Suicide Kills, part 5

     Chapter Five

"It’s time for group.  Bring your notebook, and we’ll talk it all out in the teaching room."

I didn’t even care to see whom the voice belonged to, preferring to lay on my side farting around in my notebook.  The last thing I wanted to do was enjoy some arts and crafts with crazy people.  Dahmer probably did crafts in psychiatric units, too.  We know how much it helped him. 

But what if I can’t leave without attending?

I sat up in my bed and sighed.  If they got out glue and construction paper, pipe-cleaners, or any form of chunky glitter, I was leaving. 

A few minutes later I padded down the hall to the room, yellow $1.99 notepad handy, and thoroughly determined not to scruff it up with I feel unhappy because…  Inside, three waiting pairs of eyes swiveled to check out the latest sap. Okay, ya got me. So, it was not mandatory.  What the hell, I’m here. How long could this be?

I took a seat next to Ike and Maria Rosa, with Marigold across from me. Her pen acrobatics began to shift into warp speed and I considered one single acrobatic stunt of my own, but decided against it. The clock on the wall read 10:00 AM.

Fifteen minutes later, we were still by ourselves. I had confiscated Marigold’s pen; she was holding my notepad hostage.  Ike had slipped into peaceful, though not for us, snoring. Maria Rosa was fiddling with something at the edge of the table.

Finally, curiosity got the best of me. "What are you working on?"

"I’m making something for my daughter. It’s got Eliseo’s name in it." Her brow crinkled as she concentrated on the t-shirt. I squinted to make out the letters. A-L-W-A-Y-S E-L-I-S totaled her current progress.

A tear so tiny I almost didn’t notice it left a dotted line across the second A. I touched her hand.

"Estoy bien." She snapped, then raised her head. Her voice softened, "I’m fine, mi hija. Just fine."

"How…" Marigold’s question trailed off, showing a refreshing uncertainty that made me feel closer to her.  Awesome. Now, I need another shower.   

She tapped her manicured thumb-nail on my notepad and started again, "How did he…?"

"Drogas."

Marigold’s eyes flickered towards me waiting for a translation. Nope, the bonding moment passed.  Must‘ve been gas from the breakfast I didn‘t eat.

"Drugs, Mari." I told her. The woman had married a Hispanic man, been together for two decades, and did not speak a word of Spanish.  Oh yeah, and she lived in Texas.  Egotistical bitch.

She narrowed her eyes at me, tempted, no doubt, to make some venomous remark upon hearing me call her Mari.  I gave her a dazzling smile -- I shit you not, she could’ve tanned by it and saved at least a few grand a year -- and returned my attention to Maria Rosa.

"He took too many.  I tell him, ‘Eliseo, you canno’ do this. Is bad for you.’ But he would no’ listen to me. He did anyway, and it kill him. His mother-she my daughter-she find him dead in his car day before his birthday."  Maria Rosa rubbed her nose and fingered the lettering on the shirt, as if the small symbols would somehow transfer the touch to her lost grandson.

"What else happened, Maria?" I asked, knowing there was more she wasn’t saying. I didn’t want to push her, but I knew she needed to say it.

Watery, yellow-aged eyes found mine, "I raised him. We…we raise him together as our son. When my…When my," her eyebrows cinched together, gaze straying to the floor as though the word she searched for was hidden there, "When my husband died last year, my daughter came back to stay.  I tell her if she didn’t, I would not send her money.  Pero, it was a mistake!  She come back, pero she refused to tell him she his mother!  She went out, she…party with his friends. When I finally told him, he was angry. He confronted her, and Olivia” the more upset she became, the thicker her accent grew and the more stilted her grammar, “ tell him she not care. He was just stupid kid, mess up her life. The next day she find him, and it my fault he do this. He to go ASU this year." 

"Maria, it wasn’t your fault, though. It was that bitch of a mother’s fault." I told her, not much at comforting but, hell, I was trying.

"That bitch of a daughter, t’ambien." She sniffled.

"Some people, it doesn’t matter how they are raised, they’re screw-ups! They’ll never do things right, because…’cuz that’s how they are. They’re selfish. You weren’t selfish, but your daughter was. She left her son, then she kicked him when he was down. He couldn’t handle it, so he tried to block out the pain. He was a good kid, but he couldn’t deal. It doesn’t mean you were a bad mother." I darted a warning glance at Marigold, but she spun in her seat, staring out of the window.  

