Chapter 2
A little over one month later, September 2006
Charlotte
Tick, Tick, Tick
My eyelids fly open, and I shoot a glare at the offending timepiece on the wall to my left.
Tick, Tick, Tick
“Fuck off, you piece of shit! Jesus!” I scream as I hurl my too-flat pillow with the scratchy case in its direction.
Immediately, I regret my action as the tube that is connected to my forearm –with the world’s largest fucking needle– begins to burn as it tears out of my flesh. I can’t wait until I no longer need the additional fluids and can take my meds like a big girl.
Goddamnit !
I direct my ire at the sterile wall of the hospital-like dorm room I’ve been assigned to. When did this become my life?
“Ugh!” I slam my head back on the now pillowless mattress. The resulting insta-headache is just another cherry on top of a shit fucking cake that is currently my life.
The large metal door creaks as a head pops in. “Miss Johnson, as I have already told you, if you cannot keep it down, we will be forced to sedate you.” Nurse Hatchet-Face scowls at me with a poorly painted, raised eyebrow in challenge. “Have I been clear enough for you, or should I get the orderlies to join our little party here?”
I gnash my teeth into my bottom lip to keep the words I want to spit at her inside my body. I’ve already witnessed two people being “sedated” and then dragged– dragged by their arms, legs trailing on the ground behind them– to a secluded corridor on the other side of the facility. They were missing for days and wouldn’t speak to anyone when they returned. They wouldn’t look at anyone.
I don’t want to discover what caused that emptiness in their eyes.
I nod wordlessly at HF. She clicks her tongue and looks down at me, smugness radiating from her evil frame. She closes the door behind her as she takes her leave.
A snort pulls my attention to the left.
I roll my eyes, “Fuck off, Cassie.” I growl at my roommate.
The cutter. The nymphomaniac. The pathological liar. She’s the fucking hat trick of this nut house— oh, I’m sorry, “Behavioral Clinic”. What a joke.
Starry North. The Crown Jewel of Alaska’s mental health crisis. A “State-of-the-art facility providing specialized inpatient care for mental health conditions as well as groundbreaking addiction therapy”. Cue jerking off motion.
At least, that’s what it proudly says across my welcome packet.
Welcome my ass. It’s a fucking jailhouse itinerary.
6:00 AM: Wake Up
6:20 AM: Medication Disbursement
6:30 AM: Breakfast
7:20 AM: Morning Meditation/Journaling
8:00 AM: Group Physical Fitness
10:00 AM: Individual Therapy
11:00 AM: Creative Therapy of Choice (Music, Art, Writing… etc)
12:00 PM: Lunch with Additional Medication Disbursement if Necessary
1:00 PM: Self-Reflection
2:00 PM: Group Therapy/ Relapse Prevention
3:00 PM: Family Visitation/Phone Calls
5:00 PM: Dinner with Additional Medication Disbursement if Necessary
6:00 PM: Personal Time/Journaling/Evening Meditation
7:00 PM: Group Free Time/Movie Selection
9:00 PM: Bedtime- Lights Out
What a thrilling schedule they give to patients. Like I need seven hundred reminders a day that I’ve made shitty decisions and nearly ended up in a hole in the ground. I don’t need to sit in a circle and sing Kumbayah while holding hands and sharing my problems.
At least, that’s what I assume happens. I’m just going based on what I’ve seen in TV shows and movies.
The last week I’ve been here has been spent in the isolation of my room.
After the overdose and ICU stay, my body was still in a fragile state. My mind was even more brittle, so my lawyer advocated for a “trickle-in” effect for my entrance into therapy-dom.
Sometimes, I wonder if jail would’ve been the better option. Though I think it’s bullshit to take someone who is on death’s doorstep and not only interrogate them at diminished mental capacity but dare to threaten them with imprisonment if they don’t agree to testify against the bigger fish. In this case, Priest.
I did get a little kick out of learning his real name, though; Caleb– sounds douchey to me. I hope Caleb drops the soap every fucking day and Big Thick Bubba is there to help him pick it back up. Asshole.
The detectives were relentless, and since I refused to see or speak to Grayson, Daddy’s money was no help, and I was assigned a public defender, David.
I was sure the man –who can’t be more than twenty-five– that entered the room with a spotless briefcase in his shaky hand, a coffee stain on his tie, and a crust of dried toothpaste on the corner of his mouth– that I couldn’t stop staring at, gag – had absolutely no fucking clue what he was doing. I was resigned to the fact that I would definitely be going to prison.
David surprised me, though. His disheveled appearance clearly did not affect his negotiating skills. He argued that I needed to be in a proper facility to handle my “needs effectively”.
He bargained for my livelihood with the District Attorney like I was a trading card—an old, unimportant, second-string playing card, complete with tattered edges!
Finally, my fate was determined: I must successfully complete the ninety days at Starry North without incident or spend two years in prison.
I traded one prison sentence for another. Either way, my life is not mine. Not that it has been for quite some time.
I don’t remember much after Priest delivered the hot shot.
A loud bang.
Hands all over my body– like so many times before.
Some tube up my nose with mist– I found out later that it was the EMTs delivering Naloxone.
Lots of noise and activity, but nothing making sense.
Then, nothing. Pure, blank, quiet, nothing.
The hazy memory of waking up in the hospital threatens to come forth. There was so much pain. I was sure I was in Hell. Flailing around like a tumbleweed in the wind around one of the dreaded nine circles.
Flashing lights. Incessant beeping. Constant poking and prodding. Un-Godly tight squeezes from the blood pressure cuff every four fucking hours. Throat raw and throbbing from the breathing tube.
I want to erase it all.
