Psychological evaluation.
You have got to be kidding me.
Don't get me wrong, if I didn't have all of the friends that have become my family around me, supporting me so much that I think they're the only reason I'm even standing, I know I'd be first in line for a straight jacket in the crazy house.
And everyone's brought it up at least once to me about going to see a therapist, talking my feelings out so that I can process this crap storm that has become my life.
I've thought about it.
And decided I don't want to do it.
Isn't it bad enough I described in pretty graphic detail on the stand in a courtroom full of people what these last few months have done to me?
You'd think it'd be easy, just telling one more person how screwed up I always feel after telling so many people at the same time. But no. I can't. I don't want to talk about it any more.
For now, I'm done.
When I told this to Dr. Odenlenski after she brought up the idea of a "psychological evolution for the good of my future well being", she suggested that I was already treading in the first stages of recovery—denial—and that it'd be best if there was a trained, certified professional to help me along the rest of the way.
She's wrong.
I'm not in denial. I know full well what happened to me and as hard as it was, and I'm not even sure when this happened, but I accepted what happened to me a while ago.
I don't need, nor want, some stranger listening to the same story I've told countless times to who knows how many people. I know it helps most people, like Vika and maybe even Liss if she decides to eventually go, to talk it out with a professional but not me.
Not know anyway.
As I keep saying over and over again both in my head and out loud to anyone who is kind enough to listen to me instead of talking for and about me while I'm in the room, trying to figure out the whole guardianship, hospital release papers situation, I just need time.
I need to take a breather.
I need some fresh air away from courtrooms, police stations, legal proceedings, legal offices, hospitals and self defense gyms.
I need to sit by my lonesome for a while and maybe scream my head off or cry until my tear ducts are as dry as the Sierra Desert.
I need to take a quick break to prepare myself until I'm ready to come back into the horrifying place that is reality and think about what I'm going to do about the complicated situations in my life; how am I going to move out of this town, if I'm going to college, if Lissa is coming with me baby and all, if Dimitri and I will make it as a couple if I ever eventually deal with the nightmares and memories and fear, if I can find another job, if I'll even graduate high school considering how long its been since I've done any of the assignments my teachers put together and emailed me.
No one's really listening to me though.
I don't see what the big issue here is.
I was allowed to leave the hospital before when Stan take temporary claim as my guardian and signed the release papers.
Now he's taking the good doctor's side and advocating I talk to the psychiatrist too before anyone signs any thing that will get me out of here.
Everyone is here, Lissa, the Belikovs, Stan, Christian, even Tasha, debating about what's best for me at the moment.
"You look like you're about to tear your hair out."
I peak through my fingers, blocking my face, and Ibrahim standing in the doorway of my hospital room.
If I wasn't so tired, sore, suffering from a dull pain in my head and shoulder, and contemplating an escape out the window, my face my show some surprise at his being here.
He walks further into the room, slowly, his cane tapping lightly against the floor.
"I hate hospitals," he says by way of conversation.
"Is this a conversation starter?"
He laughs at the irritation in my voice.
"It was," he admits.
"If I play along, will you leave?"
"Leave?" he asks, holding his hand to his chest as though I've hurt him. "Why, Rosemarie, I'm hurt."
I roll my eyes and then immediately groan, the pain in my head no longer as dull as I'd like it to be. I sink further into my bed hopping I'll eventually drift back into the sleep the way I've been doing these last few days in this hospital.
I hear him as he steps even closer, taking the seat that Dimitri and Lissa have alternated in occupying.
I open one eye to see him hanging his cane on the rail of my bed and stretching his legs out as though he'll be here for a while. He looks around the room, sniffs the sterilized air, and then finally looks back at me.
"I really do hate hospitals," he says after a moment. "I've been in far too many for my liking over the years."
I think about not answering him, feigning sleep but I've come to know him well enough over the last month in a half to know he's isn't easily dissuaded and he won't be going away any time soon.
"I don't think anyone likes hospitals," I finally reply.
"I imagine doctors do," he muses.
I just shrug, indicating how much I just don't care about this conversation.
I am curious as to why he's here. I've been here close to a week and not once has he been here. Christian even angrily muttered once that he didn't seem at all shaken or effected when I'd been shot.
I find myself laughing humorlessly that the people who care about me the most aren't my mother and father who are both relatively healthy. My mother is hiding out somewhere after running away from her daughter who needed her and here sits the man who is my father, uncaring and only here because of some promise he'd made to my mother.
