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Authors: Jennifer LoveGrove
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the cold floor â a row of elders sitting on the bed across from mine, their hands clasped, heads bent in prayer, waiting for me. I closed my eyes tightly and pulled the curtain back around me, and steadied myself on the bed.
I counted to twenty, which seemed to take hours, then opened the curtain again.
No one was there. The clock on the wall said it was 9:15 a.m. A full day had passed since I had started my last exam.
What did they want? Where did they go?
You know what they want. Donât worry, I got rid of them for you.
Where am I?
You owe me. But you should get out of there.
How?
Hurry.
I didnât want her to be mad at me. Without looking at it, I tore the IV from my arm. It dangled next to me, leaking clear fluid onto the floor. I watched a puddle begin to form, and counted forty-seven drops before I noticed the blood dripping from my arm. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it and focus through the haze. I reached for a tissue and my arm took about five minutes to move toward the box. So many beautiful red isobars on my forearm â meticulous, symmetrical, like a map of circuit boards. Crimson dots from inside my elbow spattered the white sheets. I watched them fall, two, three, four, five. My arm got tired and I remembered the tissue.
I dabbed at the blood and it slowed. The sun slashed through the windows, aggressive, jeering, trying to blind me.
I breathed deeply and looked for something to cover up with. People constantly passed by my room but none looked through the doorway at me. Uniformed staff wheeled carts of food, nurses pushed people strapped to stretchers, nervous visitors glanced furtively at their watches. I couldnât walk amid them all, covered in scabs, with my bare ass showing. I considered wrapping myself in a sheet but that would be too obvious. I concentrated for a long time, the insides of my knees against the cold chrome of the bed frame, and then Grey Jogging Pants shuffled back in.
â Hi. She swayed slightly from side to side. Her hair was greasy and flecked with white, and stains dappled her pink sweatshirt. She stood at the foot of my bed, expectant.
I nodded as curtly as I could, and turned my head toward the window, as though looking for something specific in the parking lot below.
â My name is Louisa. She spoke in a slow monotone, rattling a bottle of pills in her pocket.
â Whatâs yours?
I didnât answer.
â My nameâs Louisa. Whatâs yours?
â None of your business, thatâs what. I busied myself picking the scabs from my left thigh.
â I canât hear you.
â I donât care.
She peered at something on the end of my bed and straightened up.
â Hello, Emily. What did they bring you here for?
The IV bag was still dripping and the puddle was getting larger. When I didnât respond, Louisa continued to drone.
â Iâm here because I have a chemical imbalance in part of my brain. But I feel better since Iâve been staying here.
It sounded like a line she had memorized and repeated often. My throat constricted with a sudden, dull ache. I bit the insides of my cheeks as hard as I could. It was only the drugs they had forced into me that were making me want to cry, I was sure of it, and I scraped my nails across the lines on my legs. Bits of dried blood chipped off and cuts started to bleed again, and immediately I felt better and exhaled without crying. I still didnât look at Louisa.
â Some of us from the ward play Monopoly every day at eleven before lunch. In the lounge. You should come too.
I shrugged and continued to stare out the window. A man in a white coat got out of a red sports car and walked quickly toward the side entrance. So what if I cut myself once in a while? It was my body, it didnât hurt anyone else. I wasnât schizophrenic or crazy. I didnât belong there.
â Peter keeps winning and Mina says thatâs because he used be a lawyer
I counted to twenty, which seemed to take hours, then opened the curtain again.
No one was there. The clock on the wall said it was 9:15 a.m. A full day had passed since I had started my last exam.
What did they want? Where did they go?
You know what they want. Donât worry, I got rid of them for you.
Where am I?
You owe me. But you should get out of there.
How?
Hurry.
I didnât want her to be mad at me. Without looking at it, I tore the IV from my arm. It dangled next to me, leaking clear fluid onto the floor. I watched a puddle begin to form, and counted forty-seven drops before I noticed the blood dripping from my arm. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it and focus through the haze. I reached for a tissue and my arm took about five minutes to move toward the box. So many beautiful red isobars on my forearm â meticulous, symmetrical, like a map of circuit boards. Crimson dots from inside my elbow spattered the white sheets. I watched them fall, two, three, four, five. My arm got tired and I remembered the tissue.
I dabbed at the blood and it slowed. The sun slashed through the windows, aggressive, jeering, trying to blind me.
I breathed deeply and looked for something to cover up with. People constantly passed by my room but none looked through the doorway at me. Uniformed staff wheeled carts of food, nurses pushed people strapped to stretchers, nervous visitors glanced furtively at their watches. I couldnât walk amid them all, covered in scabs, with my bare ass showing. I considered wrapping myself in a sheet but that would be too obvious. I concentrated for a long time, the insides of my knees against the cold chrome of the bed frame, and then Grey Jogging Pants shuffled back in.
â Hi. She swayed slightly from side to side. Her hair was greasy and flecked with white, and stains dappled her pink sweatshirt. She stood at the foot of my bed, expectant.
I nodded as curtly as I could, and turned my head toward the window, as though looking for something specific in the parking lot below.
â My name is Louisa. She spoke in a slow monotone, rattling a bottle of pills in her pocket.
â Whatâs yours?
I didnât answer.
â My nameâs Louisa. Whatâs yours?
â None of your business, thatâs what. I busied myself picking the scabs from my left thigh.
â I canât hear you.
â I donât care.
She peered at something on the end of my bed and straightened up.
â Hello, Emily. What did they bring you here for?
The IV bag was still dripping and the puddle was getting larger. When I didnât respond, Louisa continued to drone.
â Iâm here because I have a chemical imbalance in part of my brain. But I feel better since Iâve been staying here.
It sounded like a line she had memorized and repeated often. My throat constricted with a sudden, dull ache. I bit the insides of my cheeks as hard as I could. It was only the drugs they had forced into me that were making me want to cry, I was sure of it, and I scraped my nails across the lines on my legs. Bits of dried blood chipped off and cuts started to bleed again, and immediately I felt better and exhaled without crying. I still didnât look at Louisa.
â Some of us from the ward play Monopoly every day at eleven before lunch. In the lounge. You should come too.
I shrugged and continued to stare out the window. A man in a white coat got out of a red sports car and walked quickly toward the side entrance. So what if I cut myself once in a while? It was my body, it didnât hurt anyone else. I wasnât schizophrenic or crazy. I didnât belong there.
â Peter keeps winning and Mina says thatâs because he used be a lawyer
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