Suicide Kills, part 7

An hour later, Marigold came to the smoking room.  When she came in, Veronica, Jerrilyn, and Ike all three got to their feet and extinguished their cigarettes.  I started to do the same, but Jerrilyn fixed me with an expression that said, ‘Sit the fuck down.’
                So, down the fuck I sat.

                After they left, Marigold took a seat across from me at the round table. She lit a menthol cigarette, then blew the smoke away towards the door. It was apparent the theme song from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly did not apply here, but I’d be damned if we were going to hold hands and sing kumbaya. I lit another cigarette with the end of the one I had just finished and waited.

                "So," she began, the word hanging in the air.

                "So." I responded.

                "So, Brittni, why are you here?" Marigold asked, her voice soft and her eyes bright with sincerity.

                I felt cornered. I‘m not a people person when I feel cornered. It was time for me to set the tone. "Well, why the fuck are you here, Mari?"

                "I told you about the drugs," she snapped, "but I haven’t heard one damn thing about you."

                "And that makes you entitled? Because you admitted to everybody you’re a crackhead?" I once had a therapist tell me that getting mad was like building a fire. The more ‘angry logs’ we add, the hotter it gets, but we’re the ones who stoke the fire. We control how hot it can get.

                Yeah, I thought he was full of shit, too.

                "You think that’s my only problem-"

                I snickered.

                "-being addicted to drugs?"

                Eyes narrowed, I said, "You really don’t want me to answer that."

                "No, you know? I think I do." She said, her voice hard as nails. "I think I want to know why you said the shit you said earlier. I want to hear the reasons come out of that smart little mouth of yours."

                To any outside observer, we hated each other. To us, we were scraping out an infected wound. It had to be done so it did not get worse.

                I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and took a puff on my cigarette. "Okay, I give. You spent almost two hours talking about how perfect your life was. You talked about how much you enjoyed being pregnant and how you and your husband fell in love, but then you jumped ahead to the present and detailed your drug addiction to speed. Where’d all that time go?"

                When she did not answer, I continued. "Trying so hard to convince us your life is great is a sure sign that it’s not at all what it seems. I think the stuff about your kids is true. You really are proud of them and they have a lot of accomplishments, but I also think when they were little you were out of it a lot, hooked on some kind of drug like pot that glazes your memories. That’s why you took up speed, to wake yourself up. You also had to have gone through something else to have been taking that drug when they were kids. Most women don‘t love pregnancy as much as you did and then suddenly take up recreational drugs." I finished, and took another long drag.

                Picking at her fingernail polish, the cigarette forgotten between her fingers, Mari’s eyes were focused on the surface of the table, though I doubted that was what she was seeing. I’d struck oil.

                "You remind me of myself when I was your age." She said, finally.

                "Well, shit. I’d better check in to rehab, now. You think they have pre-addiction programs? Worth a look." I said, sarcastically, and instantly wanted to take the words back. Holy fuck, Rathbone really should have warned me about that conscience thing. Wasn’t that his damn job?

                "Oh, shut up." She fired at me, though there was no anger in her voice, only annoyance. "Brittni, your ass needs to listen to me, okay? I’m here because I am choking on a bunch of feelings and emotions I never fucking dealt with. I just smothered them with alcohol and drugs, but that also put me in places where the same shit I was running from happened all over, again. And I am pretty sure you know exactly what I am talking about."

                It was my turn to look down at the table. Please, I thought. Don’t continue. I don't know if I'm ready. Really, I don't.

                But she did. "When did it happen to you?"

                And there it was, the thing I hadn’t told Jerrilyn or Veronica, hadn’t mentioned in front of Ike or Maria Rosa. Yet, Marigold knew.

                Tension seemed to flood out of me, leaving me weak at the loss. I began talking, telling her of what I had gone through. I told her of the man who had raped me repeatedly at fourteen. How it almost happened again at eighteen, and once more at nineteen. "This is going to sound really weird, but I thought it was kind of like winning the lottery in a really fucked up way. Once it happened, there was no chance of it ever happening, again. But I was wrong, extremely fucking wrong."

