DREAMS of 18

by A. Kent, Saffron

  “What’s that?” I ask, like I haven’t heard her loud and clear.

  “About your attempt.”

  “It wasn’t an attempt.”

  “So what do you think it was?”

  “An accident,” I tell her. “It was an accident.”

  Josie, my therapist, gives me the look.

  That look.

  The look where they think I’m crazy and I’m lying, and they pity me. They think that if they poke me too much, I might explode.

  I don’t like that look.

  It makes me want to explode. It makes me want to snap my teeth, grow my nails to the point where my hands look like talons. It makes me want to scratch and bite and scream.

  But I won’t.

  That’s not me. I don’t explode. I’m a peacekeeper. I’m sweet and quiet. I keep my head down and don’t make any ripples.

  I am calm. I’m cool. I’m a cucumber.

  Happy thoughts.

  Thoughts about… my bunny slippers that I brought from home, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban that I’m reading for the thirty-sixth time, and the pigeons that I feed in the gardens when they let us outside.

  Slowly, I deflate.

  “Okay, then.” She nods. “It was an accident. Are you ready to talk about it?”

  It being The Roof Incident.

  People have been asking me this a whole lot ever since The Incident happened. My doctors back at the state hospital, my therapist, my mom. Everyone.

  I’ve already told them, and they still sent me here.

  On the Inside.

  “If I talk about it, will you let me go? Will you recommend that I be released?” I ask.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  I look at my bunny slippers. “Didn’t think so.”

  “We still have a lot of ground to cover, Willow, and your contract says another four weeks. So I’m sorry.”

  “Are you, really?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I make a non-committal sound because I don’t believe her.

  “Why? You don’t believe me?” she asks, reading me accurately.

  “Not really, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because frankly… you’re not my friend. You don’t care.”

  She doesn’t care that I’ve been stuck here for two weeks now and that my every move is monitored. She doesn’t care that they feed me pills twice a day and then, ask me to open my mouth and actually, show them that I’ve swallowed them.

  What am I? An animal?

  She doesn’t care that I have to participate in group therapy and art therapy and recreational therapy and all kinds of fucking therapy all day when I clearly don’t need to.

  So yeah, nope. I’m not talking. Thank you very much.

  “I care. I do care, Willow,” she says.

  I lick my lips and sit up straight. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She looks taken aback.

  Well, maybe I shouldn’t have been so abrupt. But it’s a valid question.

  My therapist is pretty. She’s got straight blonde hair that she keeps tied up in a no-nonsense ponytail. Her light-colored eyes are hidden behind big, black glasses and her lips are usually very lightly painted pink. That’s the only touch of make-up on her beautiful face. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need any.

  I bet guys must lose their minds over her. Figuratively.

  She twists on her couch and clears her throat. “Um, no. Not right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t met anyone interesting in a while.”

  “So, what do you do for sex?”

  I can’t believe I said that but I’m genuinely curious. I’ve always been curious.

  If I’m stuck here with a therapist, I might as well make some use of it. If she wants to talk, we can talk about interesting stuff. Stuff that I’ve always wanted to ask and never got a chance to.

  I couldn’t ask my mom. She wouldn’t have liked it. I think according to her, I’m still a pre-teen who hasn’t even gotten her period and thinks kissing could make babies.

  Josie laughs. “I’m sorry?”

  Not gonna lie. I like that this question is making her a little uncomfortable, if her squirming is anything to go by. This is a complete win-win.

  “For sex. What do you do? One-night stands? Masturbation? I’m in the masturbation camp. You know, because I’m stuck here and all.”

  She smiles, adjusting her glasses. “Ah, is this your revenge strategy? I asked you questions you didn’t like and you’re trying to make me uncomfortable.”

  Yes.

  I shrug, innocently. “I’m just making conversation. You said you cared.”

  “Well, to answer your question, masturbation is keeping me happy for now, so I think I’m managing,” she says.

  I jump topics. “What about my books? There’s not a single Harry Potter book in your library. You guys should do something about it. It’s a travesty.”

  Ah, Harry Potter.

  The source of everything good and holy in the world.

  She smiles. “I’ll talk to someone about that, okay?” She folds her hands in her lap. “Now, are you ready to talk about it?”

  I sigh. “Can we just move on from it already? It’s been like, two weeks.”

  “Exactly, only two weeks.”

  “If I keep talking about it, I’m never gonna forget it. You realize that, don’t you?” I raise my eyebrows.

  Josie raises her own eyebrows. “Forgetting is not the goal. The goal is to talk about it and confront it and get help.”

  Help.

  Pfft.

  I can help myself, and the first thing I need to do is forget that The Roof Incident ever happened. Talking about it and rehashing it is not going to make me feel better.

  Personally, I think therapists and psychiatrists have a very twisted way of treatment.

  Besides, The Incident is not going to happen again, anyway.

  I sigh, tired.

  So tired.

  I’ve got a full day of this. When I leave here, I’ve got community group, process group, education group – all the groups – where all they ever talk about is your illness, your meds, your feelings.