Something struck home. To be continued, obviously.  I noted her reaction, and returned my attention to Maria.

"It doesn’t mean I was a good one." She argued, finally looking at me.

"That’s exactly what it means." The male voice slipped so smoothly into the conversation it took all of us by surprise. "You can be vigilant, churchgoing and raise four children, three of which turn out wonderfully, and one which manages to be a fuckup. I did. What you did, Maria…You did right by your kids, but some things are just beyond our control as parents. It doesn't mean you didn't love him or that he did not love you, and his death was...not...your...fault."

Startled to have our attention, Ike removed all but his hands from the table and sunk back into silence. Somehow, this faded little old man had done what I’d been trying to, the slippery little sucker.  I wonder if he gives lessons?

Maria Rosa calmed, focused on caressing the lettering on the shirt.  It wasn’t for her daughter, it was for her. The guilt, the shirt, it was hers.

And I thought I knew why.  "Are you going home, today?"

Fear raced across her face and her gaze sprung up in my direction, "I...yes. The Doctor says he’ll release me tonight. I’m not sure I’m ready to go."

"Maria, that’s great news! You should be happy, I know I’d be happy to get out of this hellhole." Marigold said, spinning back around in her chair.

I shot her a withering look. She had been here a few hours and rendered a verdict on the entire place, patients included. Maria Rosa, on the other hand, had an empty house to go home to, one full of memories cast with people who were no longer there. That’s what she was afraid of most.

I could have smacked Marigold with my notepad right across her smug face, but she was still holding it hostage. I settled for slinging the pen at her.  It skittered across the table and disappeared over the edge.

Giving me a dirty look, she said to Maria Rosa, "You should be packing, right now. I don’t even know why you’re in this session. It’s not like you needed to come."

I shoved the table a few inches toward her, "Shut up, you crackhead."

Marigold erupted out of the chair, fists clenched. I almost expected her to stomp her angry wittle tootsies. "Leave me the fuck alone, you hormonal fucking slut. She gets to go home today and we‘re all stuck here. She should be happy, not crying."

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but crackheads will never hurt me." I said, scathingly. "I’ve got an idea. Let’s talk about your sons, Mari. They’re teenagers now, right? Can’t stand their druggie mother who hits on all their friends when she’s high? Despite all that, they’re good kids, and you have no god damn idea how you managed that when you don’t even remember what their first words were, do you? And Dad’s too busy with his hot new little flavor of the week to give a shit, isn’t he? Want me to go on?"

Her eyes widened to the point the orbs seemed ready to pop from the sockets. Face red, she took a step forward and slapped her palms on the table, shrieking, "Don’t you ever fucking talk about my family again, you cruel little bitch. You understand me?"

I tilted my head to the side, waiting for her to run from the room a basket case of blubbering tears.

Marigold grabbed the edge of the table, lifted it sharply, and let it fall, the legs hitting the floor crisply. Satisfied with her completely useless act, she stomped across the room and out the door, slamming it to make her grand exit.

I looked back at Maria and knelt in front of her, "We have phone privileges at night, remember? When you get home, if it’s too much, just get out of the house for a little while. Go to the mall or the river walk, okay? We’ll call you tonight when they let us use the phones. It’s a good thing you’re going home, Maria. A good thing, okay?"

She wouldn’t meet my eyes, but she gave a slight nod. I was worried for her, but what could I do?
                "Britty, you need to leave that woman alone. She’s hurting. We are all hurting in here. Try to be nice, okay, por favor?" She asked, finally looking at me. It's funny how self-conscious she was about being addressed for her own pain, but another's pain she was ever-vigilant about.

I popped my neck slowly as if the very idea was enough to stress me out.  Let’s just be honest, here.  Being cordial to Marigold was a stressful concept, but for Maria Rosa?  Anything. "Okay. I’ll…try, " I promised. "Now, let’s get out of here and go have a smoke. Dr. Batshit isn’t coming, apparently."

"It’s not him who does these. It’s another lady." Maria Rosa told me, gathering up her things.

"Eh, well, whoever. They aren’t here, so let’s get."

With a heavy sigh, Ike pulled himself to his feet and walked around the table, bending down to pick something up. Oh. The pen and the notebook.

I smiled sheepishly at him, taking both. "Thanks, Ike."

"No problem, sweetheart."

The day passed slowly, though I know for Maria Rosa it seemed to speed by. She kept saying how she didn’t want to leave us, and I did not blame her. She’d found a system with us that worked for her, however dysfunctional. Every hour or so, her eyes misted over and she would grow quiet, nodding and smiling sadly.