                My lungs burned and my mind was screaming at me to stop, but my heart went on. Wait, wasn‘t that a Celine Dion song? That‘s it. No more VH1 for me. "The last time happened a few days after the attack on nine eleven just a few months ago. I was dating a guy at the time and the morning afterwards I called him, hystAaronal. During the night I had regained consciousness at some point and was alone, naked in bed. Time, I had no sense of it whatsoever. I don’t know if it was minutes or hours that I laid like that, but I was completely numb to everything. Then it just…bubbled up and exploded inside me, this wealth of...of...badness I could feel like a badger caged in my ribs, tearing everything inside to shreds."

                I clasped my hands together to stop the shaking and went on, "The detective acted like I was a whore who deserved it. There was nothing I could do. My boyfriend told me he could not deal with the fact that I had been raped." I laughed, bitter at the memory. "He! Fucking, he could not deal with the fact that I had been raped. I was the one it happened to, god damn it. Not him."

                "Brittni, I-"

                "No, Mari. Let me finish, okay?" I said, not knowing what she was going to say, but fearing she was going to tell me it was okay, that I could stop. I wanted to keep her from giving me that permission. I needed to go on. "I was on some medicine for my migraines and living in the same apartment complex as the two neighbors who raped me. I locked myself in my room for months. The medicine gave me severe mood swings that went from depressed and hating myself to depressed and hating the entire fucking planet, with no happiness to speak of. It was a nightmare. A couple days ago, I took all of the medicine I had." I did not tell her how I called my family to say goodbye, how I could hear my mother screaming my name, begging me to stay with her and not fall asleep, crying as she tried to rouse my father so he could call my roommate. There was too much pain there. I left it alone.

                "I woke up in here. My family was all here and my grandmother was shaken to her core. I...had...done...that. Me. My best friend called me out of her mind in anger, furious. And my parents were loving and supportive, as always.
                "When they moved me up to the crazy floor, my ex-boyfriend showed up. I had talked to a man who was both a doctor and a lawyer just a few minutes prior and he’d told me I needed to check myself in. Then he told me someone was there to see me.
                "My ex stood at the door, like he was afraid to come any closer, as if somehow crazy was contagious. At that moment, I did fucking wish crazy was contagious. And then he asked me why I had tried to kill myself.” I took a long drag on the cigarette, still bitter at the memory.

                "It was the first time in my life I can remember laughing with absolutely no humor whatsoever.   "You think I’m in here because of you? I told him. Really? You want me to tell you that it’s not because of you that I’m in here? Are you that fucking shallow? Well, I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I’m not here to ease your fucking conscience.
                "He left." I said, somewhat sheepishly. "I stuck my tongue out at his back, but what he really deserved was a swift kick to the nuts." I said.

                Aaron still sat in his little chair by the door, pretending not to listen as he read his huge, bulky, romantic drama. I could see his eyes glittering when he glanced up for a second. He really loved that Danielle Steele.

                I turned my attention back to Marigold.  Twisting her lips hesitantly, she finally asked, "Do you hate men? For what they did? What they took? I mean, I don‘t see how you could trust men, if so many had hurt you like that, had done that to you. Do you hate them?"

                How insightful her question was dumbfounded me, because so much of what I had been through was taking. Taking, taking, taking to the point I did not know how to receive when someone gave me something priceless, like friendship. Faces popped into my mind, the answer already forming on my lips. "No. I don’t hate men. When I was eighteen and almost got raped in Las Vegas by a guy named Stefano, there was another guy I had met named Troy. He knew what Stefano had attempted and he was protective over me, though we hardly knew other. Troy took my little brother and his little cousin and I out to the movies and things.
                "It’s funny, because Troy was intimidating, you know? He wasn’t very tall, but he was wiry and tattooed, with a bald head and thick goatee." I laughed, softly. "He worked in an ice cream shop, though. Really. With the little hat and apron, everything. He was so gentle. He didn’t pressure me to kiss him or be anything other than a friend. I remember one day after spending the previous several days together from morning until night, I almost thought I owed him some form of, I don’t know," I hesitated, embarrassed, "like physical reward, I guess? I thought that was how I should show my appreciation, or something. He refused me, so sweetly, though at the time I was humiliated at my behavior.

