Disclaimer: don't own.
"Progress". The word was something of a mantra here; there were, Dr. Courtland reminded her patients often, no "miracle cures" in psychiatry, but so long as they were taking steps forward – however small – then they had hope.
But Trina had found progress to be a slippery thing to measure. Physically, she could feel the pain of her wounds diminishing into a dull, throbbing ache that bothered her only when she sought to fall asleep; but mentally, emotionally, spiritually – there she was less sure.
She knew that she was opening up to people. There were daily chess games with Adam, movie nights in the rec room, and heart-to-hearts with Dr. Courtland. Yet still there hovered beneath the surface her suspicion that everyone was studying her, quietly judging her, and that one day they would turn on her and pronounce her a failure. And if that happened, she knew she would fall again into the pit, and this time there would be no climbing back out.
Matters came to a head with the arrival of a new patient. She was called Meredith – a petite, freckled redhead, somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five years old, with a snub nose and piercing green eyes. At first she spoke little; her fellow patients made the usual overtures of friendship, but she responded only by nodding ever so slightly, while curling the corners of her lips into a smile that had an odd sense of falsehood about it. It was as if she were some sort of robot trying, with only limited success, to imitate human emotions. And, much to Trina's discomfort, she never blinked. Not once. Trina couldn't help but notice that Dr. Courtland and the orderlies kept a particularly close eye on Meredith; they tensed up automatically and exchanged glances whenever she entered a room, as if expecting trouble.
The discomfiture among the other patients was palpable at the next group therapy session. Even the ever-talkative Frank seemed reluctant to share when transfixed by Meredith's unwavering stare. Trina groaned inwardly when her turn came around.
"Trina," said Dr. Courtland, smiling as usual but keeping one eye on the redheaded newcomer, "Why don't you tell us something you love to do?"
She shifted in her seat nervously. "Um…well…I love to shop, naturally. And trying on clothes – that's always a blast. And flirting, of course…"
"Anything else?"
"That's…that's about it." But even as Trina spoke, she knew that Dr. Courtland saw through her lie.
"Remember, Trina, you don't have to hide anything here," said the psychiatrist softly.
"I…."
Word of advice, kiddo. Give up singing and find a career more suited to your talents.
"I enjoy…"
Like dishwashing, say, or janitorial work.
"I…I can't…I'm sorry…"
"I believe in you, Trina," said Dr. Courtland.
"So do I," said Frank.
"Me too," said Adam.
You know what? To hell with fear.
"I love to sing!" she cried. "More than anything, anything in the world."
Everyone in the circle smiled.
"It gives you joy," said Dr. Courtland. "Am I right?"
"Yes, God yes. It's so freeing."
For the first time since she had arrived, Meredith spoke. "Why don't you sing for us now?"
"Could I?" Trina asked Dr. Courtland, beaming. But the psychiatrist was looking, not at her, but at Meredith – studying the newcomer's impassive face warily.
"Doctor? Could I?" Trina said again.
"Hm? Why, yes. Yes, of course you may, if you'd like."
She stood, feeling herself bathed in an imaginary limelight. "All I want is everything, yes everything, too much is not enough! I'm sick of settling for in between, and I'm not giving up! AS LONG AS IT FEELS RIGHT, AT LEAST WE KNOW…"
"Dr. Courtland," murmured Meredith, "Could you please stop whoever's strangling that poor cat?"
Trina froze. "What?"
"Oh, my mistake. That was your attempt at singing." Meredith's tone never changed; there was no inflection in her voice or movement in her face as she spoke. "It's a wonder you ever felt the need to commit suicide. If you were that eager to die, surely your listeners would have been happy to oblige you."
There was a roar of disapproval. Adam leaped out of his seat, a vein in his forehead bulging; only Frank's hand on his shoulder kept him from leaping upon the newcomer.
"Meredith, stop it," snapped Dr. Courtland. "This is no place for that sort of behavior, and you know it."
"Still working out the rage over your divorce?" responded the redhead placidly. "I see the tan line on your ring finger; no more wedding band, huh? Did he get tired of listening to you asking him how he felt every day? Or did he decide to trade up for a woman a little less baggy around the eyes and saggy around the – well, you know," and she nodded at Dr. Courtland's chest.
"That is ENOUGH!" the psychiatrist yelled.
"Why don't you cram it, you soulless b-" Adam began.
"You seem distraught," said Meredith. "Perhaps you should go wash your hands a few hundred times to calm down? After all, I'm told that skin calluses are considered incredibly sexy in certain circles."
Adam sank back slowly into his chair and buried his face in his hands.
"I knew it," hissed Courtland. "I knew that bringing you here was a mistake. You're going to the lockdown wing. Now."
For the first time, Meredith's composure broke. Her fingers tightened into claws.
"How dare you presume to order me around. You worthless insect. I'll tear your fucking HEART out-"
With a quick gesture from Courtland, three orderlies seized the struggling Meredith by the arms. They dragged her away, ignoring her banshee-like screams and violent flailing.
The remaining members of the group stared at one another, too shocked to speak.
"I'm truly sorry," said Dr. Courtland at last. "Meredith…Meredith suffers from both sociopathic personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder. She's extremely intelligent, and she has considerable skill at finding and exploiting others' insecurities. I had hoped that a less restrictive treatment environment might help her learn healthy social interactions, but clearly that was a colossal error in judgment on my part. Please forgive me. Adam. T-Trina." She fell silent as a single tear formed at the corner of her eye.
Adam, rubbing his hands together madly, murmured "Not your fault…three…four…five…you don't need to apologize…six…seven…eight…please, God, help me…"
Temporarily suppressing her own pain, Trina knelt before him, took gentle hold of his hands, and pulled them apart. "No, don't, please! I have to keep going!" he cried.
"Don't let the things she said control you, Adam," Trina whispered. "She can only have power over us if we let her."
"If…if we let…" He stopped. "You're right. You're absolutely right. Thank you." She released his hands, and, after a moment, he let them fall into his lap.
"You're a wise woman, Trina Vega," he whispered as she rose. "Don't ever let anybody tell you otherwise."
Even as she smiled at him, Trina felt herself overcome by a great wave of weariness. Meredith's words still rang in her ears, and she felt as if her heart had been torn in two. "Would you mind if I go lie down, Dr. Courtland?" she asked.
"Of course not. Take as long a rest as you need."
She turned to go, but halted in her tracks when she heard Adam say quietly: "You know, you never finished that song."
Stunned, she spun back around and studied the other group members' faces. "Do you guys…do you really want me to finish?"
They nodded.
Trina hesitated only a moment before the dream-spotlight fell on her again. "AS LONG AS IT FEELS RIGHT, AT LEAST WE KNOW THAT WE'RE ALIVE! All I want is everything, yes everything, whoa oh…"
Her voice died away. Oh, my God, that was so far off key. I ought to be ashamed of myself.
Adam began to applaud slowly. A few moments later, so did Frank. Then, to Trina's amazement, Dr. Courtland joined in. Suddenly the dam broke, and everyone was raucously clapping, cheering, whistling.
It all became clear to her at that moment.
I'm never going to be a great singer.
And you know what? It doesn't matter. Not one bit. I'm gonna keep on singing until my throat is sore, all the days of my life.
And with that, Trina Vega was no longer standing in the cold glow of the spotlight, but in the warmth of the springtime sun.