                 I was worried, but it wasn‘t like I could bust out with the power of…what, big boobs? Even if I could, there would need to be a man to work that magic on, and I had my doubts about how much breasts appealed to Aaron. I thought about Ike for a second, but decided he probably was not Aaron’s type, either.

                 Dr. Rathbone still had not shown up for his rounds when it came time to release her. One of the stipulations for release was someone had to pick you up and Dr. Rathbone had to meet with you. For Maria Rosa, the only person who could come was her neighbor. One glance at the woman told me she was not somebody Maria Rosa could lean on. She appeared bored and ready to leave at the same time, rather an amazing feat if you think about it.

                 Debra explained the checkout procedures to her at the nurses station. I watched from my door for a few minutes, then headed down to the dining room.

On the couch, Veronica was fixing Maria Rosa’s hair and makeup. Jerrilyn was writing down her contact information at a table. Ike sat in an easy chair next to the couch, saying nothing, but his presence spoke volumes. He never came in the dining room at night. He was just full of firsts, today.

Marigold stood by the barred window, staring down into the street. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was so still I wondered how long she had been there. Perhaps I had been too hard on her, but saying sorry? I think I’d rather have taken my chances hitting on Aaron.

"Brittni, come write down your information here for Maria." Jerrilyn called, waving me over.

"Sure. Did you give Jerrilyn your information, t’ambien?" I asked Maria, passing behind the couch to the table.

"Yeah, I wro-"

"Shh." Veronica scolded. In her hand was lip liner, and she wrinkled her nose at me for causing her to mess up Maria Rosa’s lips.

I rolled my eyes and dropped into a chair beside Jerrilyn. On the paper were phone numbers from Veronica, Jerrilyn, and Ike. I took the pen and wrote my name under the others.

"You think she’ll be okay?" Jerrilyn whispered, her finger ascending to her mouth. I intercepted it and squeezed her hand.

"I don’t know. It’s up to her, I guess. You have her number?"

"Mmhmm."

"I’ll call her tonight during my phone time."

Her finger began to raise again, "What about tomorrow, though? We can only have phone time in the evening."

"She’ll figure it out, Jerrilyn." I promised, and lightly slapped her hand away from her mouth. For a second she appeared nonplussed, then blushed and tucked her hands under her legs.

At that moment, Maria Rosa’s neighbor came in with The Debra, ready to leave.

Veronica ignored both of them, taking genuine pride in the makeover. She was a cosmetologist by trade, but this was a side of her I had not seen. It was the first time she had shown pride or even deliberately went against the grain, and it was obvious she wanted more time to finish what she was doing. I rose to intercept the women at the door, but someone beat me to it.

Marigold.

God damn it. Fuck, now I know she’s actually got feelings.

She shot me a glance, having seen me rise. Before I could help myself, something passed between us, some form of understanding. Her eyebrow lifted and the corner of her mouth twitched, obviously as surprised as I was. She returned her attention to the two women, distracting them long enough to let Veronica finish what she was doing. Well, that's just fuckin' peachy. I guess I have to like her, now.

A soft snoring filled the room. Jerrilyn and I grinned at each other, and headed to wake up Ike. Being here, even asleep, was his way of showing support, and he did not want to miss Maria Rosa leaving.

At my touch, he awoke with a loud and very piggish snort, which made Jerrilyn and I giggle. Oblivious, he patted my hand, shook himself, and got to his feet to see Veronica’s handiwork. Ike's smile as he saw Maria Rosa said it all.

Maria Rosa, who had up until that point been humoring Veronica, beamed under his attention. Crazy how the smallest things can have the most meaning.

Veronica finished and began putting her makeup containers up. The air in the room seemed to thicken slightly. The time for goodbyes had come.

Suicide Kills, part 4

                                                                   Chapter Four

The next morning a woman joined us. Actually, we joined her. She’d been in the common room since four in the morning when she was brought in, ditzed out of her gourd.  When we came in, she exploded into conversation, "I was up all night on speed, so they let me stay up and clean. That’s what I do. Clean. There are worse problems to have while you’re high, you know." She looked bluntly at Veronica, daring her to confess drug-doused sex scandals and black market baby peddling.

Veronica snorted and took her seat at the table.

"I’m Marigold," the new woman said, rounding on the one woman circus known as Me. "I don’t answer to Mari, so don’t try."

