Disclaimer: I wrote this with my own experiences with mental wards in mind, the methods used in this story are based on the methods used in my country. If you strongly disagree with anything in this story, feel free to voice your concerns in a review or message me on Tumblr so we can talk about it.
...
Needed
…
The walls around me are too white, the floor under my feet is spotless and grey, this hallway smells like peppermint and soap. The voices around me sound distant like they're coming from another room even though the people speaking are walking right next to me. My head is spinning, I see colours that aren't there and my head hurts. I don't know if this is the medication or if it's just me. I don't know if I even am anything without medication.
A voice calls my name. I'm not listening, I just want to sleep. The owner of the voice starts speaking frantically to the other person walking with me. They pull me into one of the nearby rooms, I don't know if it's mine.
I don't know why they won't let me go to bed. I don't know why they insist on keeping me here when all I really want is to go outside.
"Can I go outside please?" I ask the nearest nurse. She shakes her head and smiles that smile grown ups smile when they don't care about your opinion. I want to ask her again just to annoy her until she stops smiling like that because it's making me a bit angry.
"It's just a side effect, take him to his room and let him sleep for a few hours," the man in the white coat says. I try to smile at him but I think it looks like I just swallowed an entire lemon.
The nurses take me to my room. I hate my room but I really want to sleep so I just nod because that's what people do when they approve.
My bed smells like washing detergent and I notice that there are flowers on my bedside table.
"Your friends brought those for you," one of the nurses says. I recognise her, she has dark curly hair and her name is Annabelle which I think is very pretty so I smile at her because she's nice. She points to a box on the desk by the window. "they brought that too."
I try to say something but my mouth feels numb so I just smile again. She reminds me to click on the button if I need anything before leaving the room. I'm too tired to think anymore.
…
Someone new has arrived today.
I don't know if they're going to attend support group right away or if they're even going to be in the common room. Most new patients just stay in their rooms the first week or two. I stayed in my room for three weeks before attending support group for the first time.
The common room has white walls just like all the other rooms, but the floor is grey carpet instead of grey linoleum. I look around and notice Annabelle pushing an unfamiliar wheelchair towards the window. My eyes widen as I notice that the head poking up from the back of the chair is covered with white hair.
Annabelle says something to the kid before walking away. I think she's going to the little kitchen to get something for the person in the wheelchair. I don't know why but as soon as she's out of sight I start moving towards the chair. My healthy leg bumps against the floor as I move to stand beside the wheelchair.
The first thing I notice about the kid is that it's a boy. Then I realise that he's pretty clean and he's wearing nice clothes, it looks like he picked them out himself. His blue eyes are fixed on the view through the large bay windows. His hair is white but brown roots are beginning to show.
I notice that his cheeks are very hollow and his skin is kind of a greyish white, the colour of a proper ghost. His hands are bony and his fingers are very long and thin. He's one of the skinniest kids I've seen in here and upon closer inspection I notice that some of his hair is conveniently styled to hide his bald spots.
I'm tired of standing so I sit down on the floor. I feel a pair of eyes on me and I turn my head to see that the white haired boy noticed my movement. He looks at me with curious eyes; his eyes aren't lifeless like so many others, there is a spark in them, a spark I remember from a time long gone.
"What's your name?" he asks, his voice is smooth and deep, soothing.
"Hiccup," I croak. I don't talk a lot normally.
"I'm Jack," the boy says. I think he's trying to smile but it looks pretty half hearted. Maybe he's just tired like everyone else. "I'm anorexic," he then says. His words take me by surprise, no one is that open about their illness here. He looks at me expectedly like he's waiting for me to tell him about myself. But I don't because I think it's a little weird. After a short while he looks away and turns his attention back to the view outside.
The silence is comfortable and I like it a lot. It's nice sitting next to someone without being forced to talk about what's wrong. I miss that.
Annabelle comes back with a glass of milk. She hands it to the kid and smiles when she notices me sitting on the floor.
"Hello Hiccup, how are you today?" she asks. Her question is sincere and honest.
"I'm okay," I answer. It's partly a lie because I'm not okay, I haven't been okay for a while. But then again I'm not crying or trying to cut my healthy leg off so I guess I am kinda okay.
She turns her attention to Jack. He doesn't seem to want to drink the milk but I guess he has to because his cheeks are way too hollow and he kinda looks like something from a horror movie. He looks uncomfortable but he's got this look of determination in his eyes. He lifts the glass up to his mouth and starts drinking. He looks like he's about to cry. Annabelle stops him, probably because she notices how upset he looks.
