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Ancillae
Chapter Five: Perfections
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I am much too tired to fight when Megan and Horatio push me into the backseat nor do I argue when she once again moves to get into the driver's seat. I do not care anymore.
H buckles me in, never doing the same for himself, before placing the unchained arm across my shoulders, "Okay, buddy." He tells me, "I'm going to call your parents when we get there, okay?"
"Yes." I look away from him. I knew they'd eventually brush me off to some one…I'd just hoped it wouldn't be my father, my mother. They'll be here for two days, if that, and then leave because of the business. I won't see Jude; he won't come to see his big brother locked away.
I hear him sigh from beside me, "You don't want me to call them." It's an observation, I know, but his tone of voice passes it off as a question.
"No."
"Why?"
Should I tell him the way of the Speedle family? That we pretty much ignore everything. My parents watched me bury Annabel and Blaise, never saying a word. They still think she was just my best friend, and I did what I did because of that. They never ask about that single year I took off, take for granted that I used my head to rent hotel rooms and buy food…rather than let themselves delve into reality.
Which is ironic, since my mother's a social worker. Funny.
"Because I don't want them here."
He looks worried all of a sudden, so I know he's holding back another question.
"Because they won't be here long. And…and I want…you and Meg." I stutter through, but it all comes tumbling from my lips.
And, quite sadly, this is true. I do not want my preening family, I don't want Eric and Calleigh either – I just want the two of them. They have not passed judgment.
"Uh, well…" He starts. I figured he might look for a way out once I asked.
"Never mind. Call my mother." I had looked back to him, and now I turn my head once more, trying to avoid the inevitable.
"Timmy, what the dolt is trying to say to you is that we're already here. He's got to work, but I know he'll be beside you if you ask. I've got no life and no job so you're already the only thing in my planner."
I snort, "What ever." The building comes into view, looming over us as we pull into the main parking lot. I seriously hate these places. They smell of death while they talk of life.
The engine has started to cool. Megan's staring at me, "You ready?"
I glare at her, yet it is weak and unconvincing, if one were to judge by her facial expression.
"Come on, Buddy." Horatio's released my shoulders, and is now tugging on the handcuffs.
I really don't want to get out. My breathing is living up to my nickname; my eyelids have closed against the thought running through my head.
No! No dying…not until I've been unchained from him. I said before, and I'll say it again – I'll commit suicide, quite happily, but I won't take anyone with me.
Both of them are standing at the open passenger door now, looking at me blithely. I don't know why, but my body moves dully toward them.
"Alright." The boss breathes once I am in the Miami air. His hands find their way to my unwounded wrist, then begins leading me to the glass doors, the air conditioned waiting room of the Mental Health Services of Jackson Memorial.
This walk is harrowing.
I don't want to go! Stop! Take me home. Please! I want to yell all that and more, but my mouth refuses to work. I jerk away, pulling forcefully on Horatio's wrist as I do so. He yelps and I tug harder.
"Tim!" Meg shrieks, as her arms go around me. She's small, but she is by no means as weak as I am currently, "It's alright now. It's alright." She tries to soothe. It's not working. Still, I have no strength left. I relax into her grip.
"It's not alright." I reply, digging my nails beneath the bandages. I need to feel. Please let me feel.
My appendages are caught in someone else's hands, "Speed. We know. We know it's not alright. It hasn't been alright for a long time, and that's why we're doing this. This is not a punishment. We don't want to come to work one day to find out it's your body Alexx is autopsying."
Fuck. How can I argue with that? How the fuck can I even reason my way around that? I cannot. "I want to die. Please. Just…just let me die." I don't know there are tears on my face until they have plopped to the asphalt.
"I can't do that, buddy." He lisps, grabbing my hand. This time, however, he does not tug me in the direction he wants us to travel.
A few minutes pass, while I try to collect myself. Once again we start the trek to the building, and my best friend's clinging to my arm – it's a small comfort. I'll need it when I've been tossed in the quiet room, when they've tied me to the bed.
When we enter the building, the cool air forces goosebumps to appear on my exposed skin. It's the middle of the night, making it a touch cooler so it's perplexing that the AC is even on.
"Can I help you?" A nurse asks Horatio, and I start to let my mind blank them out. I don't want to hear them; I don't want to know they're talking about me as though I'm not even in the room.
I don't want to be here. I don't.
"Tim?" The woman nurse touches my arm.
"What?" I snap back, hoping she'll go away.
She doesn't do that though. She speaks, "I'm Lynette. Dr. Codyn will be down to speak with you in a little while." then begins leading me to a room, never once saying anything to Meg or H. It's an ordinary room that she takes us to, like other hospital rooms. "I'll need to see your arms."
I'd panicked for a minute, thinking she'd ask to see them all. I will gladly let her see my arms, so I hold them out for her to remove the gauze. They come off almost painstakingly, the fabric being rolled into tight balls. The cuts in my palms have started bleeding again.
"This is infected." She tells me, once my left wrist has been uncovered. The marks are an angry red, oozing yellow pus at the very end, "Did you do this with your nails?"