* * *
“You know I was named ‘most likely to suck a President’s cock’ by the boys at school, right?” Lie.
Her schoolgirl-like giggle fills the air. I imagine her standing there with one foot tucked behind the opposite leg, twirling a piece of her frizzy, bleached-blonde hair. Head tipped down ever so slightly in what she thinks is a demure pose but actually makes her look like a demented porcelain doll .
“That’s how good I am.” Lie .
A sloppy “pop” sound reaches my ears, and I cringe from secondhand embarrassment. “Want to take me to the Snack Shack and see for yourself?”
I don’t look up from the notebook in my lap, but a snort erupts from me. Silence ensues for a moment too long. I brave a glance upward, and sure enough, Cassie glares at me while the orderly standing with her traces my body with lust in his eyes and winks. I make a gagging motion with my finger going into my mouth, “Not in this lifetime or any other, Horn Dog.”
He’s called Horn Dog (HD) for a reason. He will literally fuck anything and anyone that moves. He only has three requirements: warm, open, and willing. He doesn’t discriminate by gender– or age. But from what I can tell, it’s consensual-ish, which is more than I can say for some of the other douchefucks around here.
He shrugs at my dismissal and grabs Cassie roughly by the arm, leading her down to what I’ve coined as “The Pussy Pantry”. Her basic white slip-on shoes squeak against the linoleum as she struggles to keep up.
When speaking in earshot of staff or management, we call it the Snack Shack. The term refers to the sign above the door with the name written in dried licorice ropes. No doubt, it’s a craft left over from years past. The room is small—usually locked—but it’s where the good treats are kept. Popcorn, candy, pretzels, juice… You name it, and you can find it in the Snack Shack.
The room is only open for proper use during movie time. The rest of the time, it’s isolated and pretty soundproof, making it a popular place to take one’s Tootsie for a roll, if you know what I mean.
Shaking the image of HD and Cassie plunging into each other’s Fun Dip from my mind, I direct my attention back to my notebook.
As the plaques on the wall dictated, my new therapist, Dr. Jensen Turner, gave me some homework after our first session.
I think he gave it to me as punishment because I literally said zero words to him for the entirety of the hour. We stared at each other for the first thirty minutes. For the next thirty minutes, I kicked back in the oversized sofa chair and played with the drawstring of my sweatpants.
“Well, Miss Johnson, it looks like our time is up for today. Perhaps at our next session, you could participate and make this time together worthwhile.” He said as he stood and opened a drawer from his desk. He pulled out a basic black-and-white notebook—the same type of notebook that belonged to a beautiful heartbreaker with stormy eyes. Nope. I’m not going there.
He reached the notebook out to me. I eyed it as if it were a feral animal baring its teeth, sizing me up as its next meal.
“It won’t bite, Miss Johnson,” he sighed at me and wiggled his finger in my direction as if I were just a silly little girl avoiding vegetables at dinner.
I snatched the notebook out of his hands with more aggression than necessary. He quirked his brow at me, and I was certain he would write that little interaction down in his precious notebook. Note to self: get into that notebook and see what he keeps scribbling in there!
I tucked it in the space beside my thigh and the edge of the cushion without any inspection. Dr. Turner pulled the pantleg of his slacks up a bit as he crouched down to get eye level with me; he didn’t touch me– and for that, I’m grateful– he placed his hand softly on the arm of the chair. “This doesn’t have to be an unpleasant experience, Miss Johnson. I truly am here to help. To listen. To give direction,” I lose the staring contest I was having with the wall and meet his deep brown gaze. Sincerity is etched all over his features.
I wonder how old he is. There’s a slight dusting of gray along his temples, barely noticeable among his dark brunette tresses. His skin is smooth, nary a wrinkle, and a neatly trimmed beard. “You don’t have to speak to me until you feel ready. We go at your pace,” he tapped the toe of my shoe with a finger, “Got it?” he asked, but it was no question.
I tipped my chin down –the only answer he’d be getting from me. I peeked over at the notebook, begging the memories of a boy with stark black hair to stay tucked into the box in the back of my mind where he belongs.
Dr. Turner reached for the book, accidentally grazing my thigh as he pulled it out; neither of us acknowledged it. He placed it gently on my lap and tapped a finger to the top of it. “In your free time, you can use this for whatever you want: doodles, poems, origami, Harriet-The-Spy-ing…”
Ugh, I fucking love that movie. I tried to hide the small smile behind my hand. He stood to his full height, clearly amused with his ability to crack me just a little .
“However, I want you to pen some letters during morning and evening journaling time.”
I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes in question. He answered the question I didn’t have to ask. “People have hurt you. People have let you down. People have abandoned you. You’ve felt small. Angry. Unseen.”
He stared at me so intensely that it felt like he was searching my soul for these instances he spoke of. I felt uneasy that someone could know my weaknesses and insecurities, so I wrapped my arms tightly around my middle like it could deflect his penetrating observation.
“Tell them, Miss Johnson.” He urged with another tap to the top of my notebook.
He walked back over to his desk and grabbed a cheap plastic pen. He turned toward me and threw it in my direction. I reacted quickly and fumbled to catch it before it hit the floor. When I looked back at him, his face was a blank, unreadable mask.
“When I see you again later this week, I expect at least one full letter to someone from your past. This will just be between you and me and will not be shared in group or with the letters’ intended.”
Well, that makes me feel a little better about it, even though it still seems pretty fucking stupid to write a letter that will never be read.
I nodded in acquiescence before gathering the two items and leaving his office. The door closed with a slight snick behind me, and I leaned against it, clutching the notebook tightly to my chest, and let out a large breath.
I guess the big question is… Who do I write the first letter to?