He starts crying. But it's not loud or ugly, it's silent. He hides his face in his hands and sniffles. His sobs are soft. And for some reason that makes it all the more painful to watch.
"So you need anything?" Annabelle asks. Jack shakes his head. She asks him if he wants to sit in front of the window for a while longer. He nods. Annabelle smiles. "Page me if you need anything," she says before walking away.
Jack slumps back in his chair.
"Wheelchairs suck," I say. He doesn't turn his head but his eyes move to me. "I used to be in one … because of my leg," I elaborate. Jack gives me a faint smile. I smile back.
We sit in silence for an hour or so, both looking out the window. Sometimes I look at Jack. I like the way his eyes look, they look healthy unlike the rest of him. I wonder if he's healthy and strong on the inside.
Another nurse comes and tells me it's time for me to take my medication. I shiver, but that's okay. She helps me up and I adjust my crutches.
"See you tomorrow?" Jack croaks. I look down at him.
"I'm not leaving," I say half-bitterly before being led away by the nurse.
…
Jack's chair is in front of the bay window again today. As I make my way towards him I wonder weather it's Tuesday or Thursday. I grab the back of a chair and pull it with me.
I stop pulling once my chair is next to Jack's. I sit down and look at him. He's reading a book.
I don't read much, I only read schoolwork because I don't want to get too far behind. I prefer to draw in my free time. But Jack seems to be completely lost in his book so I stay quiet. I watch the birds fly between the flowers of spring, calling out for each other as they do this time of year.
"You don't talk much," Jack says. I turn my head to look at him. I see that he has closed his book. There's a cool dragon on the cover.
"Who did the cover art for that book?" I ask.
Jack shrugs. "My mum got this book for me at a car boot sale when I was eleven, the title pages are missing and there's no credit on the cover so I don't know who painted the cover or who wrote the book," he explains. I frown in response.
"Is it any good?"
"Best book I've ever read," Jack replies. "It's got dragons and Vikings, epic battles and well-developed characters. I just wish I knew who wrote it."
I nod, still entranced by the cover. The dragon is jet black with expressive green eyes and cat-like facial features. It reminds me of my cat at home.
Thinking of home makes my heart and stomach hurt.
"How long have you been here?" Jack asks me.
"Two months," I reply, my voice sounds hollow.
"That's a long time. Have you never gone home?"
"My dad visits me sometimes. But no, I'm not well enough to go home."
"I'm sorry," Jack says.
"I'll live. Maybe," I say dryly. Jack smirks, he gets it.
He seems to get a lot of things.
I don't ask him any questions, I fear he'll think of me as nosy and invasive. I care about what he thinks of me. I don't have any friends here, I haven't seen my friends from the outside in a month. I miss it. I miss looking and sounding okay.
We sit in silence. It is not uncomfortable, nor is it strained. It feels natural. Jack returns to his book while I study the birds outside. Two blue jays are building their nest. It is a strange location; they won't get much peace during the night. Many of the residents have nightmares.
I do too.
The male blue jay flies away, only to return a minute later carrying a twig with his beak. Blue jays are monogamous, they mate for life. And these two birds in particular seem to know each other well. I can see their beaks and throats move as they chat in a secret language only they know.
Annabelle enters the room and informs us that lunch is ready. I stand up, my stomach turning at the very mention of food. I look down at Jack. His jaw is clenched and his eyes expel a mixture of fear and determination.
"Are you okay?" I ask him. He nods.
Without much thought I step behind his chair and wrap my hands around the handles. I gently begin pushing the chair forward and turning it so we are ready to follow Annabelle. She looks at me with a smile shimmering in her eyes.
We walk through the arch and into the broad hallway.
"Where did you learn? To push a chair?" Jack asks. His voice is quivering.
"My friend, Astrid, she broke a leg last year so I pushed her around the hospital." I reply.
Jack turns his head and looks up at me expectantly, a hint of plead in his eyes.
"We used to go out to the parking lot for walks before she was ready to get her crutches," I continue. "She still has the crutches in her car, she says they might come in handy if she ever has to beat someone up." With every passing word I grow to miss her more and more. But Jack has closed his eyes, he's listening. He trusts me.
"I've grown acquainted to the hospital now so I knew where to turn and stuff," I say. "She trusted me." A twinge of pain. "I miss her but that's alright I suppose, they say feelings are good because they remind us we're human I guess." I shrug.
We come to a halt. Annabelle has a brief word with another nurse. They both glance at Jack. The other nurse nods and walks towards us.