Like I’d care enough to call her by a nickname… one she approved of, anyways.  I raised an eyebrow at her and let my gaze drift from her head to her feet.  I wasn’t impressed.  Shrugging, I shook my head and took my place next to Veronica.

Ike came in. I let out a slow whistle and it brought a fresh blush to his cheeks. His silver hair bounced and shined as he ambled over to the table and took a seat by my side. Guess I adopted a septuagenarian.   I hoped I wouldn’t have to water and feed him. I’m really not good at that sort of thing.

                Marigold hardly noticed, intent on telling us how rich she was, and how many trips she had been on as she meticulously scrubbed the twenty-two inch screen of the television. She tried desperately to demonstrate she was better than we, but being in a psych ward with us ruffians it didn’t succeed very well.

With nauseating bravado she laid her world flat on the table for our inspection.  Being a mother and how much she adored being pregnant, what her kids were up to now and how she had to take speed just to keep up with them.  But it was all a defensive strategy.  She was trying to disarm us in advance.  By listing her weakness herself, we could not blind side her with a comment she was not ready to hear.  I wondered what she was really hiding to feel she had to pre-empt any attack on our part.  Mari, I thought, I’ll write out a fifteen page truce for the duration of our time together if you would just shut the fuck up.

Breakfast arrived.

I damn near stood up and cheered, thankful Marigold had a reason to put her mouth to another use.

Once the smell of the food hit my nose, my stomach spun like pottery and just as heavy. I weighed the rubbery eggs, bland bacon, and large crouton they had the mad audacity to call toast along with constipation as a side effect.  It just wasn't worth it. Sighing, I shoved the plate away.

"So, why are you here?", an unwelcome voice demanded.

"Oh, I’m sorry. Is this group time?" I answered, annoyed.

Marigolds’ face darkened, "I told you why I was here."

"Yep, ya did. But it’s mostly bullshit, so I figure that little confession doesn’t warrant an exchange. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to 'share'." I turned my head back towards Jerrilyn and Veronica. Veronica was smirking and Jerrilyn was silently shaking with laughter, egg skewered on the end of her plastic fork. Maria Rosa chuckled.

"So, when do we go outside?"
"When Bulk Hogan gets off his ass and decides to take us out." I told her.

"Now, Brittni, that’s not true, you silly woman. The outside schedule is 1:00 in the afternoon, Marigold. Every day." Debra’s troll powers had suddenly materialized her in the doorway. She must have been listening just outside of the door, because I hadn’t heard the telltale sound of nylon-encased thighs upon her approach. We should really fit her with a bell, I thought. The idea of her listening outside of the hall was just, well, creepy.

"Yeah, right, Debra. Yesterday we didn’t go out until three." Veronica said.

"Veronica, if you start acting belligerent we’ll be forced to send you to the closest psychiatric institution. I really don’t want to do that, so please don’t raise your voice at me." Debra told her loudly and crossed the room to the window to adjust the blinds and curtains.

I furrowed my brow, my upper lip twitching in a slight snarl.  Um, yeah, I do do the snarl, like Elvis or Ice Cube, only my version is not sexy.  I just look constipated, but it would’ve confused you if I wrote, ‘I furrowed my brow, my upper lip curled in a look of constipation…’   I’m working on it.  That’s all you need to know.  Back to Debra being a bitch. 

Veronica had not raised her voice.  Beside me, she simply glowered at the Debra, looking like she wanted to argue but couldn’t.

"Debra, what’s the deal?" Marigold asked, her ego on hold while she displayed a little humanity.  Well, whoop dee fucking do, she deserves a sticker.

"Mrs. Ybanez, this does not concern you," was the only response from the Stirrup Troll.  Never once looking at any of the patients, she fussed over the curtains for a few more minutes before swishing out of the room in day-glo, lizard printed stirrup pants, presumably to attack Tokyo.  

Veronica’s lower lip threatened to return the stale bread to its natural state with soon-to-be flooding tears.  I shot at look at Marigold, afraid she would say something smart assed, but she met my eyes with an expression of understanding.  Truce, for now. 

A spider like fluttering on my arm snapped my attention away for a moment, thrusting me into insect assassin mode.  Instead, I met Ike’s eyes.  Dangling from his liver-spotted hands was my bandana, clean and still cool from drying. He nodded over in Veronica’s direction and shook the bandana for me to take it. I tugged it free and squeezed his thumb.  Twisting back around, I gave it to Veronica to wipe her eyes.

