Page 15 of Twisted Heathens
Yes, I’m taking my medication.
Weight loss? Just my metabolism.
I’m committed to my recovery, you know.
A voice calls for me to enter and I slip inside. It’s a spacious room, all tall bookshelves and soft lighting. There’s the standard couch, with two armchairs and a coffee table. Tissues front and centre, of course. I don’t need to look at the wall to confirm the rows of framed qualifications and degrees.
It’s the blink of a camera in the corner that surprises me. I keep seeing them everywhere, discreetly tucked away but watching nonetheless. Dozens in every room, even more than the few they had in Clearview.
“Ah, you must be Brooklyn. Please take a seat.”
Doctor Ashley stands, circling the desk to join me. She has lightly greying hair and wears a practical suit with bright red glasses. I’d say she’s middle aged but ageing gracefully. There’s no criticising the bright smile spread across her face, even if she looks mildly unhinged. No one is that happy. It’s unrealistic.
Answer her. Make it sound genuine. “Hi. Yeah, that’s me.”
I take one of the armchairs, bypassing the couch. Too fucking stereotypical for me. She takes the other, folding her legs gracefully while flourishing a pen and notepad.
“Right then. It’s a pleasure to meet you, please call me Mariam. We like to keep things nice and relaxed here. I want you to feel comfortable with me.”
I stare. Relaxed? Comfortable?
It’s different from the sedatives and padded rooms of the last ten months. That scares me. I like to know the status quo and this place is defying all expectations so far. Experimental doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m yet to decide if it’s a good thing, different isn’t always better.
“I’ve been informed by Doctor Zimmerman about your history and treatment. I agree this place could be beneficial for you. As much respect as I have for his tenure, some find themselves lost in the system at Clearview. They never step outside ever again. It’s a tragedy, truly.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” I mutter.
“And what’s that?”
She sits back, eyeing me expectantly. Here we go.
“I’m hardly innocent.”
“And you think that you deserve to be punished?”
I dig my nails into my palms. “Don’t you?”
Sighing, Mariam removes her glasses. “Brooklyn, you were in the depths of a psychotic episode when you committed your crime. Schizophrenia is a debilitating illness when not managed properly. Your sentence was passed with the insanity plea in mind. You have a sickness, my dear.”
Insanity. I hate that word. Implying that I was ever sane to begin with.
“Why am I here then? Why am I not locked up?” I ask defiantly. “Dangerously unhinged and vicious, that’s what the judge called me. You know that, right? I’m sure it’s in my fucking file.”
“Yes, it is. And the answer is simple. We are the best equipped to deal with a young adult such as yourself that has found their life turned upside down by mental illness. The ethos of our experimental programme centres on rehabilitation, not punishment. This isn’t a prison, it’s a treatment facility. You are a patient here, not a prisoner.”
“I can leave?” And go jump off a bridge, something whispers mentally.
“No. You’ve been transferred here, not admitted on a voluntary basis as some are,” she answers firmly. “You are still sectioned by law until you are stable and recovered. Finish the program, then you can transition back into the community. Where you will still be supervised, I might add.”
Great. Sounds like prison to me.
“Look, I’m going to level with you,” Mariam begins.
I shrug, inviting her to continue. Fucking enlighten me.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, am I right?”
I open my mouth, before clicking it shut.