Page 3 of Writhe
This one’s my favorite. Therapy at ten, journaling at twelve, group confession at three, dinner at six, lights out by nine.How boring.
No Physical Contact with Staff or Other Patients
No touching, no hugging, no human connection. God forbid anyone here feels comforted. But I’m certain if any one of them touched me, I’d have to just let it happen. It’s not fair that my love can’t be reciprocated.
Stay in Your Assigned Ward or Room Unless Escorted
Translation: stay in your cage until your handler takes you out for your walk. Don’t worry, though, they’re not stingy with the collars and leashes.
The rules go on and on, but you get the idea. No fun. No freedom. No chance of escape. The nurse smiles atme when I hand the brochure back to her. She has this way of smiling that makes her look like a ventriloquist. Eyes too white, too hollow.
“Here’s a few outfits and things to get you settled. In a few days, you may request some other things if needed to make your stay comfortable.”
Stay.As if this is a temporary fix. No, if I am magically cured, I will be shoved into a trial and ultimately the death penalty. No, thanks. I’ll feign a mental illness for as long as I can get free meals and entertainment for the rest of my days. I take the meager belongings she gives me and start my tenure at Wellard Asylum.
THREE MONTHS LATER . . .
The rules have become background noise—white lines on a road you drive every day without thinking. The nurses are strict about enforcing them, but I’ve learned to play their game. Smile when they say, “Good morning,” keep your voice calm in group therapy, and never, under any circumstances, tell them the truth.
The truth is for me, and me alone.
The rec room is quiet as I stare out of the barred windows as rain slides down the glass. The rule about no physical contact is posted on the wall in bold letters. They act like it’s for our own safety, but I knowbetter. The guards and orderlies can touch us whenever they want—restraining us, dragging us, forcing pills into our mouths. But we’re the dangerous ones, apparently.
Dangerous.That word makes me laugh. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Unless it landed on my plate during dinner. Then, well . . . I’d kill it without hesitation.
I trace a finger along the arm of my chair, the coarse fabric scraping against my skin. This place, the entire goddamn hospital, is sterile and lifeless. Beige walls, plastic plants, a faint smell of disinfectant mingling with the stench of burnt coffee. Other patients are scattered across the room, moving like ghosts in a dollhouse. It’s the only few hours a day we aren’t under-involved in a structured type of activity. One woman is muttering to herself in the corner, her hands twitching with some invisible tempo. A man sits at a chess table, playing against an opponent who doesn’t seem to even exist.
“Hey, bestie!” The singing voice cuts through the room like nails on a chalkboard.
I don’t even bother looking up. “Rina,” I say flatly.
Rina plops down on the couch beside me, the floral soap she somehow got her hands on whiffs past my nose and I fan it away.
She’s a nymphomaniac, so I’m certain she sucked her way to convincing some guard to sneak it in. She flips her long blonde hair—straight as a pin—over her shoulder as she pops her lips. She leans over, taking inmy face. I raise an eyebrow, wondering why she’s being so fucking dramatic today.
“Why do you always look so serious? You know, they say smiling burns calories.”
My eyes narrow slightly. “I’m not really the athletic type.”
Rina giggles. “You’re so funny, Eliza. You’ve got that dark, brooding vibe going for you. Very mysterious heroine in a gothic novel. Bet the boys out there are eating it up.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “Yeah, they’re just dying to get past the electric fences to ask me out.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, crossing her legs and leaning back, her thin frame sinking into the sagging cushions. “You joke, but I saw Jacob checking you out the other day during group therapy.”
Jacob. The guy who thought the CIA planted chips in his teeth. Yeah, definitely my type. I stifle the urge to laugh. “Sure, Rina. I’ll pencil him in between my lobotomy and shock therapy.”
