Page 16 of Twisted Heathens
“Your history is complex and extensive,” she continues. “This isn’t going to be an easy process. Clearview didn’t work, so we’re the other option. I have faith in the unique system we’ve built here. Education, therapy and rehabilitation in equal measure. You cannot achieve recovery without all three to help you along the way. Frankly, if this place can’t stabilise you then nowhere can. You understand?”
Wow, so comforting. I’m screwed.
“What are you suggesting?” I grit out.
This obedience thing is killing me.
“One-to-one therapy with me twice a week. We also run a group session that I’d like you to attend. I want to change your medication too, there’s some avenues for managing your condition that haven’t yet been explored. We’ll up the dosage and add in some new experimental drugs. See if that gets things moving along.”
This must be what winning feels like. More drugs? Yes, Doctor. More fucking ammo for me to use. What a goddamn victory. I gloss right over the other shit, it doesn’t matter much to me anyway. I’ve got what I wanted.
“That sounds good. I really want to get better.”
Fuck, I’m good. I almost believe myself.
“Another thing, I want you to work on embracing the system here,” Mariam instructs. “We run a tight ship with a rigid schedule, but sometimes that’s the best thing for you.”
I smile innocently. “What do you want me to do?”
“Pick a major, throw yourself into routine. Maybe even make a few friends. It’ll be good for you to experience some normality and discipline.” She fiddles with her bright glasses, offering me a smile. “That’s what we have set out to achieve here, Brooklyn. No more hospital life for you. Think of it as a fresh start for you to move on from the past.”
I have to remind my heart this isn’t for real. The initial blossoms of hope are pointless. Quickly crushed. I can never have a normal life, no matter how confident she is otherwise. That’s not how things work. The world doesn’t just forgive and forget. I deserve my punishment. I deserve to die alone.
“Sounds like a plan,” I concede.
Mariam writes aggressively for a few seconds, nodding to herself. “Fabulous. I’ll get all the relevant information to you. I’m looking forward to seeing you for our individual session. Now, there was one other thing…”
She returns to the desk and begins digging through stacks of paper. My fingers drum on my crossed leg, impatience returning. Just give me the prescription and let me go already, I want to yell. Her whole enthusiastic routine is tiresome.
“Ah, here. Doctor Zimmerman sent these for you. There seems to be a whole bunch of letters here, backdated by several months. He apparently took the executive decision not to share them with you while your recovery was so fragile.”
Who would write to me? What kind of fascist bastard keeps personal correspondence from a patient? The questions mount as my emotions spiral out of control. I’m shaking with anger, barely keeping it in as my hands clench into fists.
“Why?” I manage to say.
Mariam shakes her head, clearly annoyed. “Like I said, we’re not Clearview. I do things differently around here. You should be in control of your own communication, regardless of your mental state. I’m sorry.”
Handing me the bundle, she offers me a conciliatory smile. I don’t return it. The letters are heavy in my hand, the burden instantly weighing me down. I have no one, literally no one. Where did all these unanswered letters come from?
“I’ll let you go early so you can dive right in. Someone’s probably waiting impatiently for your reply.” She sounds so enthusiastic, it’s infuriating. “Family, perhaps? You should let them know how you’re getting on.”
“Uh huh. Maybe.”
Don’t fucking have any, but I’ll say anything to get out of here. Once I’ve handed over the scrawled paperwork, I’m finally free. Meds are served after dinner apparently, so the rest of the afternoon is mine.
I finger the worn envelopes, eyes flicking over the scrawled writing. Pulling the first letter free from the bundle, I flip it, searching for a return address. The back of the envelope features more rushed penmanship, naming the sender.
Allison Brunel.
Cold washes over me, flooding every inch of my body as uncontrollable trembling begins. No. No. Not happening. There’s got to be dozens of letters here. Are they all from her? Fuck me. I can’t do this.
You did this. Now you will pay the price.
I never knew a voice could hold that much venom until the day she said that. Shaking my head, I try to push the sickening memory away. The accusations fuelled by grief that were tossed at me, cruel insults and vicious words that I carry with me every damn day. It’s too raw, too real. All I feel is guilt.
My fingers twitch with the need to cut. Release. I’ve got to get it out, this is the only way I know how. Fuck the therapy. Doesn’t do shit anyway. Only one thing helps. I don’t deserve any better. Only pain.
Tucking the dreaded package into my pocket, I take off down the corridor. Counting each step in my head, breathing in time to the rhythm. Meds tonight. That’s three doses. New prescription tomorrow. That’s another four. Within a week, that should be enough. No mistakes this time. No second chances or redoes. No waking up in a hospital bed.