  And it’s not as if I can get some sleep at night, either. The meds they have put me on are sleep-stealers. I can’t sleep until the wee hours of the morning and even if I do manage to fall asleep before that, the whimpers and noises of the ward jerk me awake.

  Okay, happy thoughts.

  All the fucking happy thoughts.

  In my most monotonous voice, I tell her, “There’s nothing to talk about. It was an accident. I was very emotional that day. I’m a very happy individual, otherwise. You know, my illness aside. So yeah. Again, for the thousandth time, it was an accident. I’m not crazy. I don’t belong here. You need to pick up your phone and call my mom. You need to tell her that I’m fine and she should come here, break the contract and take me home.”

  She sighs, too. Her sigh is patient but long. “Okay. So, not today. All right. I’m not going to force you. That’s not my style. But I do want to tell you that what happened has nothing to do with the circumstances. Your life might be very happy but that has no bearing on it. It’s like an itch, Willow. It’s there. Constantly. You can ignore it but then, one day it becomes so big, so irritating, that you’ll do anything to get relief. Including scratch it.” She smiles, gently. “But then again, I don’t have to tell you that, do I? Because you already know. So I’m here when you want to talk about it.”

  The itch.

  Interesting description. Personally though, I like the one I came up with: Magic.

  I thought it was magic. That something in my blood.

  Granted, it was during the time I’d first discovered Harry Potter books and I was in a major Harry Potter phase. Well, to be honest, Harry Potter isn’t a phase, it’s a lifestyle. But still.

 
I thought I was born a witch and that’s why I was so different from my family. I was almost convinced that when I turned eleven, they’d come for me like they came for Harry. They’d take me to the world’s biggest school of witchcraft and wizardry, Hogwarts. I’d learn about all the spells and incantations and potions and the right way to wield a wand.

  But instead of going to my dream school for magic at eleven, I ended up here at the age of eighteen: Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital.

  “Can I go now?” I ask.

  “Sure. See you next week.”

  Because that something in my veins is not magic. It’s anything but magic.

  It’s a curse and the only thing that I can do to get rid of it is to not think about it at all. And somehow get through the remaining twenty-eight days of my incarceration, so I can be Outside again and get my life back.

  Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital – my home for the next four weeks – is a very small private facility located in the Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey.

  Fine, it’s located in the scenic town of Heartstone, and is surrounded by woods and ugly open grounds on all sides.

  Okay, fine. Not ugly.

  It pains me to say this because I want to hate everything about this place and I do, but the grounds surrounding Heartstone are pretty and spacious. The perimeter is lined with tall trees and brick walls. The grass is a sharp green shade, like the color of my family’s eyes and unlike the color of mine.

  I haven’t seen so much space in my entire life. You don’t find something like this in the city. And neither do you find taller and blacker metal gates that keep the Outside world, outside.

  I remember seeing them for the first time when my mom drove me up here. They opened on their own when she spoke into the intercom, like something controlled by dark magic. Slowly, they revealed the vintage-looking Victorian style building with a red pointed roof and white bricks, making me wonder how something so pretty, something that might belong in a fairy tale, could be so scary and hellish.

  The moment we passed through the gates, I knew. I knew in my heart, in my soul that I’d spend the rest of my life here and even if I did manage to get out, I’d never be the same.

  I wanted to make a run for it.

  But, of course, I didn’t run. My mom would’ve had a heart attack, and I love her too much to do that to her. With my illness and now The Incident, I’ve already put her through enough as it is.

  Besides, I’m getting out in just four weeks. No matter what my overactive imagination makes me believe. Four short weeks and I’ll be out of here. On the Outside.

  Away from this stupid hospital that creaks and shakes at night when the wind blows and the rain batters the roof. Well, what else do you expect from a building that was built in the early 1900s?

  In any case, Heartstone is way better than the state hospital where I stayed for forty-eight hours before they transferred me here. The staff over there, the patients, the smell of bleach, everything was the stuff of nightmares.

  At least, this facility is pretty to look at.

  According to history, this was a house long before it was turned into a hospital. The original owner had it built for his mentally ill wife. He’d loved her more than life itself and he hated the little town of Heartstone that shot his beloved wife wary looks. So he said fuck it, I’m gonna build my wife a castle and he did.

  This I’ll admit – without any sort of pain – that I find romantic. Kind of epic, really.

  A man who builds castles to keep the woman he loves safe. Whoever she was, she was pretty fucking lucky.

  This castle has three levels, sixty-seven rooms that house about forty patients, and two separate wings, east and west. I’ll never understand why they needed so many rooms but whatever.

  We live on the second level. It’s a long corridor, running from the east wing to the west, flanked by rooms on either side, with a nurses’ station at the end. It’s simple and straightforward, and very white and beige-y.

  The third level is what everyone calls ‘The Batcave.’ They usually put patients who require extensive monitoring up there. I don’t know very many people from the upper level. But every time I see someone from The Batcave with their checked-out looks and almost translucent eyes, I try not to make it obvious that I’m staring.