She kneels in front of Jack. "Hello Jack, my name is Ana and I'll be your supervisor today. I only wanted to ask weather you wanted to eat with the others or have your meal in private?"
"I … I'd like to have it in private again today if that's okay," he says. Ana nods and stands up.
I let go of the handle.
"I'm glad to see you're already making friends," she says to him with a bright smile. "It was very kind of you to push the chair." She smiles briefly at me.
I back away so she can take the wheelchair. She grabs the handle and starts pushing Jack down the hall. He peeks out from the back of the chair and gives me a faint smile before Ana rounds a corner.
I go to eat with the others.
…
I look at myself in the mirror.
I open my mouth to reveal discoloured teeth. I quickly close it again, regretting that I ever spoke to Jack, before remembering that he probably understands why my teeth are yellow.
I look into my own eyes. Three years ago they would have been filled with determination, light, sarcastic humour. But now they are dull. My eyelids are grey, my eyelashes are sparse.
People often talk of hating themselves, but they don't ever mean it, they don't know what it's like to feel real hatred towards your own person.
My mom cried because of me. My dad cried because of me. They're all in pain and it's because of me.
They'd be better off if I had just succeeded …
That night I dream of a screaming baby, abandoned in the night. A woman picks up the child and carries it to her home. There she locks herself in her bathroom. She runs the bath, the water is scolding hot. And then she drowns the child. I watch as the child's face distorts in desperation, as it tries to cry but nothing comes out but bubbles. The woman has no mercy. The child dies. She places the dead body on her dresser, along with three others in varying stages of rot.
I scream.
The woman grabs my arm and tries to kiss me. She grabs my neck with one hand and moves the other down to my lower back.
Everything but my mouth seems to have frozen. As her hands travel my screams only grow louder and louder. She grabs my arm, puts her hand around my shoulders and tells me that I will be okay. But I can still feel her other hand.
It's a nightmare, she whispers.
I continue screaming when I wake up. The blood is rushing in my ears, I can't hear anything else. I try to fight the woman holding my arm. I rip my body away from her and run to the door. But it's locked.
There is another person in the room. A man. He is stronger than her, I cannot escape his firm grip.
I continue screaming.
I sob.
I dry heave.
Silence.
He lets go of me.
Annabelle gives me water. She then leads me back to bed and tucks me in.
I cry again before I fall asleep.
…
Two weeks have passed.
I am in the common room with Jack again, but this time he is sitting on the floor. He has pillows to sit on, and a pillow behind his back so he can lean against the wall beside the bay window. I sit opposite him with a notebook and pencil. I am sketching the blue jays. Their nest seems to be done, they must be waiting for eggs now.
I feel Jack's eyes on me but I don't comment on it. I haven't drawn in a few months and my hand has already grown unsteady.
Für Elise floats from the stereo. Jack starts humming; a habit I find infuriating.
"Do you have to sing along?" I ask with an edge to my voice.
"I'm not singing, I'm humming," he replies briefly, before returning to his humming. But now he has a glimt in his eyes, a spark I haven't seen before.
Without really thinking I raise an eyebrow. "I would rather you sing then hum; singing is nice while humming is a gross habit like picking your nose or biting toenails," I say matter-of-factly.
He smirks. "You didn't mention who's toenails so I suppose I am free to assume that Michelle Obama's toenails don't count."
"That makes no sense whatsoever," I retort. "But I would assume that all toenails fall under the same umbrella of things that should not be consumed."
"Are you implying that Mrs. Obama's toenails are dirty?"
"Yes, everyone has filthy toenails, but that has no effect on her character and she is still an admirable woman despite her disgusting feet."
"So what you're saying is that the First Lady doesn't care for foot hygiene? This is great information for when we run against each other in the election, I will sway people by telling them that you are prissy." Jack taps a finger to his chin and moves his eyes upwards as if he is thinking deeply.
I snort.
"I would make a bad president, but I'd like a room in the White House. Preferably with a good view and my own pianoforte," I humour.
"Well of course milord, we shall live as kings!" Jack spreads his arms in a grand gesture. "But I'll have the bigger en suite."
"Oh but I am so prissy! I spend hours scrubbing my body clean of filth and sin, so I require a monstrous bathroom," I say.
"You can use our awesome indoor salt water pool for scrubbing," Jack suggests.
"Why do we need a salt water pool? That sounds very unsanitary -"
"But fancy people have salt water pools -"
Our nonsensical bickering goes on for a while longer. It's been a while since I've spoken so freely and with such ease in my voice. The feeling is welcome.
