Suicides Kills, unless you suck at it. Then it's just embarassing

Prologue-

I hated the small hours, the pit of early morning where time stands still if you are an insomniac.  My eyes wandered around my bedroom, the desperation for something different to look at making me want to run outside, to jump from my window, or just do something…anything.  Unfortunately, the night had been no different from any other. 
I could watch Burly TV until exhaustion overtook me or I could take some pills and force myself to sleep.  The nightly menu did not vary, not for me.  The medication for migraines and depression stood along my headboard, mounted like tiny soldiers in orange and white.  Staring at each bottle in turn, I began to rock front to back, front to back, front to-

A memory barged in and suddenly I was a fourth grader, sitting on the floor of the school counselor’s office for running across the gravel.   Getting in trouble was something I wasn’t in the habit of at that age, and I had been scared.  Without realizing it, I had begun to rock as I waited. 

When the counselor entered the room, she stopped immediately and asked, “Why are you on the floor?  Why are you rocking like that?  Brittni, don’t you know that’s a sign of being crazy?”

A decade later the words came back to me.  Don’t you know that’s a sign of being crazy? 

Lady, you just might have been on to something.  I stopped rocking, reached out and picked up a bottle.  Cheers, bitch.

                                                            By Brittni Hill

I stuck my tongue out at his back as he left the room.  Go to Hell, I thought, rolling over onto my side.  Nurses, doctors, and family had bustled in and out all morning, a fact I hated.  I was stuck - pissed off at the whole world - and could do nothing about it. 

The legal representative came back in and cleared his throat.  He had come in earlier, but I had no decision for him then, either.  Overdressed, underprepared, and clearly ill at ease on the psychiatric floor he had stumbled through the legal consequences I faced for trying to off myself.  Apparently a very ominous ‘we’ was ‘seriously concerned’ with my mental stability.  Well, hell, so am I.  I didn’t exactly get here by taxi, Watson.  He had also explained the hospital recommended my admittance to the psychiatric ward a floor above and left me to think about it.   Now, he was back for the answer.  When I refused to turn over, he walked around to the window to face me.  "So, have you made a decision?"

I cut my eyes toward him in a glare.  A gold plated nametag glinted under the light by my bed, but I did not bother to read it.   Not even thirty, he already had a crop of doll hair planted shabbily in his scalp.  His chin looked like it was in the middle of running away from his bottom lip.  When I raised my gaze, he closed his eyes, popped his neck and pretended to study his clipboard.  When he started to go over admittance again, I tuned out and thought about what I now faced. 

A psychiatric ward? Would the people be eating checkers and playing with shit? Banging their heads against the wall?  Opportunistic lunatics drawing penises on the forehead of the catatonics? Actually, that sounds kind of fun. 
The last one.  The first three…eww and gross and ouch.

Changing tactics, he began asking questions.  “On a scale of one to ten, how depressed would you say you are?”

I snickered.  I had just tried to commit suicide. Richard Simmons, I am not.

"Listen, Brittni, you may go of your own volition or a judge will order it…"

"Wait, so I can volunteer, or I can be sent, correct? But I’m going no matter what, aren’t I?"

Startled at my response he licked his lips, choked himself with his tie and nodded. 

“Seems pointless, doesn’t it? Calling it voluntary?”

The legal rep grinned like he was secretly passing gas and nodded, again.

So, there it was.  I could admit myself or the system would do it for me.  Damn, and that wasn’t part of my five year plan until after completing college.  Back against the proverbial wall, I fixed him with a serious look and raised my eyebrow.  “Can I smoke, at least?”

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “yes. Uh…smoking is allowed.  Lighters and matches are not.”

I sighed. "All right.  Let’s get this over with."  After being given a thirty minute time limit to return under, my mother and father took me back to my apartment so I could pack a small bag and got me a Whopper from Burger King.  I ate it quickly in the hospital parking lot, then the three of us went inside and rode up the insultingly normal elevators to the sixth floor psychiatric ward.  My mom patted my back, synchronizing the brief touch of her hand with the dinging of each floor we passed.  My father held his cowboy hat in one hand, thumb tucked into a pocket, and gripped the inside railing with his other.  None of us said a word, just watched the lighted numbers above the doors counting upward.  At the sixth floor, Mom stopped patting my back and smiled sadly.  I looked away to see my father had already picked up my bag and started out into the small reception area. 