"Fuck her." Marigold said. "Don’t let that shit get to you."

Veronica’s shoulders began to shake.  Small at first, an inner rumbling, the shaking grew and spread along her form like fractures along a quake line.  As her shoulders convulsed, her hands trembled, her knees shook, and tears spilled down her cheeks.  She refused to meet our eyes as she wiped her face. Creamy make-up yielded to the square cloth, revealing a mottled red cheek.

"That’s why she does it. Es que, she know Veronica is bi-polar and, como se dice? Paranoia, tambien." Maria Rosa, her voice normally so soothing, had a tone to her words which surprised me—disgust.  She rose from her seat and walked over to rub Veronica’s shoulders.  Her gaze strayed to the door, as though worried Debra would come back for a second helping.

"She’s a bi-polar paranoid schizophrenic." Jerrilyn said, glancing at Marigold and I.

"Gesundheit." I said, dryly. Did I mention I suck in awkward moments?  Well, now you know.

The corners of Jerrilyn’s mouth lifted slightly in a partial smile, though it was simply to indulge me.  My heart grew three sizes—actually, no, it didn’t, but I did feel closer to her for ignoring my ineptitude in such moments. 

Jerrilyn stroked Veronica’s neck. "Debra knows it, and she needles her. Nothing big, just enough to make her cry, make her paranoid, make her like this."

The words sank in, and an anger swiftly stoked itself within me. What type of person would even do that?

Jerrilyn withdrew her hand and put her finger to her lips, delicately nibbling on the tips. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed that before, and reached out to extricate her mangled finger. She had chewed the top layer of skin off of her index finger. She shot me a thankful glance, and began gnawing on her fingernail, instead.  Well, at least she wouldn't strike bone, soon.

Marigold dropped into a chair like a ton of bricks, all of the fight and sass in her forgotten. There seemed nothing to say, no words that could find the moment and warm it.

Silence dripped into the room in surprising puddles, amplifying Veronica’s ragged breathing, Maria Rosa’s humming, Jerrilyn’s fingernail chewing, Marigold’s agitated knee-bouncing, Ike’s stillness, and my speechlessness.

A hiccup-burp combo broke the air and Veronica looked up, embarrassed. I smiled. Marigold smirked. Ike chuckled to himself. Jerrilyn stopped shredding her nails. Maria Rosa patted Veronica on the back, and we got back to our breakfast.

Suicide Kills, part 3

                                                         Chapter Three

An hour later, my tears had relinquished their fury leaving an oddly peaceful empty feeling. I stared out the window at the darkening clouds. God had a sense of humor locking me up in here with horny making weather about to come down. Wait. I didn't have a boyfriend, anymore. Shit, I'd just made myself feel bad.  I should just stop thinking all around.

"Brittni? May I come in?"

I swung around to face the voice. Jerrilyn was either the most naive person on the planet, or this wasn't her first kegger. She stood in the doorway holding a tray of food. "We’re not supposed to have these in our room, but Aaron made an exception for you tonight. You hungry? Can you eat?"

Anger flared, but I held it back. Her kindness shamed me, and I did not like that one bit. If I was honest, I knew who deserved my ire the most, though.

My list went:
1. Osama bin Laden
2. Me
3. Kylie Minogue (Hey, it was the beginning of 2002. Get off my nipples. That god damn 'Can't get you out of my head' song was stuck in my mind for six months straight.)

Jerrilyn wasn't on my list. I motioned her inside.

Smiling tentatively, she walked into the room to the set the tray on a stand. "I’m also not supposed to be in your room. Aaron made an exception for that, too."

She had arranged it. All of it. For me. But why? Surely, I’d proven to her the cruelty I was capable of.  Yet, here she was.

"I…I’m…Damn, Jerrilyn, I’m really sorry." The words were out of my mouth before I even figured out how to say them.  The uncertain smile on her face was replaced with a new one. Friendship.

"I lashed out at everyone, too, the first time I came here. I was miserable, so I figured everybody else should be, too. Figured they deserved it." She picked up an apple and tossed it at me. "I know I got problems. For fucks sake, that’s why I’m here. The only person I got to blame is me. And maybe genetics. It sounds corny as hell, but it really does get better. And what makes that true is you’re here, and it damn sure can’t get any worse. Can it? Go ahead on. Eat. Then come find us in common room."

On impulse, I grabbed her hand before she made it to the door and tried to swallow the lump in my throat.  Shutting my eyes, I wrapped my arms around her back and mumbled, "Thank you. Really."

