Jo-Anna
Here's the thing about Solitary Confinement. You might think it's a nice little room, with a window and a little cot and somewhere to pee. Well you'd be wrong. It's a dark, dirty little room with a pile of dirty sheets on the floor making up a bed, a small bottle in a corner to pee in and no windows at all. A single, flickering overhead light is the only real light you're offered.
If you're in for a violent outburst, you don't even get a pen and paper. Since I was in for my millionth emotional breakdown, I was left with a pen, my journal, and a thin, clean sheet. Mike looked at me sadly as he lowered me onto the sheets, his eyes showing that maybe, just maybe he did care.
"24 hours, Jo-Anna, then you'll be out. Just don't go doing anything stupid in the meantime," he said softly. I felt the IV being stuck into my arm before I could argue.
"Tell that new kid, Ponyboy, to keep his head up," I murmured as I closed my eyes against the dull headache the sudden rush of sedatives caused.
"He's a good kid, huh?" Mike asked softly. He always spent a little extra time with me when I was sent to solitary. He felt bad about it – he knew it was the doctor's way of breaking us.
"Yeah, he sure is," I nodded. My stomach churned as the meds too effect.
"You're losing more weight, Jo," Mike observed as I rolled onto my side, dry heaving for what felt like the millionth time.
"I know," I said as I spat out the tiny amount of spit that formed in my mouth. "Water, please?"
"You know I can't do that," Mike said sadly. I looked up at him with pleading eyes. Oh, I forgot to mention that. 24 hours, no food, no water, no nothing. Its 24 whole hours of nothingness.
After he left, the hours began to drag. The sedative kept me numb, unable to really move at all. But dehydration and human nature kept me from getting any form of rest. I leaned against the wall, my head fogged by the malnutrition that was starting to slowly kill me.
I doodled from time to time, trying to ease the pain that was slowly taking over my body. My stomach ached, my throat was dry and hoarse. My eyes burned, my head throbbed, my muscles twitched with endless tremors caused by the medication.
By the time 12 hours had passed, I was slipping in and out of a delirious state. The monsters inside my head were wreaking havoc on what little sanity I had left.
By the 18th hour, I was having a conversation with my dead sister.
"Go away," I moaned, my stomach doing flips.
"But Jo, you gotta fight," she said, her childlike tone almost taunting. "You can't give up."
"Go away Lucy," I begged. I looked at her figure with pleading eyes. "You're dead."
"You will be too," she chuckled. "If you don't find the will to fight."
"I'm tired," I tried. My head fell to my hands, hands which were as cold as ice.
"So is everyone else. Mama says to keep fighting," she teased.
"Mama's dead," I whispered.
"So are you."
"No!" I cried out. The room spun around me, causing my stomach to heave. I gasped for air, unable to fill my lungs.
Suddenly the door flew open and strong arms were holding my body still. I felt a wet cloth fall onto my face, causing me to panic even worse. I could faintly make out the sounds of my doctor, the very man who sentenced me to such a cruel, uncanny punishment.
"Her dosage is far too high, Robert!" an unfamiliar voice cried. "What are you trying to do, kill her?"
"She doesn't respond to normal doses," he argued, as if his entire job relied on curing one, unimportant patient.
"Look at her! For crying out loud, Robert, Mike was right! You're killing this poor child!" the voice soon made sense. It was Gloria Stone, the head supervisor. She didn't care about how we were treated, she only cared that we weren't killed. Every one of us who dies makes her looks that much worse.
I jerked in the arms of the person holding me, my body unable to handle the stress the latest round of sedatives had. I felt the world slipping in and out of focus as I finally slipped into a pitiful, unending darkness.
I woke hours later, a fresh bag of medication hanging above my head, the needle barely staying put in my arm. I was aware that someone was sitting beside me, but at the time, I couldn't remember who he was or why he was there. I later learned that it was my very concerned older brother, John, who held my hand loosely in his as he brushed the hair out of my face.
I couldn't understand the words that were coming out of his mouth, but his tone was concerned. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. How long was I out? How long had he been there? None of it made any sense to me.
When Dr. O'Ryan stepped into the room, it took everything in my power not to lash out. My body felt as if I had been ran over by a big rig, my throat burned like someone had shoved metal rods down it. None of it was fair. None of it was right, yet there I was, laying in a hospital bed, my big brother at my side, the man who caused all the pain standing over me, trying to explain the situation to a man who could barely understand anything that didn't have to do with cars, broads, or horses.