I stopped him.  This wasn't my first day in kindergarten.  Besides, the other patients might see, and then I’d have to find the biggest, meanest motha in the yard and take her out.  Wait, that’s prison.  Wrong institution. 
Crazy people just eat weird shit like hair and occasionally masturbate in public places, right? 

Even at a distance, I could see the Authorized Personnel Only sign emblazoned across the entrance to the ward in blocky black lettering.  On the other side was a world I wanted no part of, but my actions had left me with no choice.  I asked my parents to stay at the elevator, took my bag and went on my own down the corridor.  Luckily, I got no arguments, just a huge and a kiss from each.  Such a simple goodbye…way too simple and sincere for one of the ugliest situations I had ever put myself in.  They really did love me, no matter what.  And Jesu Christo had I abused the what in that statement.  I tried to smother the thought as I walked away, but the ornery little fucker wouldn’t die, just kept bumping the back of my brain harder with each step I took. 

Shoulder high on the right side wall was an enormous square button.  As I got closer, I could read the words ‘Push For Entrance’ written in red.  With a deep breath, I slapped my palm against it and waited to be admitted. 

Heavy doors stood before me, doors that screamed No Entrance Sans Password!

Password?  Barkin’ looney

Access granted, me.

For a second, I considered running for the nearest emergency exit.  Crossing the threshold would make me something different, something irrevocable.  I wasn’t like these people, but nobody would think so once I entered.  One foot in the ward and I would no longer be myself;  I could just hear the gossip hounds-

You know what?  Screw the gossip hounds.  The flapping chatties ran their mouths when I grew breasts, ran their mouths when I was fourteen just to be assholes, and continued to do so until graduation. 

The gossip hounds could get off my nipples. 

I had a lot more juicy details about them than they had on me, anyways.  Teachers, medical personnel, business owners, secretaries, neighbors…the truly funny thing is had I done what those individuals did and simply cheated on a spouse I could have lived it down in a matter of months. 

Not so with crazy. 

Infidelity is frowned upon in small towns, but never openly condemned.  Half the time the ones frowning have been hitting the side skins, too.  Gossip was often just a reminder of the sins grapevine members all had in common, but struggled to hide.  Each person fell off the grapevine when they were the subject and got back on it when they weren’t. 

Well, hell, having been the subject so much, might as well make the Hall of Fame, right?  I stepped into the ward.

Welcome to the crazy side of the hospital. On the left we have the dining and entertainment area.  We have quite a few guests at the moment.  You’ll notice they are all women, since women dial in crazy more often than men do.  Just up ahead is the nurses’ station where you will meet the attendants for the duration of your stay.  If you’ll just walk this way-

"Oh my goodness! You must be Brittni." Such a cheerful voice could only belong to Satan himself, or a chubby woman named Debra who had a fetish for vintage 80’s stirrup pants. 

Short, though still taller than me, Debra had a doughy, rectangular frame her keen fashion sense drew more attention to.  A blue headband rested an inch behind her hairline, and the back of her hair flipped out in a style reminiscent of Betty Rubble.  She wore little makeup other than a nuclear pink shade of lipstick and a dull purple blush which clashed horribly with her floral patterned stirrup pants and red scrub top.  I struggled not to ask where she bought clothes or got her makeup.  I mean, if the sales associates let her walk out of the store like this…who the hell were they being honest with? 

Debra smiled and handed me a zip lock bag, saying, "Okay, Brittni, it’s nice to meet you. Now, you’re going to put all of your jewelry and anything you have in your pockets inside this baggy. You’ll get it all back when you leave. Now, you just scoot that little hiney over to those chairs while I get you all set up, okay?"

I blinked, unmoving.  She pushed against my side with the back of her hand and repeated, “Scoot.”

The Debra must die. I absolutely hate to be told to scoot.

Realizing it was more of a command and less of a question, and Debra had big orderlies and I did not, I took the bag and stepped away and obediently took off all of my jewelry-- while taking my sweet-ass time, of course.  Back behind the nurses station, Debra cleared her throat. 