It felt good to hold somebody, to be held, to feel substantive and seen. For a second, she stroked my hair, whispering, "You’re welcome,” then left.

Some time later, a voice like a slow-swung cowbell announced, "Lights out in one hour." I hurriedly gathered my tray and took it down the hall, depositing it on a caddy as I passed on my way to the common room.

Veronica, Jerrilyn, and Maria Rosa sat on the couch talking animatedly. The three fell quiet as I darkened the door. 

Jerrilyn wasn‘t the only one I had hurt earlier, but I did not want to apologize, again. I wasn’t sure I knew how. Always having to be the one who fixes everything had left me at a loss on how to be the one who admits error. Could they understand?

Veronica smiled, moved over to make a spot, and asked, "So, you gonna plant your ass down here, Midget, or what? We only have an hour left to gossip. Better make it quick."

Relief flooded me.  After the way I treated Veronica earlier, I didn’t even care if she called me Midget.  Hell, at four feet eleven inches I was one inch too tall to be one (cut off point is four feet ten inches for the vertically lacking), so it’s not that far off the mark to begin with.  One look at Jerrilyn and I saw she had taken care of the apology for me, but her eyes were clear. Next time, it’d be my own responsibility.

"Well? Whaddaya say?" She prompted, winking at me.

A grin tugged at my lips. I entered the room to stand next to the couch. "So, we get another smoke break, or what? There’s a stuffy linebacker that needs torturing. Y’all game?"

All three nodded.

"Oh, Aaron! It’s time for you to monitor the crazies from an undersized chair! Get the lead out, big guy! We need our nicotine!"

His breathy curse from the hallway outside the common room was all the encouragement we needed.  We each whipped out our cigarettes merrily, and trotted down the hall behind the cussing orderly.

When we walked inside, I noticed a tiny old man in the corner. His hair was so filthy that the grease made the hair shaft stand up and cling to itself, looking like he had thousands of antennae on his head. He sat slumping forward, shoulders sagging as though the weight of his dirty white t-shirt was too much to bear, the hand holding the Camel cigarette visibly shaking. It almost hurt to look at him, but I had no clue who he was.

I looked at Veronica and Jerrilyn questioningly. Veronica made the crazy gesture by her head (which I thought was hilarious) and Jerrilyn shrugged.  Maria Rosa simply patted my arm and said, "Mi ija, he don’t speak. He has’no said eh word since he got here three days ago."

I stood, watching him. My heart ached in his proximity. He seemed… lost.

Sensing my stare, he raised iridescent, tear-filled brown eyes to me then looked away as though he felt un-worthy of meeting someone‘s gaze. A single drop of shame fell to the floor by his dirt-streaked sneaker.

I reached into my pocket and got out the bandana I always carried to tie my hair back.  Slowly, because the last thing I wanted to do was run up full speed on a Crazy, I made my way across the room to sit in a chair, closer to this quiet man with the shaking hands.

Maria Rosa sat on my other side and patted my leg lovingly, then went back to the conversation Veronica and Jerrilyn were having.

Confident he would talk to me, because, well, I was me and I was nineteen, I asked him, "what’s your name?"

Silence.

"How old are you?"

He continued to stare at the floor.

"I think I have an extra deodorant. Want it? You’ll smell like a chick, but then again, this is a hen house." I said, determined to at least make him smile or strangle me.  Either would indicate success in my book.

"Okay. I’m Brittni. I’ll be here when you want to tell me. Here." I handed him the bandana, and started to turn towards the other women. One word stopped me.

"Ike."

I was thrilled. Knowing he responded deepened my protective feeling over him. I considered hugging him, dustbin camouflage and all, but I wasn't quite that excited.

Instead, I patted his knee as Maria Rosa had done to me. "Hi, Ike. It’s nice to meet you."

He moved his head a fraction of an inch to stare at my hand, then raised surprised eyes to mine, as though he were afraid I wasn’t real.

"It’s nice to meet you. Too." Ike finally said. He sighed into himself and wiped his eyes and face clean. His shoulders relaxed and the tremor in his hands lessoned. For all the world, he looked relieved. It made me want to help him.

But first things first. Ike, old buddy, old pal, you are r-i-p-e!

A layer of grime now mucked up my bandana in supporting evidence. I tried not to grimace. He couldn't keep this up, no matter how depressed he was. And, for certain, I knew the rest of us would not be able to stand an entire week of the Exciting Odors of Ike.