"No." I shrug, "Knife."
She nods; I see Meg shudder. I wonder why. She's seen me like this before, with marks from a steak knife, a razor blade – I've even used the broken scope slides at work. Hell, she's caught me with the object in my hands.
"You've been here to see Dr. Codyn before."
"Multiple times." When I first came to Miami, after Blaise, the night of Graduation, two days following Meg's departure…
Once more, she nods in understanding, and continues treating my arms, wrists, and hands, "Now, may I see the rest?" She inquires, which momentarily ceases my heart.
I can barely bring myself to open my lips, "The…the rest? There aren't any more."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Horatio toss me a look that says 'just-cooperate!'. I suppose he'll stay for a bit if I do so, but the stinging pains from the exposed gashes impede the process of removing my shirt. The boss steps up after I spend an instant struggling to get it off, gathers the fabric, then rips it from the middle of the collar to the extreme left of the hem. Doesn't bother me in the slightest. I'm still wearing something to cover my back.
The tape is eased from my abdomen, and I'm unsurprised to find this cut is infected as well, though it seems to be slightly worse. Lynette prods it, discovering I'll groan and dark blood will drip from it if she pokes at the edge.
"Ow!" I can't help it. She's grabbed a swab to wipe away what she can. H is holding my best friend back. She's about ready to pummel the other woman.
"I'm sorry. There's dirt or sand in this one."
Well, when someone tackles you on the never-been-swept patio, that can happen, now can't it? I want to yell. However, Andrew Codyn has appeared and he looks more upset than my own friends.
"Hey there." Drew tosses at me. He's a few years older than H. Forty-seven, I think. Already going gray, but his brown eyes are a lot like Meg's – full of life. Like mine must've been once an era ago.
"Hi."
"I was wondering when you'd get here again."
Ah, so he had no faith in me either. I purse my lips, then bit my tongue when a piece of the scab is inadvertently ripped away and blood seeps out. It stains the edge of my worn lounge pants like thick, sticky smooth, red paint. The color of my bathroom floor. My fingers drift to it.
Someone grabs them, and I realize it's my boss, "No, Speed." He warns, then lets me go. He continues to stand beside me.
And I understand why when the rubbing alcohol-saturated pad comes in contact with the reopened cut. I hiss at it. I don't know why…this is pleasure. This is happiness. I still hiss at it.
"Relax. Breathe, buddy." I'm trying to figure out where this buddy thing came from. It's almost like it came out of thin air. Is this his way of telling me that he's worried? Or is he just working on getting home to dress for work?
The pleasure ends, as does the torture, "More." It comes out against my will, causing everyone in the room to look at me as though I've sprouted another head, "Sorry."
"You know you've left me with very few options, right?" Drew states, catching my line of sight.
"Yeah." I answer, then, "Inpatient, partial hospitalization, or police custody until the state decides if they've got enough reason to commit me."
He groans. I know he doesn't like it when I say it's being 'committed'. He says it makes it sound like prison – but to me, it is. There are no locks on the doors, the staff was gentle and kind the one overnight I was forced into, but it still means my job gets put in jeopardy and my family will hear.
"Just inpatient me."
The shock in his eyes is mirrored by Megan and Horatio. They brought me here – did they not think I'd known this was coming?
Codyn leaves me then, taking my friends so I am alone in the room. Lynette does not count.
I do not want to be here. I don't. I want to go home, back to my apartment. I want my knives in my hands, one slicing through my skin. The idea of that alone makes me want to moan.
"Is there anything else that I should treat?" The question pierces the thoughts I had.
"No." I am somewhat surprised that she hasn't pressed for more.
My stomach growls. Loudly. But it's not food I'm looking for. No, it's a toilet or a basin or something to empty the bile into. I almost don't find one, yet at the last moment a kidney bean shaped pan is thrust under my face. Everything comes up, some blood as well.
I turn my head, wiping my mouth of the acidic grime, to see the nurse staring at the elder man, worry etched into her face as though she were a sculpture.
"He's got stomach ulcers. Ones I believed he was being treated for." Drew pulls the pan away hesitantly, then places it on a counter across from the bed I'm in. My best friend and the boss are back in here, standing to the side.
"Meds made me sick. Couldn't work if I couldn't get out of bed." It's true. They had me on something that didn't help. If anything, it made it worse. I cut the syrup from my regime and things got a little better. In a matter of speaking.
"Only you, Tim."
"Speed."
He rolls his eyes. Meg's resisting the urge to hit him. She's never liked Drew; I do. So she'll behave, and I'm glad for that. He treats me like I'm human, like I won't break. That's what I want and need.
"Have you been taking the other meds you were prescribed?"
I contemplate the answer for a moment. Should I tell him a lie? That I've been taking them religiously. Or the truth? Eh, might as well. I'm going to be sleeping with restraints by the dawn anyway, "No. Not for…"
"For?" He stands up straighter, trying to push me into telling him. I won't. I don't have to.
