closed.
She’s still here. It wasn’t a dream.
She can smell herself, an intense combination of greasy hair and BO overlaid with the sick spiciness of soured milk and blood that had seeped through her clothing and dried. She’d never taken a shower last night, even though the psychiatrist had told her she could. At dinnertime, she’d gotten a fresh jumpsuit and undershirt along with her tray, but it hardly mattered now.
She pushes herself to the edge of her plastic bed, kicks off the sheet. Gloomy daylight hovers in the room, leaking through the three window slats over the stainless steel toilet. It could be morning, but she’s not sure. Once the staff had given her back the bedding last night and she’d finally fallen asleep, she’d slept hard. Like the dead.
She hears noise coming from outside her room. She stiffens, straining her ears. Muffled voices. Movement.
The girls. Is she going to have to go out there now? Have them follow her with their eyes and wonder? Hear them whispering about her?
She sits very still, listening. Everything is reduced to her heartbeat and her breath and the indistinct sounds outside. No one is coming for her, she decides. She pushes herself off her bed and creeps toward the door, toward the slim rectangular window there, and peeks out.
The olive cell doors bordering the large room are opening. Girls in orange jumpsuits emerge from them. They slink to divergent corners of the room, like cats. One girl has a mop, another with a bucket joins her, and together they clean the vinyl tile. A black girl Windexes the glass door leading out to the courtyard. A tiny blonde stands before the control desk and talks to the staff there, but it’s not the one from yesterday. This staff is older with dark skin and short dark hair.
Devon stands watching for a long time, careful to remain unseen. Some of the girls congregate around a cardboard box beside the control desk, pulling out large ziplock bags containing toiletries. They carry these bags back to their rooms, then return them to the box sometime later.
Everything appears calm and orderly, and this helps Devon relax. Take away the orange jumpsuits, and this could be a dorm at soccer camp—doing light chores, getting dressed, preparing for a day of scrimmages and skills.
Soon a male staff rolls a cart into the room from the entryway. The girls abandon their activities to line up and in turn retrieve a cafeteria tray from the cart. Each carries her tray, either to one of the two round plastic tables or back to her cell.
Breakfast. Devon’s stomach groans as she watches the girls move their plastic sporks between their trays and their mouths. When was the last time she ate? Back in the hospital, she remembers. Scrambled eggs and English muffins. A lifetime ago.
She wishes now that she’d eaten the sloppy joes and potato salad the staff had brought her last night. Her stomach had been too jumpy to keep anything down. As the tray sat, the food turned cold and unappetizing, orange grease coagulated on ground beef.
Devon’s back aches from standing in one place so long. And her bladder is stretched tight and throbs. She hasn’t yet dared to use the toilet in the corner of the room—too gross. But she can’t avoid it any longer. Not unless she wants to add urine to her already dreadful stench.
She turns from the door and shuffles the ten or so steps to the toilet on the other side of her room. Her pelvis is still stiff, and the place between her legs feels hollow and sore, and this amazes Devon. Will she ever feel all together again?
Devon pauses to scrutinize the toilet, a look of disgust on her face, which she catches in the tiny mirror at eye level above the toilet. It’s very small and scratched, but she stares at it for a long moment.
Her present reflection fades and, in her mind, another materializes. A similar look of disgust on her face, but then the mirror before her was wide and the bathroom spacious and bright. And the look
She’s still here. It wasn’t a dream.
She can smell herself, an intense combination of greasy hair and BO overlaid with the sick spiciness of soured milk and blood that had seeped through her clothing and dried. She’d never taken a shower last night, even though the psychiatrist had told her she could. At dinnertime, she’d gotten a fresh jumpsuit and undershirt along with her tray, but it hardly mattered now.
She pushes herself to the edge of her plastic bed, kicks off the sheet. Gloomy daylight hovers in the room, leaking through the three window slats over the stainless steel toilet. It could be morning, but she’s not sure. Once the staff had given her back the bedding last night and she’d finally fallen asleep, she’d slept hard. Like the dead.
She hears noise coming from outside her room. She stiffens, straining her ears. Muffled voices. Movement.
The girls. Is she going to have to go out there now? Have them follow her with their eyes and wonder? Hear them whispering about her?
She sits very still, listening. Everything is reduced to her heartbeat and her breath and the indistinct sounds outside. No one is coming for her, she decides. She pushes herself off her bed and creeps toward the door, toward the slim rectangular window there, and peeks out.
The olive cell doors bordering the large room are opening. Girls in orange jumpsuits emerge from them. They slink to divergent corners of the room, like cats. One girl has a mop, another with a bucket joins her, and together they clean the vinyl tile. A black girl Windexes the glass door leading out to the courtyard. A tiny blonde stands before the control desk and talks to the staff there, but it’s not the one from yesterday. This staff is older with dark skin and short dark hair.
Devon stands watching for a long time, careful to remain unseen. Some of the girls congregate around a cardboard box beside the control desk, pulling out large ziplock bags containing toiletries. They carry these bags back to their rooms, then return them to the box sometime later.
Everything appears calm and orderly, and this helps Devon relax. Take away the orange jumpsuits, and this could be a dorm at soccer camp—doing light chores, getting dressed, preparing for a day of scrimmages and skills.
Soon a male staff rolls a cart into the room from the entryway. The girls abandon their activities to line up and in turn retrieve a cafeteria tray from the cart. Each carries her tray, either to one of the two round plastic tables or back to her cell.
Breakfast. Devon’s stomach groans as she watches the girls move their plastic sporks between their trays and their mouths. When was the last time she ate? Back in the hospital, she remembers. Scrambled eggs and English muffins. A lifetime ago.
She wishes now that she’d eaten the sloppy joes and potato salad the staff had brought her last night. Her stomach had been too jumpy to keep anything down. As the tray sat, the food turned cold and unappetizing, orange grease coagulated on ground beef.
Devon’s back aches from standing in one place so long. And her bladder is stretched tight and throbs. She hasn’t yet dared to use the toilet in the corner of the room—too gross. But she can’t avoid it any longer. Not unless she wants to add urine to her already dreadful stench.
She turns from the door and shuffles the ten or so steps to the toilet on the other side of her room. Her pelvis is still stiff, and the place between her legs feels hollow and sore, and this amazes Devon. Will she ever feel all together again?
Devon pauses to scrutinize the toilet, a look of disgust on her face, which she catches in the tiny mirror at eye level above the toilet. It’s very small and scratched, but she stares at it for a long moment.
Her present reflection fades and, in her mind, another materializes. A similar look of disgust on her face, but then the mirror before her was wide and the bathroom spacious and bright. And the look
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