                "The night before I left we were all at a Karaoke bar with my biological mother and her friends. Troy sat next to me, and in the middle of some really shitty Mariah Carey, he turned my chair toward him.
                "Taking my hands, he said, I need to tell you something. I want you to know before you leave that I love you, that I’m in love with you.
                "I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn't in love with him and could not stay in Vegas, but he stopped me. He said, I know you’re not in love with me, but I want you to know when you go home there’s somebody in this world that loves you, just for who you are.
                "A part of me fell in love with him, then. He wasn't my type or anything, but what he gave me was, I don't know, not something you encounter often. He loved me to love me, and not take anything from me or demand anything in return for his love. It's still hard to believe, even now." I said.

                Marigold looked stunned, but no more than I had been when Troy revealed his feelings. What he gave me was so special there’s not even a name for it, nor an emotion. It’s just a beautifully tender memory in this rude midget’s heart, but at least it proves I have one.
                But I wasn't done. "I’ve carried that with me ever since, but it's nice to carry, not painful like some other things I've been through.
                "About seven months ago, another guy named Demarques made a serious impression on me, too. At the club, I saw him all by himself and desperately trying to act like he was just waiting for somebody or didn’t care. I struck up a conversation with him and found out how incredibly shy he was. Going out to the club was a decision which had been weeks in the making! He had never even had sex.

                "I started inviting him over to hang out with my friends and I, to the movies, etc. He finally made a few friends, too, and I was really happy for him, hearing he‘d gone out with friends of mine when I didn‘t have to arrange it. After he was sent somewhere else for training, I didn’t think I’d hear from him, again. But a little over a week after the rape, I got a letter in the mail. It was from Demarques. His words echoed Troy’s from almost nine months prior. He did not know what had happened. He sent the letter because he wanted to. In it, he said if it hadn't been for me, he would have hated Texas, and now he’d always remember it as one of the happiest times in his life. He also wanted me to know how much he would always care."

                I grew silent, having lost all bearings within my own head. I had really been fucking blind, sinking into misery as I did. These two men, these two beautiful men, had given me precious gifts and wanted nothing in return. Why had it taken me so long to connect these two things?

                Marigold sat quietly, waiting for me to find whatever I needed to say.

                "I hadn’t thought about how similar both of those situations were until just now. I feel like a moron. Two of the most amazing guys I‘ve ever met, and how the fuck? How did I deserve to be so lucky for them to be in my life at the wrong place, but the exact right time when I needed them? And why the hell couldn’t I see that sooner?"

                "Hindsight is-" Mari began.

                "Hindsight is not 20/20. This has been in hindsight for months and I only now just picked up on it." I snapped, then immediately sought her pardon. It was myself I was mad at.

                "Do you think you’re supposed to hate yourself, Brittni?"

                "What? Hate myself? What do you-" But then it melted, all of my rebuttal. Locking myself in my room, overdosing, avoiding friends, hurting family-it was all some ridiculous attempt to convince other people I wasn’t worth the effort. And those very same people were the ones who kept telling me I was worth the effort. It was about time I accepted that, and, even if I did not feel I deserved it, I could still try to become the person the ones who loved me deserved. I opened my mouth to voice this to Mari, but was startled by a loud, piercing scream from someone in the hall.

                Somebody who sounded a lot like Veronica.

                Aaron bolted, forgetting about us. I immediately thought of the lizard queen, Debra, and jumped to my feet to hurry to the door. Mari was on my heels as I stopped. I heard her swift intake of breath at the scene before us.

                Veronica wore a bright pink spaghetti strap sleeping top with a pair of light purple sleeping pants decorated with cute little dogs. Her face I almost did not recognize bare of all makeup, with her hair hanging limp to just above her shoulders. The smooth complexion on her cheeks was a mottled red from struggling with two orderlies, one of which was Aaron. A refrigerator with tits and tennis shoes strong-armed her other side, maneuvering her onto her back. Veronica breathed roughly, her nostrils flaring, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes. The Debra knelt by her side and stuck her in the hip with a needle.

                I cringed. She wasn’t a criminal. She was crazy, but manageably crazy. What’s so scary, so unbelievably toxic about that?

                I wanted to pull both of the orderlies off of her, which was not feasible in any way. Might be okay in theory, but it could only end with one of us saying, "It seemed like a good idea at the time." Looking at Aaron, I knew that person was going to be me.

                I decided not to crack skulls. There’d be plenty of time for it, later.