  It’s not polite to stare. Ask me. I’ve been stared at a lot ever since The Incident.

  My favorite place – relatively – is the ground level. All the offices, dining hall, rec room, TV room, all sorts of rooms are located on this level. Basically, it’s a hub of activity and is the loudest of all the levels.

  It’s where I hear the name Simon Blackwood for the first time.

  I’m in the dining hall, waiting in line for a breakfast of watery oatmeal and cut-up fruit when I hear it. The name, I mean.

  It comes out of one of the nurses talking and keeping an eye on the long breakfast queue. For some reason, these lines are a breeding ground for meltdowns, so they always have someone watching them. I have yet to see it, though, and I pray that it never changes. Just the thought scares the fucking crap out of me.

  “By Blackwood, you mean, The Blackwood?”

  “Yup,” says one of the nurses as I trudge my feet past them.

  “Oh geez. Like I needed more problems in my life. I bet he’s got a huge ego.”

  “I know.”

  “Ugh. I don’t wanna deal with him. I was only now getting adjusted to the long hours they put me on two weeks ago. Why’s this Simon Blackwood coming here? Is it permanent?”

  “Who knows? Beth is super hush-hush about it. Which I don’t understand, by the way. We’re the ones who have to deal with him, not her. She’s gonna be locked up in that big administrative office of hers, while he’ll be roaming around the floor as if he owns the place.”

  “Exactly! Why are the nurses last to know about these things?”

  “I don’t know. Like we don’t matter, right?”

  Then they start bitching about the fact that they were last to know the changes in their yearly vacation days. As if nurses aren’t overworked as it is.

  And just like that, it’s over. The topic of Simon Blackwood.

  A little thing about me: I’ve overheard a lot of conversations in my life. During family gatherings and at school. I’m an expert eavesdropper. I don’t do it intentionally. It’s just that I’m kind of invisible and a weirdo, what with my pale, almost translucent skin and silver hair. People don’t notice me or don’t take me seriously if they do notice me.

  So they talk and, well, I’ve got ears. So I listen.

  Generally, I forget about these conversations as soon as they occur. Not this one, though.

  Nope.

  It sticks in my head.

  Not the conversation itself, but the name.

  I don’t know why. I’ve never heard it before. I don’t know who it belongs to, except that whoever he is, he’s coming here. And Beth, the administrator, isn’t telling the nurses about it, and they are pissed.

  Whatever.

  Time to forget it and move on. So I do. Move on, I mean.

  I don’t forget though. I remember the name for some very strange reason.

  Floorboards creak under my bunny slippers as I get my breakfast and walk over to the table by the large windows. They overlook the gray skies and the wet grounds.

  Ever since I got to this place, it’s been raining every day. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of making me even more miserable.

  It’s no secret that I hate the sun; I burn too easily. Rain’s my only respite. I love the rain. I love the water droplets crashing into my body, sliding down, clinging to my skin, washing me clean, making me new.

  It’s raining now, more like drizzling, and I wish I could go outside and feel it, but I can’t.

  I put my tray onto the Formica-topped table and plop down on my seat. Plucking a strawberry from the fruit bowl, I pop it into my mouth.

  I’m sitti
ng next to Renn Deschanel, my red-headed neighbor.

  She was the very first person to talk to me the day I arrived here two weeks ago. She saved me from the creepy stare of a guy who lives on the other side of the hallway and is here for some sort of addiction. I don’t know his exact diagnosis though.

  At the time, I was panicked, angry and completely devastated that my own family thinks that I’m crazy enough to be locked up. I thought they’d believe me when I told them that I didn’t need to be here.

  Anyway, Renn as usual, is staring at her crush of the week. Her crushes come and go, and she has a type. Silver fox – her words, not mine. This week, it’s Hunter, one of the techs, who’s probably closer to her dad’s age than hers.

  I shake my head at her. “What’s the damage?”

  She sighs. “I’m guessing at least twenty-five years. He’s like, a couple of years younger than my dad. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him before. Like, this guy’s been around forever. How did he not catch my eye?”

  Yeah, forever is right.

  Renn loves Heartstone. She loves it so much that she keeps coming back.

  I think this is her fourth time on the Inside. Every time she comes in for a couple of months, has the time of her life – according to her – and gets out to come back in again.

  This time she’s in here because her dad is getting married and she can’t stand her new step-mother. So, in her infinite wisdom, she made herself throw up and she’s severely anorexic. When her dad found her passed out in her bathroom, he did what he always does: sent her on the Inside.

  She knows everything and everyone. Nurses are her best friends. Techs can’t get over how pretty she is. Renn’s the queen bee.

  I pop another strawberry in my mouth and say, “Could be the fact that you didn’t know he was married until last week.”

  “Hmm.” Renn drums her fingers on her chin. “You might have a point. I like a challenge. It makes me feel better about myself if I can get an unavailable guy to like me. It’s my pathetic self-image.” She stabs her fork into a piece of watermelon. “Maybe I should somehow try to get Hunter as my escort after meals. Imagine the things I can do to him while he’s watching me with those dark eyes.”