"Ike, you really need to take a shower and wash your hair, okay? It will make you feel better. Will you do that for me?" I kept my gaze on him, unwavering, until he responded.

A little embarrassed, he studied my bandana and nodded, then tucked it into his pocket and smiled shyly. He didn’t look down for the rest of the break.

Suicide Kills, part 2

                                                     Chapter Two

 The smoking room lived up to its name.  It was fifteen feet long, six feet wide and full of cancer smog.  The doorway was in the left corner of the room.  An orderly sat directly by it, just a few feet from me.  A large round table was in the center of the right side of the room.  Chairs lined the walls on both sides. Counting at least twenty places to sit, I raised my eyebrows; just how many shitbats did they have in this place? 

"C’mon, Aaron. You can take us out for a little bit, can’t you?" a pretty, spikey-haired blond was asking as I took a step into the room.  She sat at the back of the room behind the round table, dressed in sleeping pants and a tank top.   Large blue eyes darted over to me, crinkling at the edges.  She had pale skin with a slight touch of honey, and looked as though she’d had a good tan that faded.  Her faces was diamond shaped - wide at the cheekbones and narrow at the jaw line - with a cotton candy smile, the kind sweeter than sugar and delicate under pressure. 

Next to her was a brunette sporting a Berenstain haircut, thick makeup buttered on her hopeful face.  Jesus, I thought, I’ve seen drag queens in Vegas with less spackle.  With narrow, deeply-set eyes and little chin, the most prominent feature were the voluminous cheeks which gave her a chipmunk-like appearance.  A shy, teasing smile hung around the corner of her full mouth. 

"What could it hurt?" Hue Paul purred, scratching somewhere beneath the mound of hair she had frozen in place. She cocked her head to the side and I watched, fascinated. Not one single hair moved. Somebody should really call the EPA. I mean, that can’t be good for the ozone and baby seals and stuff.

"Yah, Aaron, what would it hurt?" the spikey blond reiterated.

I looked at the linebacker-sized orderly sitting by the door.  Honestly, the chair he sat in would have been small for me, and I’m under five feet.  Good thing we were in a hospital. I was pretty sure he needed to have it surgically removed every time he stood up.

Aaron had a wide face, deep-set eyes, small mouth, and a miniature butt in the middle of his rectangular jaw.  His hair was cropped short and flattened downward along his forehead. 

I wrinkled my nose.  Holy Mary Shelley, he was sportin’ the Clooney, the hairstyle which got its

start in Hollywood through Frankenstein and has been ruining foreheads ever since. 

               Letting out an exasperated sigh, Aaron looked up from his book and spoke slowly. "You know the rules. We were outside earlier, and we only go once a day."

"Were you born without any personality, or do you do that just for our benefit?" Blondie asked, and winked in my direction.

Aaron ignored her and went back to the little book in his large hands.

 I squinted, struggling to read the author’s name.  Danielle Steele?  On my list of never-guesses this was a solid five, maybe even a three. For a second I was surprised, then decided not to be.  I mean, who were we going to tell? Sylvester Stallone? Get his man-card revoked?  Not likely. 

"What’s your name?" It took me a moment to realize Blondie directed the question to me.

A chair scuttled out from under the table for me to sit in and the Mary-Kay fanatic motioned me over, sliding back up in her chair.

An elderly Hispanic woman sitting in front of the table pulled the chair out further and motioned me over.  She had a round head, thinning hair, kind eyes, and an easy smile.  The faded red sweater with saucer size yellow dots simply completed the look.  The overall image made her resemble a ladybug. Reluctantly, I took the seat and made all three women wait until I’d lit my cigarette. 

“Brittni.”

"I’m Jerrilyn.” The blond said, splaying her hand across her chest.  With her cigarette between two fingers, she pointed to the young woman at her side then the older woman next to me. “This is Veronica and Maria Rosa." She fell quiet, waiting for me to make the next move and watching with cool eyes.

She could just wait.

I sucked on the cigarette, enjoying the ashy taste of the only thing left of my reality. Cheesy?  Hell yes, but I was in a psych ward.  I certainly had the right to depressingly wax poetic.  Weren't some of the best poets dead when they got famous?  Yeppers, because most people will listen to whining longer when they know how long the whining lasts.  Pricks, taking the easy way out by dying. 

"How often…?" I began, letting the question trail off and wiggling my cigarette.