It took all of three weeks for me to finally regain enough strength to return to Ward C. The first person to welcome me back was Mike. He looked at me with sad eyes as he lightly led the way through the halls. I found myself sitting in the rec room, my eyes locked in the distance as a cigarette hung loosely in my hand. Ponyboy came up beside me, his tone gentle as he gave me a message from Donna.
"Keep fighting, kid, you're gonna get out of here real soon and when you do, you're going to look back and realize that all the pain was worth it," he said she had said. "She's a smart person," he said gently as he took the cigarette from my hand. I looked up at him, not really comprehending what he had just said.
"I'm gonna die here, Ponyboy," I said hoarsely. "They're gonna kill us all."
A look of fear crossed his face, and though I felt horrible for frightening the boy, I couldn't bring myself to comfort him. It was the truth, afterall. That was exactly what was going to happen. It happened every now and then, a screaming girl or a fighting boy would be carted off, never to be seen again. How long would it take before it was one of us? How long before one of us broke, never to return to the ward we long since called home?
I looked past him, the man in black standing in the shadows of the dim, gloomy room. His shook his head almost as if to taunt me for even trying to think on the bright side. Death would be easy, simple, welcomed. No, we would rot here in this ward until hell froze over. Isn't that why Donna and I had tried so hard to die? Because living was worse than death could ever be. Death was silent. It was simple. It was an eternity of nothingness. Living was cruel. Living was full of hatred, pain and sorrow. No, death was good. Death…death was welcomed.
Ponyboy tossed my notebook to me. Apparently my brother had recorded the last three weeks for me. As I flipped through the pages, I learned that I wasn't totally under the whole time. No, I was very much awake.
She screamed and cried for mom today. All day, she swore up and down that mom was coming home, that mom was just at the store. She's like a little girl again. Scared, broken and alone. It breaks my heart to see her like this.
Tonight she cried for Ponyboy. I wish I could thank the kid for getting her through that day. If I'm remembering the family correctly, he's the youngest of Darry's brothers. Man, Darry's a good guy. We went to school together, used to throw the ball around when we were kids. Deep down, Jo has to remember that. She has to remember that we knew the Curtis' when we were kids. Shoot, who didn't? Martha and Darrel were practically parents to all us screw ups.
Real shame their middle son got drafted. That damned war…
Anyway, Jo, I know you're gonna read this, the doc said it might be good for you. Just know I'm rooting for you on the other side, okay? Please be brave, okay? You're gonna get better and you're gonna get outta here and we're going to move on with our lives. Just keep fighting, baby sister, ya hear?
I blinked back tears as I read his sloppy handwriting again and again. John had always been there for me, through every uphill battle and stupid mistake. He was there the first time I overdosed on heroin. He was there the first time he found me cutting my wrists with a rusted blade. He was there when I came home in tears, only to find the house engulfed in flames, everything we knew and loved burnt to a crisp. He held me tight that night, telling me over and over that it was going to be okay. Like I could believe that. My twin…my better half was gone, as was my baby sister, a sweet, innocent little girl. Oh, and Rusty, our little terrier. He was my best friend and losing him was the final nail in the coffin.
Actually, no. Losing Dally was the final nail. When news of his death reached me, I lost any hope of getting out of that horrible place alive. That same night, the hospital staff was forced to make life altering decisions, thanks to my little decision to swallow a bottle of pills and a shit load of bleach. To this day, I don't remember where either came from.
"You good?" Ponyboy asked softly, his hand falling onto my arm. I jerked away, nodding quickly.
"Yeah."
"It's gonna be okay. You and me, we'll get outta here," he said softly.
"You think?"
"I know."
Somehow, his confidence was what I needed. His pure confidence was enough to give me a little extra strength. Before I had a chance to think, I found myself wrapping my arms around him, pulling him in for the first hug I'd received in over a year. We normally didn't hug, us crazies. We'd slap you a five or give you a knowing look, but we didn't hug. It wasn't our thing. But this kid…he was different. He was special. Maybe he could save us all.
A/n - I'd love to know what you guys think so far! I'll be working 6 straight overnights this week, so an update will probably come by the end of the week. I'd love to get a little feedback before then! Let me know how I'm doing, if I'm making things too confusing, ect. All feedback is greatly appreciated! :)