                Jerrilyn stood at the corner across the hall, crying. A bump to my back told me Marigold had seen her, too. We both made our way to her, creeping along the wall like the orderlies might sense movement and attack. Never know. I mean, they were pretty well-fed, and all.

                "What happened?" I asked, quietly.

                Jerrilyn never took her eyes off of Veronica, speaking out of the side of her mouth, "It was her phone time. She spent the entire thirty minutes trying to get a hold of Jaime. She called the house, his cell, his sister, and still couldn’t find him. After she was done, Debra gave her a message saying he had an emergency and left the kids at his mother’s. Veronica thought she did it on purpose."

                "She did do it on purpose," Mari said, harshly. "I’ve only been here a few hours and I can see that shit."

                Um, excuse me, Mari? The resident bitch position has been filled. There’s a corner. All you need is some crack, and looking at The Debra, she has plenty to share. Go grab some.

                "She did do it on purpose." I repeated, feeling like a sidekick. "I think she gets off on it. Must be how she stimulates herself through that camel toe."

                Marigold pinched the back of my arm. I looked down at the spot, offended, then cut my eyes to her. "Hands off the merchandise, lady. This pays the bills."

                "Shut up, Brittni. It’s not funny." Jerrilyn whispered.

                Suddenly, I’m the bad guy. "I know it’s not funny. What can we do, though? Debra’s got drugs. Lots and lots of drugs."

                "And she’s not afraid to use them," Marigold added. Much better. She should be the sidekick. I liked that arrangement more.

                The orderlies lifted Veronica’s drooping body and carried her to her room. Debra shot a look at a fellow nurse that said, I told you so. What a dry, clapping cunt. Content and superior with the havoc she had instigated. Who does that? And to crazy people, no less?

                Shit. Maria Rosa! I was supposed to call her, tonight! I spun and ran down the hall to the phone. The Debra would be Dealt With later.

Suicide Kills, part 6

I hate goodbyes. I suck at them. I never know what to say, especially if somebody has come to mean anything to me. So, I watched and I learned. Veronica and Jerrilyn led the rest of us in the Good Luck Ritual, which I was to find out was not a Goodbye, at all. It was far more.

We arrived in shame and solitude, alone, separated by our insanities, jailed for breaking some social boundary, whether against the law or ourselves. There was no fanfare to mark our arrival, just a dry, unsympathetic check in process which provided no comfort, no hope. But we left with hugs and love.

When we left it was our day to shine, like a bride on her wedding day or a father in the maternity ward passing out bubblegum cigars. It was a sacred day, one to be celebrated and enjoyed, because if the process worked, if all of this had been for something, it would be the re-birth of our lives. Not in a clichéd way, but in the deepest way possible- happiness. Leaving the ward was a lot like war in that sense; it didn’t matter if it was your first time there or your fifteenth, you always wanted it to be your last. And that was what the Good Luck Ritual was for, arisen out of necessity to be a somber celebration, an amazing day, forever unlike any other.

Even if we were afraid someone was not ready or that they would be back, we did not act like it. To do so would invite it, to do so was a sin against what bonded us together, because if we doubted, the one leaving believed in their failure and returned all the sooner. Like sending a child to college to be a TV News Anchor, you know there is a fairly slim chance of success, but you believe in the dream to help push them because they’ll never get through the grit any other way. Sure, they might fail several times, but each time you tell them you know this one is it, this one has the touch of luck and faith needed to bring them joy. If they fail (which they will, sometimes), you keep believing for them as long as it takes, lest they stop believing for themselves.

I watched the embraces and the words, saw how each seemed to raise Maria Rosa on a cloud of inner-strength, and I knew she would need it in the days to come. When it was my turn to hug her, I let her take the lead, still working on what I was going to say. She swept me into her arms and I rested my cheek on her green sweater-jacket, my eyes closed, and simply held her for a second.

"You’ll be okay."

My eyes snapped open and my lips parted in an O of surprise. The words had come from Maria Rosa, not me. Here, on her day, she was giving me my Good Luck Ritual, saying she believed in me, because she was leaving before it was my day.

I bit my lip, frantically searching for the right words to share with her. I should not have been so bad at this, bad at showing emotion, yet all my brilliant mind could dig up was, "So will you."