"As often as we want, as long as there are two or more people wanting one." Veronica nodded towards Aaron, "Supervised, of course. Lighters, ya know."

I didn’t tell her what a lighter could do to her hairspray helmet.

"What all do we do here?" I took another long drag on my cigarette and cocked my head to the side, directing the question at all three women.

Jerrilyn grinned, "We talk about our problems, and they have classes each morning for us to go to. Dr. Rathbone, that’s the shrink, comes at night to do one-on-one’s with us. Why are you here? What’d you do? Or, more importantly, what’d you do it with?"

"Pills." I am now the Queen of Monosyllabia! Tremble, fools!

Veronica tugged on her long sleeves, a quick mindless jerk which told me she did it so often she probably didn’t realize it anymore.  Must be a cutter.  I wondered what number suicide attempt pills had been for her.

Depressing thought, considering that’s how I got here. 

Jerrilyn sucked her teeth, trying to determine if she liked me or not. "I’m depressed. Veronica self-mutilates. Maria Rosa lost her grandson. Besides all of that, we’re completely normal, wouldn’t you say, Veronica?"

Aaron snorted.

Veronica shook her head and said, "I’m as normal as they let me be." Following my gaze, she hid her arms beneath the table.  

Jerrilyn touched her shoulder, "We don’t care, Ronni. Quit worrying about the scars.  So, how long are you here for?"

Oh, goody, back to me.  "I don’t know. Until the doctor says otherwise, I guess."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" an evil glint sparked in Jerrilyn’s eyes.  I got the distinct feeling we were going to talk about sex and penises before I was released.  She put her cigarette out and began rubbing her knuckles. 

"I did, but he turned out to be an asshole. Left when I needed him the most. He was sensitive that way." I should have flipped him off instead of sticking my tongue out at his back, but then he‘d probably have thought I was hitting on him.

"All men are assholes. You just gotta find the one with the fewest hemorrhoids." Jerrilyn fixed me with a grin.

Veronica stopped fidgeting with her sleeves and smiled.

Maria Rosa shook her head at Jerrilyn good-naturedly. 

I chuckled.

Maybe this place wouldn’t be absolute hell, after all.

Back in the common room in front of the T.V., Jerrilyn and Veronica filled me in about the ward. From Aaron the apathetic orderly, to the nurses who were a step away from unprofessional, by-the-book Rathbone who couldn’t help a soul because he lacked the ability to think outside of his textbooks, and the shining light of their day-the trip outside… geez. And this is supposed to help us?

"You have kids, though, right?"

My question startled Veronica right out of what she was saying. Her hands froze in midair and she looked at me like a deer caught in blinding light, waiting to be wet confetti all over the road.

"Yes." She didn’t elaborate, but I zeroed in for the kill.

"Two, right? Neither of them infant-infants, though. Right?" My tone sank deeper and I watched her squirm. Her eyes ran deep into the forest of memories and picked one, then climbed it. For the next several minutes she clung to it, refusing to climb down, eyes dull and fixed on a place upon the floor. I could tell it was a sort of punishment for her, reliving bad memories.  It was what she thought she deserved. 

A part of me bucked against the cruelty, but I fought the need to apologize.  I wasn’t going to play nice simply because I was under a psychiatric thumb; if anything, I would play much, much harder.

Jerrilyn’s expression hardened. She looked straight at me, daring an attack.

"And you, " since she expected it, I’d let her have it, "you have a boyfriend. Long-term, right? Gotten used to, and even annoyed with, your little psychiatric tantrums, hasn’t he?"

Stunned, she opened and shut her mouth, then spat an affirmation through gritted teeth. Her blue irises grew bright and wounded.  Tears trickled from the corner of her eyes.  "Why would you say something like that?"

I expected her question, was even ready for it, but when I opened my mouth to answer I found my voice gone.  I liked Jerrilyn, I really did.  How could I tell her I had done it because I was trying to hurt her?  God, now even I thought I was a bitch.

"She’s doing it because she’s hurting, aren’t you, mija?" Maria Rosa’s voice cut through the silence to be absorbed immediately like a gently placed bomb. "So, she eh trying to hurt everybody else, tambien."

Tears sprung to my eyes, and I shot a look at Maria Rosa, ready to deny her soft accusation.  All I found in her time-worn face was sympathy, understanding.

The room became suffocating.

"I’m sorry," I mumbled. I jumped to my feet and  raced out, trying to flee from another failure, another painful memory I had just forced myself to create. And alone on my bed, I wept.

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.