Page 37 of My Best Friend Is Broken
So when Emma asks how I’m feeling during morning medication rounds, I say fine. When Dr. Chen wants to explore my “adjustment difficulties” in our daily sessions, I give him textbook answers about progress and coping strategies. When the art therapist suggests I express my emotions through painting, I create bland, inoffensive landscapes that reveal nothing.
I’m being the good patient. Compliant. Cooperative. Exactly what they want to see.
But inside, I’m suffocating.
Not that I’m going to tell Nicky that. I can’t worry him, not after everything he has done for me. Especially not now that I’ve embraced everything that he means to me. You don’t worry the ones you love.
No, I’m going to suck it up and be brave for the next hour. I can do this.
So here I am, walking down the main corridor toward the visitors’ room, trying to focus on seeing Nicky rather than the institutional familiarity of the journey. Scheduledvisits at set times, walking in single file past locked doors, the careful supervision disguised as helpful guidance.
I never had visitors in prison. I was never in the line. But I saw it every day, and now I’m acting that memory out.
There’s another patient ahead of me, a man in his fifties with wild gray hair and stained clothes who’s been muttering to himself since I arrived. He’s mostly harmless, the staff assure everyone, just confused and medicated and prone to inappropriate comments.
As I pass him in the corridor, he looks up from whatever he’s been examining in his hands, and his eyes fix on my face.
“Pretty,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. His voice is slurred from medication but unmistakably leering. “Pretty boys don’t last long, do they? Someone always wants a piece.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. The corridor tilts sideways, and suddenly I’m not in an expensive private hospital anymore. I’m back in Brixton, walking to the showers with my head down and my shoulders hunched, trying to be invisible while knowing it’s already too late.
Pretty boy gonna get his cherry popped tonight.
Look at that sweet little arse. Bet it’s tight.
Fresh meat always screams the prettiest.
I’m running before I realize I’ve moved, my feet pounding against the polished floor as I flee down the corridor. Staff members call after me, their voices concerned but distant, like they’re shouting from underwater. I burst through the doors of the visitors’ room and there’s Nicky, sitting at a small table with aconfused expression that immediately shifts to alarm when he sees me.
I don’t think. Can’t think. Can only act on pure instinct and desperate need.
I throw myself at him, my arms wrapping around his neck so tightly I’m probably choking him. He’s solid and warm and real, and he smells like home. He smells like safety and protection and everything the institutional walls can’t provide.
“Take me home,” I beg against his neck, the words muffled but urgent. “Please, Nicky. Take me home. I can’t stay here. I can’t do this.”
His arms come up around me immediately, holding me just as tightly as I’m holding him. One hand cradles the back of my head while the other rubs slow circles between my shoulder blades.
I feel better immediately. And not just in my mind, my body feels it too. My heart slows its frantic rhythm. My lungs breathe easier. All of me knows I’m safe with Nicky.
“Okay,” he whispers, and his voice is shaking. “Okay, we’ll go home. Right now. I’ll sign whatever papers they need.”
“Really?” I pull back just enough to look at his face, searching for any sign that he’s just saying what I want to hear.
“Really. Fuck this place. If it’s making you worse instead of better, we’re done.”
There are staff members hovering nearby now, drawn by the commotion. I can see Dr. Chen approaching with that careful, professional expression that means he’s about to explain why leaving would be a mistake, why I need to stayfor my own good, why running away from treatment isn’t the answer.
But Nicky stands up, keeping one arm firmly around my shoulders, and faces them with a look I recognize. It’s the same expression he used to wear when bigger kids tried to pick on me in primary school, or when teachers suggested I wasn’t trying hard enough. Protective and immovable and absolutely done with other people’s bullshit.
I always loved it. Even back then when I didn’t need it. Even when I could fight my own battles, I adored that Nicky had my back. Now he is my lifeline. My buoy in a stormy sea. My savior.
“We need to discuss this,” Dr. Chen says gently. “Liam has made significant progress in just a few days. Leaving now, when he’s in crisis, could set back his recovery considerably.”
“He’s not in crisis because of his mental health,” Nicky replies evenly. “He’s in crisis because this place feels like prison to him, and he’s spent the last five years of his life in actual prison. You can’t treat trauma by recreating the traumatic environment.”
I’m stunned again. This time in a good way. All I did was cling to Nicky and beg to go home. How can he peer into my soul and see exactly why I need to get out of here?
“We understand that institutional settings can be challenging…”
