Chapter 6
Charlotte
I’m pretty sure I’ve cracked the code of the loony bin. They’ve strategically placed those incessantly loud ticking clocks in every room to drive us all mad and stir agitation. Ensuring a steady stream of wackos and junkies. Smart move, powers that be… smart move.
Tick
Tick
Tick
My back teeth grind against each other with such force that I know my jaw will be sore for the foreseeable future. Trying to distract myself, I focus on the small window in my room. The night sky is black as pitch, usually prime for stargazing, but we’ve had record snowfall this year. The city lights reflect off the snow, creating a faux daylight that settles like a heavy fog along the suburb. This excess lighting renders stargazing a no-go activity for tonight.
I sigh and roll over to my right side on this sad excuse for a bed. The room is never fully engulfed in darkness. Along the edge of the ceiling tiles, a slightly dim illumination fills the room enough to make out the main staples of the space.
Tucking my right hand under my head, I bring my left arm to rest along my chest. If I can’t search the skies for my solace, I can find a suitable substitute right here.
My eyes trace the seven freckles on my left forearm. To an untrained eye, they are just a random, speckled pattern. Nothing of note… But if you know what to look for and were to take a marker and connect them, you would make the shape of a pot with a long handle– Ursa Major. My very own Big Dipper.
Juno was a spiteful bitch to turn Callisto into a bear– a twisted attempt to strip away her beauty and captivation. Just because Jupiter had a wandering eye and thought Callisto was a baddie, like, take it up with your man lady, damn.
But the joke’s on Juno… I don’t know what Callisto looked like as a woman, but among the stars? None compare.
Each enchanting celestial sphere glimmers with a brilliance that fills the expansive sky. They call to me—they always have.
I can only hope that one day when my earthly journey concludes, I might earn my rightful place amongst those radiant orbs that have guided me through darkness and stirred my soul.
Tracing the pattern repeatedly, my uneven nail carves a path of white. Through each pass, the once-white trail glows a vivid red.
Tick
Tick
Tick
My shoulders threaten to cave in on themselves as I cringe from the relentless ticking racket coming from behind me. I begin to hum an old favorite of mine –in an attempt to drown out the persistent drone of the clock– something about not wanting the world to see me because I don’t think they’d understand. I press my nail a little harder along the fleshy route of stars. It should probably concern me that the pain is nonexistent. On the contrary, it feels… calming. Good even. It feels like control.
A rhythmic rustling sounds out from the bed behind me. My nail pauses its trek, hovering over the alleyway it has carved. Please, no . A soft moan accompanies the rustling, picking up pace and racing towards the finish line. You’ve got to be shitting me . Heavy pants chime in like low drum beats in the world’s worst-ever Jazz rendition of “Porn de Cassie.”
“Fucking knock that shit off, Cassie.” I fume at my roommate.
Not deterred in the slightest, her moans get louder and more dramatic as her hand works even faster beneath the prickly woven polyester blanket. A wet, squelching noise reaches my ear as she finger fucks herself to oblivion. A dry heave rocks my stomach. I latch my arm around it and beg its contents to stay put.
“Ah, fuck yeah,” she proclaims to no one in particular.
The friction is audible as she grinds against the palm of her hand, alternating the friction with the penetration. Her moans speed up, and a series of “mmms” and “ahhhs” brings us to her uninspiring, lackluster conclusion.
As she pants satiated breaths into our shared space, my anger bubbles to the surface. She has no respect for anyone, and I’m over her shit. I thrust my blanket off of my legs and flop my body to the left, fully intending to give her a piece of my mind, when the sight of her freezes my movements.
She’s moving into a sitting position in just her facility-issued white cotton tee and nothing else. My focus narrows in on her landing strip. I don’t know why I assumed she’d be bare as the day she was born down there— she seems the type.
But somehow, I’m not shocked at all to see the shape of the pubic hair in a downward arrow. She follows my gaze down to her fully displayed beav and smirks, “You trying to get a taste, roomie?” she reaches down, gathering some of her own wetness, and brings the glimmering digit to her mouth, giving it a lick.
My lip curls in a sneer, “Not for all the money in the world, biotch.”
She laughs and begins to walk towards our shared bathroom. She has to pass the end of my bed to get there. When she’s right at the foot of the bed, she stops and reaches down to grab the edge of my blanket. I watch in horror as she lifts her right leg to rest on my bed as she wipes her juices off on my fucking blanket. The fuck she just did . My teeth grate against each other, and I slowly raise myself to a sitting position. With barely restrained rage, I grind out, “You did not just fucking do that.”
Just as I’m about to spring from the bed and tackle this dirty shrew, she lifts her finger and tuts. “Ah-ah. You might want to check your tone, roomie . One word from me, and your ass will be headed to the Quiet Room.” A smirk takes over her mouth. “Is that what you want, hm?” she taunts .
A shudder runs through my body at the thought, but I lean forward anyway, ready to smash her face in, “Oh, you fucking bit–” I can’t get the rest of the words out because she opens her mouth to scream. I fist my hands and slam my back against the wall at the head of the bed, glaring at her. She shrugs her shoulder, throws me an evil grin, and begins whistling as she strolls off to the bathroom.
Fucking cunt.
The water flowing through the pipes behind my head drowns out the ticking enough to lull me into a relatively relaxed state. I close my eyes and try to picture being anywhere but this fucking room, in this fucking facility, with these fucking people.