My stomach suddenly hurts as I laugh even harder at the realization of it all. I laugh so hard thinking back to everything I've endured, the hurricane of emotions and pain I've experienced, the frighteningly uncertain future I face, the mother that I'm now accepting I've lost, tears start to fall from my eyes. I laugh so hard that in the back of my mind, even I'm becoming a little concerned about my mental stability.
When I sober enough to finally breathe, I glance at Ibrahim who is watching me, for once, without any humor or sarcasm on his face.
"Sorry," I apologize, still giggling, despite the increasing throbbing of my headache and in my body in general. I guess the fall I took after being shot was harder than I remember. I remember feeling numb but once that numbness subsided, all hell broke loose within my body. "It's just funny to me," I find myself saying out loud.
I don't even think I'm really talking to him.
More to myself than anything but since he's here and he's apparently willing to listen...
"You know when you're in, like, elementary school and people are always asking what you want to be when you grow up? Somehow, I didn't think this was where I'd be," I laugh again but try to push it down to avoid worsening the pain.
I don't expect him to say anything but surprisingly, he does.
"You're not grown up. Not quite yet," he amends, when I turn my gaze to his. "You're still a child, Rosemarie. Despite what you've endured, you're still a child. That's what makes it even more heartbreaking I guess."
He talks about this as simply as if we're talking about the weather.
"I'm seventeen years old and I feel like I'm...even older than that," I finish when I can't quite describe just how I feel. "I feel...tired, drained. I feel like my life is over which sounds like what every other over dramatic teenager says but...I shouldn't feel like this. It's...it's not normal to feel like this. I'm not normal. I don't like feeling like this but..." I shrug my shoulders, turning my unfinished thoughts over in my head. "I've grown use to feeling like this."
I take a deep breath and glance at him to see if he's still listening to my jumbled, garbled words. Again, to my surprise, he is. Intently.
"I'm not making any sense, am I?" I ask, ready to laugh without any humor again.
"None what so ever," he replies.
Maybe whatever medication they've been pumping into my IV bag is starting to take its toll on me. Maybe I'm drifting off into craziness and then they won't have to debate about my talking to psychiatrist. They'll just secure me in a straight jacket and send me on my way.
"If you're so tired of all of this," he gestures toward the door where everyone is outside probably still talking and disagreeing and then he gestures to the hospital bed, "go talk to that psychiatrist the way they want you to. It's supposed to help you stop feeling like this."
"I don't want to talk about it any more. Isn't that what psychiatrist make you do? Talk? No, I don't want to talk and try to dissect what I've been through. Not now any way. Eventually...maybe...maybe one day I will but not right now."
"Well then what do you want to do right now? Beside laying here rambling and laughing like a nut case," he asks.
I'm ready to roll my eyes that his direct sense of humor has returned and I start to again think about why he's even here, listening to me ramble...and then something occurs to me.
"I don't suppose...you could sign me out?" he seems unfazed by my sudden question. "You never signed your parental rights away or anything like that, did you? Grandma said you just left, took off and left. You can still be considered a parental guardian...right?"
He quirks a brow at me. "What do you know about parental guardianship rights?"
I shrug. "I watch a lot of crime shows, dramas."
"Interesting," he says as though it really doesn't interest him at all. He leans forward to grab his cane and places it in front of him. "You'll be happy to know that I never signed my parental rights away," he informs me, grinning. "Now we can begin the good old fashioned father daughter bonding where you reluctantly come live with me but over time we build a family relationship, your mother returns and all is well," he says jokingly.
"You can forget about the bonding part," I say, sitting up now that he has my attention. He can get me out of here. "All I need is for you to sign me out of here and then we can go our separate ways. There's no reasons for you to even still be in town," I point out.
"True," he concedes. "My deal with your mother was that I'd take your case. I said nothing about taking care of you. And frankly this small town, small city, is a bit dull for liking. I'm ready to return home."
"Will you sign the release papers?" I asked, not caring about what he does now that the trial is over. I just need to get out.
He stands up slowly, leaning casually on his cane. I guess he wasn't planning on visiting for long after all. I expected as much.
"I'll sign the papers," he says in a breathy sign as though it's just way too much trouble but he'll do it any way. "But I expect something in return."
"What?" I ask, anxious to leave. I'm already plotting my escape past those who care about me most out there. I know they care and I can't even describe how much I appreciate them for it, but I have to get out here. I have to get away. Just for a while.
"Not now. I'll collect your debt later. For now I'll sign the release papers. All you have to do is remember I did this for you if I come to you with a favor in the future. Are we clear?"