"Since I left." She interjects, "Oh, Timmy. Honey." She's choking around her words. Swiftly, she steps across the distance between us, grazes a hand down my cheek, and then kisses the same skin she just touched, "You had my cell number, didn't you? The private one? You know I won't have ignored you if you had called that one."
"I didn't have that number." I shove her back, "So I called your apartment a bunch of times. I left messages on your answering machine and your work cell."
She looks at me, brokenhearted, "You had the number for second one. I…I wrote it down for you. E-mailed it too."
"I'm telling you I didn't have the fucking number, unless you mean it's the one that was disconnected because you didn't pay the bill!" I'm really getting bitter, only because I don't want to burst out in tears. I'm stronger than that.
And the realization hits her. All these past years, she has told me time and time again that she was here for me. If I needed help, call her. But I had her beside me, so I hadn't needed to outright ask – then one day she wasn't there. I couldn't even reach her.
Megan backs out of the room, her hand over her mouth. Once outside the door, she turns and flees.
I knew she'd leave. No matter what she said, I knew she'd leave me alone again, leave me alone with some old pictures and a bloodied blade, and I knew it was only a matter of time.
"I'll be right back, Tim." The redhead tells me, then exits in the same fashion my ex-best friend did.
"They're both coming back. So stop looking like a child whose pet died."
"But they aren't coming back. They might say they are, but they won't."
"And you believe that, why?" He asks me, probably expecting that I'll say that I don't have a reason.
I keep silent. I don't want to give away that it is more than a gut feeling. He'll say I'm crazy, put me on the anti-psychotics that come in IV drip form. Bruises always come from those. Purple-green splotches like battle scars, running the length of my arms. Needle tracks that make me look like one of the junkies we find in alleyways.
God, I'm turning into Horatio.
Who returns to the room as soon as the thought runs through my frontal lobe, "Megan's washing her face." Am I supposed to say something to that?
"We'll be transferring you upstairs in a few minutes. You're lucky enough to escape having a roommate for the moment." Lynette's too fucking cheery. I hope she's not the woman who'll be assigned to me in the ward.
Andrew must be a mind reader, because he turns to me, while the woman isn't looking in his immediate direction, he mouths, 'She's yours. Get used to her.'
I need to cut, rip these old wounds open to bleed out the loss of control. And it's entirely my fault too. Stupid things I said, this is the effect.
My searching eyes rove over many different implements. None within my reach. Then I notice the lancet.
It's merely laying there on the stainless steel table, and I swear my name is written on it. But how to get my scarred, antiseptic-covered hands on it…Oh, what the hell. IV's aren't bad; if you jerk them the right way, they give off flashes of pain.
I lunge for it, taking them all by surprise, and have it dug into my stomach in seconds. I scratch it up, down, left right. All the while, Horatio and Drew are trying to get a hold on me, without injuring themselves in the process. Somehow I crawl into the corner of the room, wedged between the counter and the wall. I slick it down my chest, between my nipples and through the soon-to-be scars to the top of my navel. The line causes biting sensations like a paper cut.
"Give that to me. Now!" H holds out a hand. I stare at him momentarily, the calloused skin of the extended appendage. Back to the implement. I notice my pants have rolled up slightly, displaying my ankle's dull, pasty skin. I pull my leg into the space, bent at an odd angle, but I slice into it anyway. Suck it up. Drag a finger over it.
And feel…sadness, hopelessness. Broken.
When my brain catches up, I realize I am crying into my knees that have been drawn up to my chest, my hands cradling my temples. Meg's kneeling in front of me, the lancet being handed back to my boss. She's stretching a limb to me, eventually stroking through my disheveled hair.
"Ready to come out?" She asks.
I want to. I do. But it's safe here. Yet, her eyes, those fucking brown eyes… "Tired."
"I know. There's a bed for you upstairs." She's moved to run her soft fingers across the purple bags, taking away the tears, "Come on. We'll go take a nap." Slowly, she stands, still touching me.
She's treating me like a scared child. Like the children my mother helps, loves, believes.
"Oh…Okay." I don't know why that word comes out so lifeless, split in half as though I can't control my own vocal cords.
I see Drew step backward and I can see the straps on the exam bed. I can't blame them. I wouldn't trust me either. He knows I can see them, says nothing to me – he knows I put little value on such things.
Words are merely cover for the lies we are told daily. And my lies will remain embedded under my frail epidermis, marked and marred.
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*v* Cassie Jamie *v*
cj.1@cassie-jamie.com
Raven: I know it's a day late, but I hope you liked it. I accidentally lost your e-mail. If it's alright, would you e-mail me in a few days? You know, something to remind me to write the next chapter.
And to answer your question, I do some research, but I've got friends and family who tell me about their experiences.
Meggo: Why, thank you.
CSIRMT: Also, thank you. Might I ask what the RMT stands for?
Aphy: *Untackles our darling Tim* He'll resist soon enough. And it's definitely weird how easy it is to see him doing something like this. But what the hell…
jo: Over detailed…I actually think my writing is very detailed. But if people like it as it is… Like I told a friend – It's always nice to hear I don't have the atrocious linguistics of a rock.