When I want to be a bitch, I can get my foot to my mouth with no problem, but when I want to show I care? Three words is all I can say? Just three? And one of them is not even love? God damn, do I ever deserve to be here...

She laughed quietly and I saw in her expression she understood, "Remember, though, okay? Be nice to eh Mari, she need it." Maria Rosa jerked her head in Marigold’s direction, and I nodded.

"Remember what I said, too." I whispered, winking, "I’ll try."

She grinned, gave me another hug, and grabbed her purse.

"Wait right here, okay? Don‘t go over there, yet. Don't leave." I said, and hurried over to where Marigold stood with the neighbor and The Debra. She watched me as I approached. Holy fuck, was that gratitude? I feel dirty. I took her place occupying the impatient woman, and Marigold went to add her name to the list of phone numbers for Maria Rosa and hug her goodbye.

That’s just gross. Now, it's official. We have bonded. I’m not naming any of my future kids after her, though.

Dr. Rathbone had finally arrived while Maria and I were saying our goodbye.  He took her back to his office. A few minutes later she came back out and left with her neighbor, walking by us as we stood at the entrance to the common room. We waved and smiled, having already said what we needed to.

After she left, the doctor asked Marigold to his office. It was my second day in the ward and I had yet to speak with him, but a rich drug addict got preferential treatment over a suicidal rape victim.
                 Yeah, I can see the logic in that. She must tip really well. Or she gives amazing head.

Marigold surprised everyone, Dr. Rathbone included, by refusing. Now, he had no choice, the poor guy. He called me in.

His office was smaller than the biggest closet in my apartment. A desk further complicated things by taking up a fourth of the room, leaving barely enough room to sit down, which I reasoned must be some comfort to his wife. I know I wouldn’t have been able to resist The Debra if she had snuck into my large, lush psychiatric ward office one night in fire-printed stirrup pants that set off her camel toe just so…
                On the wall a bug-eyed cat clock swished it’s tail. Ha ha, I get it! It’s a cuckoo cat clock! Say what you will about him, but the man had class.

The desk was really just an ambidextrous table, having openings on both sides to slide chairs beneath. The only two chairs contrasted immensely with each other, one a plush computer chair and the other a metal folding chair. We were going to play that game, were we? The superiority one?  I snorted. He should really know better.

Don’t play with psychos. Psycho’s always win whatever game is played, because when you tell them there are no rules that is exactly how they play. Take full-contact football, for instance. It’s funny how many rules game organizers will realize exist only after four people get kicked in the nuts, two get titty twisters, and one person becomes the football after an impromptu pigskin enema on the field.

I chose the plush computer chair, because I enjoy spinning. In the ward, I could spin to my heart’s content because I was unstable. Sometimes crazy has it’s perks.
                 I watched his face as he entered the room and a look of odoriferous displeasure wrinkled his nose. Point to me. He did not appreciate having his chair and balls taken by my assertion of dominance.

He unfolded the other chair and drug it over to the table, then lowered himself awkwardly into it, the metal creaking beneath his weight, and opened a folder to study. After sliding his glasses down his hawkish nose, he readjusted his butt cheek and carefully avoided my gaze, and he said, "All right, Brittni. We’re going to do an exercise. We are going to go back and forth between each other. I am going to say an object, and I want you to repeat it. After you do so, I’m going to add another object, and I want you to repeat the first object and the new one. It’s a memory test, okay? Let’s get started."

Doc, you’re talking to the Simon generation. The rapid pace of blue, green, green, green, orange, blue, red, blue, orange, green, green, green, red, blue, orange, red, green, green, green was no match for my six year old mind. Bring…it…on.

So, he began. "Clock."

I parroted, "Clock."

"Desk."

"Clock, desk."

"Stapler." He switched the leg he had crossed, the metal creating the pancake depression it would have inflicted on me had I sat in it. Certainly says something about how much concern he has for his patients.

"Clock, desk, stapler." I bet the next one is chair.

"Chair."

Yeah, buddy! I thought, grinning. My gloating was brief, however. I remembered Rathbone was the man responsible for my release from the ward, and the smile slid from my face immediately. Color me s-c-r-e-w-e-d.

"Clock, desk, stapler, chair, vent, ceiling, carpet. So, we good?" I asked, standing.