I smiled and gave her a crooked nod as I pretended to check for nipple rings. 

Debra waddled out of the nurses’ station and rested her arm on top of the counter.  She curled her hand into a fist and lightly punched her hip where it remained velcroed to her side. Her eyes narrowed in a glare above her wide, one-size-fits-all smile.

And they think I’m fuckin’ crazy? 

In my head the theme song from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly began to play. I smirked at her.  I probably could have taken her, but I was pretty sure she had some hefty narcotics of the liquid kind in the nurses’ station; you know, not the kind you remember having had the next day, so it would be no fun getting stabbed in the butt with one.

“Here ya go.” Handing back the items back, I sat down a few feet away and dropped my bag next to the chair.

Satisfied, Debra trotted back around the counter. Pointedly ignoring me, she made a big show of rustling papers, twisting her mouth into various expressions I can only guess were meant to make it seem like she was thinking.  This little Up the Anty game of ours was going to get interesting before this week was over.  An hour later, she finally came out of the nurses’ lair with a clipboard and gestured for me to follow.

I grabbed my bag and stood only to walk into a claustrophobia-inspiring room next to the nurse’s station holding a scale. Before my brain could say shut up, my mouth said, "Call me crazy, but weighing suicidal whack jobs just seems like adding insult to instability."

Debra wheeled on me with Chihuahua-like abandon, "Our patients are not crazy, and they’re not whack jobs. They’re normal people, just like you or I. And they deserve to be treated as such."

Whatever you say, lady, but one of us gets to go home at night, while the other has to stay behind locked doors that tell people on the other side to Keep Out.  So, just which one of us does that make not all right?

I caught sight of the hideous, floral-printed stirrup pants.  Oh, right. Stupid question.

The Stirrup Troll set to her task, weighing me quickly and jotting down notes.  How many notes you can take about my ass I do not know, but she filled out at least a page.  Once done, she flashed another of her fake smiles and herded me out of the humility closet.

“Your room is on the left, three doors down. I need you to open your bag, so I can look through it all. You’ll meet everyone soon after, ‘cuz it’s almost dinner time and they’ll all be heading into the dining area shortly."

"So, what’s next? You need to check my tampons to see if I soaked them in alcohol?" I asked as we walked to the resident’s rooms, which is my version of being conversational.

The Debra was not amused.  Her narrowed eyes told me my bag was going to get the mother of all cavity searches. I mentally complimented myself for choosing one with so many pockets. Search and seize to your heart’s content, heffa. Just don’t touch my faux-velour, bright red, lil' devil pajamas. You really will see crazy, then.

Yeah, I don't know why I brought them, either. It's not like it's a great place for potential romance.  In fact, I cannot think of a worse place.  Might as well walk up with your address handy and a letter of permission for the psycho to stab and kill you in your sleep. Then again, my mother had set me up with a suicidal pyromaniac pussy the year before, so hey, there just might be an upgrade walking around in here. Never know.

I mentally scanned over everything I had in the bag. I could remember nothing which might warrant removal, but who knew what was permissible to do or have in a psychiatric ward?

Debra made quick work of my belongings, setting aside my medicine, bobby pins (how the hell those get in there?) and razor.  Damn, no sharp objects.  Now, I’ll have to make a shiv out of a toothbrush.

Wait, that’s prison again.

"You might want these,” Debra said and handed me my cigarettes.  I had not even noticed her take the pack out of the baggy holding my jewelry.

"Everyone is about to have a smoke break before eating.   The smoke room is passed the nurses’ station and elevator, straight down this hall.  Feel free to go in with them. You might want this." She told me in a dismissive tone, tossing a lighter towards me.

We can’t have razors, but we can have lighters. Yeah, that makes sense. Self-immolation is so last season. Cigarettes in hand, I headed for the door. If she wanted to paw through my panties and jogging pants, she was welcome to it. It’d be the most action they’d gotten since…well, let’s not talk about that.

"Put the lighter in the basket at the nurses’ station when you’re done.  You get fifteen minutes." She called over her shoulder, her back to me as she held up a shirt and shook it.  Finding no contraband or other illegal or inadvisable objects for a psych ward, the top crumpled as it dropped onto the bed.  I left before she could touch the pajamas.  It was just better for both of us that way.