This is the most serious I've ever seen him and for a second I'm a little afraid as to what his favor is going to be. He doesn't seem like the type of man to forget who owes him favors either. For a second, he no longer seems like the witty, sarcastic dry humored lawyer that I've come to know in the last month and a half. He's a different man entirely, almost like those old mobster movies that come on TV.
Despite my fear, I nod.
My urge to leave this hospital overwhelms my fear.
I feel like I'm making a deal with the devil but I agree to it anyway. "We have a deal."
He nods curtly and moves for the door as I'm already swinging my legs out of the hospital bed, ready to pull my clothes on and find the nearest exit. I'm contemplating how to detach myself from the hospital machinery without alerting anybody when Ibrahim speaks.
I thought he already left.
He's standing near the door, hand on the knob ready to leave when he asks, "Aren't you concerned about your mother? I told you I'd tell you where she was once this was over. Don't you want to know?"
Almost immediately I shake my head. "No. Not really. I get the feeling she's doing just fine without me. She doesn't want to be here and I can't say I blame her," I mutter.
He nods once, turning my words over in his head for a second before he murmurs "fair enough" as he slips out the door.
The crunch-squish of the melting snow under my feet has never sounded so good.
Luckily for me, a nurse was sent to help detach me from the hospital machines once Ibrahim signed the papers. She made a point of telling me that Dr. Odenlenski and the rest of my visitors were in the doctor's office, being notified of my sudden discharge but I ignored her, quickly dressing and already out the door before anyone could come find me, stopping my escape.
I felt like laughing once I made it off the hospital grounds and to the main road feeling...free. I smiled but I didn't laugh. I know how worried everyone will be. I know I'm a horrible person for slipping out of their sight when they're just trying to help me.
I'm filled with even more guilt than the guilt I've been carrying since the first rape-
No. I'm not going to think about that any more. Not now.
Instead I focus on Ibrahim.
I thought about how easy it was for the man who is supposedly my father to sign me out of the hospital without questioning where I was going to go, without asking if I was alright. I guess I really mean nothing to him. The thought doesn't bother me. It's just the first time I really realized it. I almost want to say I mean nothing to my mother but I don't think that's it. I know she loves me in her own way but she thinks about herself more. But she was scared and couldn't handle anything that was happening. I'm mad at her, yes but I get it. I understand her urge to just slip away for a while.
I don't even know where I'm going. The park? The gym? Home?
No.
The point of this is to go where no one can find me.
I start to slow down, thinking of where I can go for a while but then I remember that I'm still pretty close to the hospital. If Dimitri or Christian or Stan decides to hop in their car to come and get me, they still might have a chance.
I start running.
It hurts, my lungs burn, my arms ache, the cramp in my side is protesting for me to stop but a small part in the back of my mind, the sense of adrenaline tells me it feels good and to keep going despite the pounding headache, my body ache and that I was shot less than a week ago.
Another stroke of luck for me that when Lissa brought my bag of over night clothes the other day, my wallet was inside. I hop on to the first bus I see, letting it take me to wherever the end of its line is. The city flies by my window. I watch both amused and slightly jealous of the men, women, and children go about their everyday business seemingly without a care in the world.
None of them look like they're recovering from a gunshot wound or escaped from a hospital.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my bag, alerting me to five missed calls from Liss and Dimitri and that my phone is soon going to die. I'm surprised it's even lasted this long. Well, if it dies then I have more of a reason not to return any of the calls to explain why I took off, not right away at least.
But I figure I can at least send a quick text to let them know I'm okay at least.
I'm okay. I just need to get some air for a while. I'll be back soon.
I think about adding an apology at the end of the message but I type and delete it a few times before just deciding to level it out. Would I be apologizing for running without letting them know where am I when they're just trying to help me? Is it guilt? Am I sorry that it seems like I'm not grateful?
It's probably all of those things.
I decide not to think about it too much. Now that I'm finally on my own and free for a while, I'm going to enjoy myself.
Before I can slide my phone back into my bag, a message appears from Dimitri.
Take care of yourself. We're here for you when you need us
The amount of affection I feel from that one text makes my heart sweet and for a second I consider hopping off at the next stop and making my way back to the family that's waiting for me ready to apologize profusely.
I keep going.
I have to do this on my own.
I take a deepisode breath and shove my phone back into my bag before pulling it out once more.
Just one quick reply.
I know
The second I see the message goes through the phone dies and a part of me is grateful.