Chapter Six
My therapist told me to write him a poem.
He said it would help him to understand me more. To relate. To analyze. To help determine whether I'm screwed up enough to prescribe medication. Just like everything else I do in his room. But I keep coming back – not because I like it there, not because I think it'll help me to adopt a normal thought process, but because the room is blue.
And that in itself should be enough reason for him to give me some pills.
Not to say I think pills will help anything, or that I'm planning on getting addicted or something – I just wanted to exaggerate the point that my therapist isn't too observant. His catchphrase is the ever so popular, 'How does that make you feel?' which makes me wonder if they actually pay this guy or if he just does it to pass time.
Nevertheless, the second I got in my room with my brand new pencil and notebook, I got to writing. I sat there for about a half an hour writing until it was finished.
And then I stood on the bed and scratched my pencil all over the wall, spreading gray everywhere. Because it was too white. There was too much contrast between the white of the room and the deep black stain of my presence – I needed to balance it out.
While I was doing that, the door opened. Tori's daily visit.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she yelped the second she saw me.
I glanced down nonchalantly. "Morning," I said happily, jumping off the bed and over to her. I stuck the pencil between us, pointing up. "See the tip? It's dulled. They don't trust me with a sharp one. Figures."
She stared.
"Know what I don't get though, Vega?" I purred, a grin crawling onto my face. "They keep every variety of needle there is in here, the idiots."
She stared a bit longer. "Did something happen, Jade?" she asked, concerned.
My grin dropped, my voice taking on a dangerous tone. "I wrote a poem," I said. "Would you like to read it?"
She stared at that piece of paper for a long time. To relate. To analyze. To help determine whether I'm screwed up enough to prescribe medication. But it was okay with me, when she did it. Everything's okay with me when she does it.
Then she looked at me, for a bit more time than she'd looked at the paper. "Are you trying to get yourself committed?" she asked seriously. "Longer?"
I shook my head slowly. "No...," I whispered. "It's just... my thoughts. It's how I feel. I dunno, it's stupid." I finished, looking down, shifting my weight. Body language. If you're a therapist, learn that before you make your patients hate you.
"No, Jade, it's amazing. It's beautiful. It's just disturbing. Painful for me to look at." I looked up at her. "If you let anybody in this place read this, they'll probably... do illegal experiments on you." I'm not sure if that was a joke.
Truthfully, I had no idea what I wrote down. We already established my memory issues, especially when it comes to important, often traumatic things. I guess I just block them out subconsciously or something to that extent.
Before we could discuss it further, a phone began to ring. "Shit," she growled, pulling her cellphone out of her back pocket. "Hello?" she said, answering it. "Yeah, I know, I know... I lost track of time, okay?" I watched her face grow annoyed during a pause. "I'm at a hospital. Goodbye." And with that, she hung up.
She looked over at me after she shoved it back in her pocket. "Jade, I have to go. I'm really late." She jogged over, folding my poem and tucking it in my pocket. "You won't show that to anyone, right? It'll stay between us."
I gulped. "Yeah. Sure."
She smiled. "Good. Try to relax a bit." Then she jogged out the door.
The place was so quiet. I could hear the doors slamming, gradually getting farther away. But that was probably my imagination. It almost always is.
I unfolded the poem.
She anticipated death,
But would never throw her life away.
Because what's another body
In a mass unmarked grave?
She doesn't want to be a number -
She's always hated math.
She prefers easier methods
Like memorizing facts.
'Cause it matters not what you can do -
It's just what you have done.
You could take away the misery
But it would take away the fun.
Pain is nothing without pleasure -
Just a constant way of life.
If hell's anything but memories,
I know I'll be alright.
And maybe the devil tricks you
But God just lets you go.
So which one's worse, the last or first?
I guess I'll never know.
A/N - Deep, right? That was just a poem I wrote, I rediscovered it and thought it went with a few of the themes here, so I figured I might as well add it in. Well, actually, I wrote everything but the poem here and then I was like, "Hey, I should add a poem in!" Then I went searching through my room and found that.
So, you should review and tell me if you liked the trash I found on my bedroom floor (which actually serves as more of a junk draw). Unless, you know, your hands haven't healed yet. I totally understand if that's the case.