I’m lying on a beach in Bora Bora. The warm sand sinks below my body, molding to it like a warm welcome home. My skin is damp with sweat from basking in the radiant bliss of the sun. My toes burrow into the sand, the little piggies eager to escape the unrelenting heat. The crashing waves weave their spell through my ears as they flow to shore. Errant cries of Black-Winged Petrels echo along the breeze as they coast along the surging tides. The wind whispers among the palms, a gentle serenade weaving through the fronds. I close my eyes to savor the sea-kissed air wafting around me…
The creak of the bathroom door interrupts my daydream. Her wet feet slap against the tile as she returns to her bed. Without opening my eyes, I calmly call out to her, “And Cassie?” I don’t wait for her acknowledgment before I continue, “The next time you want to play digital DJ, do it in the fucking bathroom like a normal person.”
She laughs as she settles back in her bed. Just as I’m about to drift off, she whispers, “And Charlotte?” I take a deep breath. “Mhmm,” I offer dismissively. “Normally, I would go to the bathroom, but—” Something hard lands on my bed between my legs. As I reach down for the object, she declares, “Your batteries were dead.”
My nostrils flare, and I drop the electric toothbrush like a hot jizz-coated cake.
* * *
“Well, Miss Johnson, will we have a dialogue today? Or shall we continue our parallel play?” Dr. Turner jests, wiggling his matching notebook at me. I roll my eyes at him and return my attention to the notebook in my lap, where I’ve been working on creating a tiny checkered pattern with my pen.
My eyes find the clock behind him on the wall, only twenty five more minutes to pass before I can get the hell out of here. It’s not that I don’t like Dr. Turner. On the contrary, he has a very endearing, trustworthy nature. But I don’t trust myself. I’ve proven time and time again that my judgment of character fucking sucks.
This is our third individual session, and I’ve still yet to say a word. In our last session, he asked me to read the letter I wrote out loud. I gave him a yeah fucking right look with a cocked eyebrow, to which he chuckled and asked if he could read it himself.
I teetered back and forth on whether I was comfortable with him reading my letter to Priest or not. Ultimately, those soft, dark eyes got me, and I handed over the notebook. I watched his face closely for judgment, disgust, blame, or indifference, but the man was a steel trap of emotions. The only hint he was affected by my letter was the slight flaring of his nostril and sharp nod as he handed the book back to me. We spent the rest of the time in a shared silent transparency.
Dr. Turner is a patient man. He doesn’t push. He’s kept his promise on that– so far. We spend the hour sitting in companionable silence, him doing whatever he does inside his notebook and me doodling in mine.
As I’m coloring in another square to expand my chessboard pattern, Dr. Turner stands and heads over to his desk. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to give away my interest in his actions.
He opens the top left drawer of his large wooden desk, rustles through some items, and clasps his hand around whatever he is looking for. He closes the drawer softly and makes his way over to me. His large body looms over me.
My shoulders stiffen instantly with the proximity. Feeling my discomfort, he lowers himself to my level—something he does often, like he knows I can’t stand the feeling of someone imposing over me. I concentrate on the page in front of me, begging my heart to slow its cadence at the nearness of the man before me.
He lays his large hand softly on top of mine to stop the movement of my pen. I freeze and snap my gaze to his. He holds out his other hand, in a rock form, before turning it over and slowly releasing his fingers outward. There in his palm is a large gold coin. I meet his eyes and cock my head to the side in question.
A slight smile ticks up on his lips as he thrusts his hand closer to me like he is tempting a wild animal to take the tasty treat from a stranger’s hand. “For you,” he soothes.
My eyes dart from my checkered pattern to his reassuring eyes, to his offered palm, and finally, down to his left hand, which is still gently cupping my right hand. I slowly reach my left hand out and take the coin out of his proffered hand. I don’t look down at it. Instead, my focus is solely on where our bodies are joined.
The delay in my response or acknowledgment must bring his attention back to what his hand is doing. He quickly pulls it back and clears his throat as if the sound could wash the awkwardness away.
Standing, he looks at the clock before heading to his desk chair. “Looks like that’s it for us today.” He says almost dismissively. Did I offend him somehow?
I nod my head reluctantly. I close the pen inside my notebook and clasp my hand tightly around the coin. Dr. Turner’s head is down, his sole focus now on the papers splayed out before him on his desktop. Guess that’s it, then. I huff a breath and leave the room.
Making my way back to my room, I find it roommate-less—thank God. I set my notebook on the rickety nightstand beside my bed and take a seat with my back pressed against the wall at the head of the bed. I try not to give too much thought to the last hour, the way my breathing seemed to stutter with the bodily contact, and how Dr. Turner seemed to be affected by the interaction as well.
I tip my head back to the wall and pinch my eyes shut, bringing my fists up to rub at them. Now a heated essence in my palm, the coin begs for consideration. I bring my fist down to my lap and release my tight grip. The gilded medallion sits heavy in my hand as a sob works its way up my chest and settles thickly in my throat.
Etched in the disk are two squares – one inside the other– with words surrounding them. The words on the outside square read: Self, God, Service, Society. The inside square is adorned with the words: Freedom, Goodwill. The very center is inscribed with a “30”.
My very first sobriety chip. I shouldn’t be surprised that he gave this to me. He is a therapist at a clinic that specializes in rehabilitation for addiction as well as behavioral issues, after all. It’s got to be a pretty common occurrence. So why does it feel like more than that?