I waited to see if he took the bait. If he relented, I would be right. If he told me to sit down, I would be wrong.

My suspicions about the doctor were thus: he was not interested in seeing me as a person, which was why he looked everywhere but me. In fact, he preferred not to think of me as an actual person, because my pain and my actions created waves in his existence he did not enjoy. Purposely ignoring the very basic dignity of eye-to-eye contact in an emotional situation was a means of dehumanization. And I did not like it. But I‘ll be damned if a part of me didn’t hope I was wrong.

Why was he here if he could not even have the decency to look into my eyes and complete an image of me in his mind, though? He was avoiding recognizing that I, as a person and not a fucking folder, was real.

Psychiatrists and psychologists who are genuinely willing to wade into the muck with their patients have posters adorning the walls with kittens and kids, or matronly looking women with their arms around a weeping teenager and the words, ‘Sanctuary‘, ‘It‘s Okay‘, or ‘Suicide Kills‘.

They know the importance of meeting someone’s eyes to validate that person’s vulnerability in undergoing counseling and in demonstrating their dedication to the patients recovery.

Dr. Rathbone was not one of those. However he came by his position being the resident shrink, he did not care. I was alien to him, foreign to his world. He had no idea how to help me, nor did he actually want to.

And so…Clock.

Startled, he actually looked up when I finished the list for him, though he realized his error and immediately went back to flipping through stapled papers in the folder. "Yes, I think that is a good start. Next time, however, I want to discuss deeper issues."

Hey, uh, Doc? Were you just in the same room a few seconds ago? Unless I’m a furniture fucker and you were trying to get me hot, we did not discuss shit.

The anger fluffing my dislike of him surprised me. I had actually wanted him to ask the hard questions, ones I did not myself know the answers to. I needed that perusal of the mind, but this paper-jockey with his thin skin and smooth-surfaced brain was not the person to do it.
                I stretched, seeing if he’d have a last minute change of mind, and slowly walked to the door.

Before I could slip through it, he asked in clipped tones, "Can you please send Marigold in?"

Annoyed at his brilliant application of being fucking obtuse, I summoned the eight year old brat within and yelled her name across the hall. I secretly hoped my shout jarred him right down to his wife issued, ultra-sensible boxers, causing him to switch butt cheeks again and grimace at the bruise-like throbbing on the freed cheek. Yes, I wanted him to have a pain in the ass.

Besides me.

Marigold poked her head out of the doorway, "What?"

Wow.  Not even a scowl. That’s progress, right?

"Sorry, but the doctor is in." I told her, and started to walk across the hall. We met in the center. Before she could pass by, I grabbed her arm. "No, um. I’m sorry for more than that. I’m…sorry for what I did to you earlier. I…I don’t know what else to say. But I am sorry, Mari."

Her response was subdued.. Her eyes widened slightly. She patted my hand awkwardly, nodding.. She had absolutely no idea how to accept an apology or even be apologized to. No wonder she was so difficult to be around. It’s easier to be a bitch and unapologetic than it is to be a victim and never hear the words of regret when someone has hurt you.

At least when you’re a bitch, you have an excuse.

"That was quick." She stated, changing the subject. I took it as apology accepted.

"Yeah, he’s a fucking genius." I said, with more than a touch of loathing. "I’m cured, but I think I’m in love with Debra, now." The Debra was standing about twenty feet away at the nurses station, sporting a champion camel toe and a tight bra which made really rude fat origami of her figure. Somebody should have taught the woman to find clothes that fit. "I find those Mama-dog sags really attractive. Who knew humans could have four boobs?"

Marigold laughed softly.
                The moment felt almost momentous, us sharing a jibe instead of aiming them at each other. I dropped my hand, giving her a nod in the direction of the office.
                 She paused, "When I get done with this, I think we need to talk."

"Okay." I said, curious, but willing to hear her out.
                I figured I owed her that much, what with my being a cunt and all. To be honest, with our recent power-struggles I felt we owed it to each other.
                 Marigold seemed relieved at my agreement and flashed a shy smile at me. She then went in the doctor’s office to talk about cocks.

I mean, clocks.

Hey, we might have a budding psychomance, but that doesn’t mean all jokes stop. For all I know, she did talk about cocks.

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.