and drop on the bed. This fucking blows.
Still pissed about my manager’s visit yesterday, I wake up craving a drink and a ride on my bike. Nothing better than driving on the open road and feeling the wind on your skin. It’s almost as good as a shot of Jack. Actually, some days it’s better than Jack Daniels, and I think today would be one of those days . . . If I could get the hell out of here.
Instead, I have group therapy. I don’t get it. I don’t get the point of speaking to each other about our so-called problems. Well, the others have problems, but I don’t. What am I supposed to say again this week? I love having a good time and some drinks. Nothing new here. No addiction.
Yeah, right. Fucking subconscious is a bitch.
I grab my jeans and put them on, throwing my t-shirt over my head. I might as well get this over with. I can hit the gym after. Slipping on my boots and leaving them untied, I make my way to the room where group therapy takes place.
Emptiness surrounds me, no matter the bodies here. Empty. They are already dead emotionally. A void fills the room that makes me uncomfortable.
“Good morning,” the therapist speaks. Here we go.
Today’s topic: forgiveness.
No forgiveness needed. Why can’t people get me and understand I am the way I am for no particular reason.
There’s a reason. I roll my eyes at myself and the therapist sees me. Crap.
“Mr. Hunt, do you have a problem?”
“No, Dr. Thompson.” I meet his stare.
“Then let’s begin.”
“Thought we already had,” I mumble under my breath. He glares at me, and I raise my eyebrows. “Are we beginning or wasting time staring?” That pisses him off. Good.
I slouch in my chair and hear the anorexic girl begin speaking about forgiving herself for putting her body through the torture. I don’t get it. Honestly not interested, I zone out thinking about my upcoming tour and how to get back on track once I’m out of here.
“Fuck this!” I look up at the source of anger. “This is bullshit. You can’t be serious.”
Red is losing it. Now this is a show. I sit up and watch, amused with what’s unraveling. This is the most I’ve heard her speak in the month I’ve been here.
“You can’t seriously think it’s her fault. It’s not your fault!” She stares at the girl, almost shaking her. Red is crazy.
“Please calm down, Mikayla.”
“No! I will not calm down. This place is ridiculous. How the fuck is this supposed to help? Tell strangers what your problem is and then get blamed for it. Bullshit. That’s what this is. Who the hell gave you your degree, because it’s seriously a joke.”
I laugh at the truth in her outburst.
“You think I’m going to open up in front of him? This asshole laughing at everyone, thinking he’s a gift to us all because he’s some famous singer.” She points at me, enraged. “No fucking way. This is ridiculous. How can anyone take this seriously when a recurring patient keeps making his way back here?”
What a bitch. I get up and stalk out of the room.
“Good. Leave!” I hear behind me.
“Mikayla.” I hear hushed voices in the room but don’t look back. I don’t need to be called out for my lifestyle. I turn the corner and see Sam escort her out of the room with another nurse. The bitch is crazy.
I don’t even bother to change. I go straight down stairs to the gym in the basement.
Push. Harder. One more push up. At least this place has a gym. My arms are shaking as I hold myself up in a plank. The sweat builds and drips down my nose. This will help.
Punch. I’m hopping between feet trying to release my anger. Boom. Another punch. I close my eyes. Yelling. Tears. Punch. Harder this time. My hands hurt, but I don’t care. It feels good to hit something since I can’t hit someone. Hitting someone would feel so much better. Blood dripping and knuckles cut. What I’d give for that pleasure.
I shake my head, tired and thirsty. I take a sip from the water fountain in the corner of the room and wipe the sweat from my face with my shirt.
I need to get out of here. I don’t need to put up with outbursts and judgments like Red’s earlier today. I don’t call her out. Okay, maybe I judged her, too, when I first saw her scars. But if you don’t want to be judged, don’t fucking try to kill yourself. No one likes a quitter.
I take a seat on the floor and grab my notebook—journal is not a word I like to use for myself. I continue writing the song I was jotting down the other day when I was interrupted by Red. Before I can lose my focus by getting upset over her, I open the notebook and begin writing the music in my head.
“Hey, Ty. I need to lock up here.” Sam looks at me apologetically. She knows what quiet writing time means to me. She gets it, even after I’m a douche bag to her.
“Leaving.” I get up and stretch. I’m exhausted of being locked up here and killing time. I hate having so much down time to think. Thanks to Sam, I get to have my guitar here. She’ll never admit it, but I know she pulls for me to have it here.
Not tired, I sit on my bed and continue working on the song. Before I know it, my notebook has more words scratched out than written. Too many thoughts when I was at the gym today. Too many memories.
Restless, I take a walk down the hall hoping to tire myself out or stop thinking.
“No!” I look up, confused. What the fuck? “Stop!” Another yell. What is going on? “Ahhh!” Does no one else hear that? Is this in my mind? It can’t be. I follow the noise and it intensifies. Is no one around to figure out who is yelling and why? Can’t they sedate these psychos?
Opening a door, I’m frozen in place. Thrashing and fighting back, but with who? Who is she trying to push away from?
“Please . . .” she pleads between sobs. I look around the hallway and no one is around to help her. This feels too familiar.
I carefully walk into the room, leaving the door open in case someone walks by and can help. “Red,” I whisper into the room. Nothing.
“Mikayla. Wake up.” I inch closer. My shaky hand reaches to slowly shove her shoulder.
Her eyes snap open, angry and scared.
“Get out!” Mikayla screams, yanking the sheets up to her neck, her eyes wild.
“I’m checking if you’re okay—”
“I said get out!” She cuts me off.
/> “Relax, I heard you crying and screaming. I’m not gonna hurt you.” I notice the flicker of fear in her eyes, but she quickly composes herself. I take a step towards her, and she jolts back in her bed.
“I said leave,” she hisses.
Sam comes into the room at that moment and looks around confused. “Tyler, what’s going on?”
“Sam, I heard her screaming and came in to make sure she was okay. Sounded pretty bad.”
“Thanks Tyler, but you should leave.”
“Whatever,” I shrug. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Yeah, right.” I hear Mikayla scoff, but I leave before I give her a piece of my mind. I don’t need to be accused of anything. I walk out and head towards my room. By the look in Red’s eyes and the fear bouncing off her, I think there’s more to her than plain, crazy bitch.
“Are you okay?” Sam slowly approaches me. I know I look like a fucking deer in the headlights, but I can’t get a grip. He fucking scared the shit out of me. This is why I don’t sleep. This is why I don’t close my eyes, not even for two seconds, because I let my guard down.
I nod at Sam but don’t speak. “Mikayla, are you sure?”
“Yes,” I breathe. My thundering heart is still racing. What if he would’ve done something? What if he would’ve attacked me? The tiny part of me that’s still sane thinks that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Did my screaming stop him? What if he had the opportunity again? That’s the insane part of me. That part overpowers my sanity. I’m losing my fucking mind. Then again, wouldn’t you if you were in my situation? Great, now I’m talking to myself as Sam stares at me.
“I’m going to approach you,” she warns. I nod. “I understand you’re upset. Did you have a bad dream?”
“It’s nothing,” I shoot back at her. I don’t want to talk about it, let alone remember.
“It’s obviously something. You stay to yourself here, not letting anyone help you. Maybe it’s time to let someone guide you,” she says this so calmly yet firmly. It’s almost like she gets me, and I have to wonder what her story is. I know Sam isn’t like the rest of the people who work here, but I don’t get why she sticks around. She must love her job.
Twisted in You Page 3