Jack looks better now, although his roots have really started to grow out. There's a hint of colour on his cheeks, his lips are less dry, and his eyes are alive. He uses his hands to speak, waving them about with every sentence. His face is vivid, switching from smiles to pouts to sarcasm to laughter.
At the back of my head I wonder what I must look like while we speak. But the thought quickly passes as Jack cracks another joke, making me laugh. A proper laugh.
It is so different, yet so familiar.
…
It is night. A familiar voice in agony woke me up, and now I'm pressing my ear against the door. I can hear crying; the kind of crying where you can't breathe. I put my hand on the doorknob and turn it softly, then I gently push the door forward, only a bit so I can see.
I can see two nurses holding Jack between them. He thrashes, he doesn't want them to take him. But that doesn't phase the nurses, they keep walking.
Tears begin to well up in my eyes.
Please don't take him.
I close the door and go back to my bed. I don't really cry, but there are tears. It reminds me of the nights before the mania, the nights after my mother went missing. I didn't want to cry loudly because I didn't want my dad to hear.
But this is a different kind of sadness, a different kind of affection which I cannot name.
I do fall asleep.
…
I ask Annabelle where Jack is. She says he's in another ward, the cold one.
"Can I see him?" I ask.
She smiles sadly. "I'll ask them," she says.
I nod and lean against the wall. She pats my shoulder, then she walks away.
I have been to the other ward before. I was there for a week when I first came here. It was even cleaner and greyer than this one, filled with people in white coats. Not psychiatrists but medical doctors, constantly taking your blood and pumping strange white liquids into your veins. It's like they want to replace your blood with medication.
Annabelle comes back and says it's okay with them if I see Jack. I don't care what they think, I care what Jack thinks.
I follow her down the hall. We reach the main entrance and walk outside for a bit until we reach another building. She enters and I follow.
It is still cold. It smells too clean. The only colours here are the colours of manufactured liquids, nothing real. My heart jitters as we walk. I remember too much, but it isn't important now.
We stop and Annabelle talks to another nurse. The other nurse opens a door. We go inside.
Jack is on the bed. His face is grey again. My heart goes into overdrive when I see the needle sticking into his wrist, connecting him with a tube that goes into a clear bag filled with some goo.
And instantly I know.
I walk over and sit on the chair next to his bed. Annabelle and the other nurse leave, but I know one of them is keeping an eye on us. They're always watching.
I look at Jack's face. He doesn't speak, he just blinks a few times. His eyes are glazed, they don't even look real. His lips are dry and his cheeks have lost every hint of colour they had gained during his time here. I recognize his expression, disappointment.
I take a deep breath.
"It's okay," I say. He turns his head to look at me. I continue. "You'll get better, this isn't your fault." I say what the psychiatrists say.
"Than who's fault is it?" he croaks defeatedly. I look down at my knees.
"I don't know," I say. "I just – I'm sorry." My stomach feels like a giant knot that's too big for my body.
"It's my fault," Jack says, harshly. I look up to find that he is no longer looking at me, but staring angrily at the ceiling.
"It's their fault for saving me when there's no point, no one cares. I don't have parents, my sister doesn't know me anymore, my foster parents threw me out, the only people who give a fucking shit are these fucking doctors who only do it because they get fucking paid!" His voice is louder now. I feel scared, but I stay.
"Did it ever fucking occur to them," he continues,"that maybe I don't need to be alive? Because no one fucking needs me, I'm fucking useless and no one needs me so why can't I just go? Why do they have to keep bringing me back when all I want to do is just go and be away and just not, I don't want this anymore."
He is crying now. It's a painful sound.
I reach out and take his hand, I'm careful so I don't disturb the needle.
It hurts because I know how he feels. I've felt the same. I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy. Jack doesn't deserve to feel this way, he who brings so much light into my dull life here … he's not useless.
"You matter to me," I say.
He looks at me again. His eyes are blurry with tears and his upper lip is shivering.
"I hate it here," I say. "But you made me laugh and that … means a lot to me. I'm not good at making friends but you made it easy. And that's important to me … you … matter to me, a great deal."
He looks at me, perplexed but understanding. I wonder if he realises the weight of my words, or if he just brushes them off as sentimental bullshit.
"I'm sorry," he finally says, his voice is thick.
"It's okay," I say again. "It's your life and you can do what you want with it. But … just know that someone needs you."
He smiles and I squeeze his hand.
"I need you too Hiccup," he says.