Chapter Seventeen
Quinn - Present Day
When I come to, Richard and Darla are hovering above me, concern etched on their faces. My head aches.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“You blacked out,” Darla answers.
“Just like that? I just dropped to the floor for no reason?”
“Well, there are many reasons you could have randomly blacked out. Stress. Seizures. Any of your diagnosed mental conditions.”
“You know more than I do, then, because I don’t even know what conditions I have. My mother never thought it was important enough to tell me. She just tells me to take the medication she gives me, and that’s that.”
“That’s not unusual with most of our patients.
Talking about a diagnosis can be triggering, and for someone with suicidal tendencies, most family members find it anxiety-inducing to approach those subjects, so they avoid them.
That’s why you’re here. To work on that.
” She reaches out a hand to help me get up, and I pull myself to my feet.
I’m unsteady for a second, but then I remember where I am, and the dread settles back into my stomach.
I look around and don’t see my parents’ car anymore. “Where is my family?”
“They’ve gone. They thought it would be better for you if, when you came around, you weren’t reminded of their betrayal, as you see it.”
“It’s not as I see it; they have betrayed me. The version of the truth that you have been sold is nothing like the actual version.”
“There are always three sides to a story, Quinn,” Richard offers a token of his undeniable wisdom. “Their side, your side, and the truth.”
“But surely your job is to want to uncover the truth? Your patients should be your priority. So if I’m telling you that what you’ve been told is untrue, surely you have a duty of care to listen?”
“Our duty of care is to keep you safe while you are here. Working in a place like this, we are often told fabricated versions of a patient’s truth with no way to know if it’s the actual truth or a delusion they have begun to believe.
” Jesus, this Richard is a right fucking barrel of laughs, isn’t he?
“Ok, got it. So, you don’t care about what your patients tell you, just getting the money for their stay and keeping them alive?”
“I can see why your parents have sent you here.”
And he can’t handle sarcasm, either. What a fucking joy.
“I think it’s time to get you inside and get you unpacked. We need to search your belongings and make sure you have no contraband. I was assured your mother packed your things for you, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What’s considered contraband?”
“All kinds of electronics, makeup, hair straighteners, anything that could alter your appearance, really.”
“What about books? Are we allowed to read?”
“Within reason.”
“What’s within reason?”
“We have a library of approved titles inside. You’re welcome to peruse those after you’ve been officially checked in. Do you have a phone on you?”
I mentally check myself so I don’t inadvertently flag that my phone is inside my bra by reaching for it.
“Ummm, no. I got out of the car so fast because I was so angry, I left it in the backseat. They can keep it.” I look them dead in the eye so there is no question about whether I’m telling the truth or not and go to grab the handle of my suitcase.
“The only thing I have on me is my Kindle, which I can’t use for anything other than reading if I don’t have an internet connection.
Can I keep that? Or will you be having it? ”
“Unfortunately, that’s considered contraband because we cannot monitor what you’re doing on it, so we will have to take that from you. Thank you for being honest with us.”
See. Partial honesty has its benefits. Now they think they have everything I’ve got, and I can contact the outside world, unless they plan on strip searching me.
“Once we get inside, we will go through your case, and then you’ll be searched to make sure you’ve handed over all of your contraband.”
As always, my brain betrays me. I’m sure there’s someone listening who just decides whatever I say to do the opposite. Should never have even thought about it.
“No problem.” Shit. What the fuck do I do now? “Can I use the bathroom? All the excitement has me feeling like I’m gonna pee myself.”
“Of course, follow me,” Darla says, pointing ahead of herself as I pull my suitcase up the steps.
It’s light, so easily done, and it’s glaringly obvious there won’t be any contraband hidden in my suitcase for home comforts.
Though, why I still set myself up for disappointment where my mother is concerned is nobody’s business.
Darla opens the front door, which could do with some WD-40 judging by the creaks that come from it.
Inside is spacious and sparsely furnished, but directly in front of the entryway is a black double staircase that goes up in the middle before separating either way until it reaches the top.
A black and white patterned carpet runner decorates the centre of the steps, with the remainder of the black steps coming out either side.
A crystal chandelier adorns the lightbulbs, the speckles of light from where the light interacts with the glass adorning the wall.
It’s breathtaking. There are doors along the walls and a hallway directly behind the staircase that looks like it goes towards the back of the house.
It’s bitterly cold inside, and something feels off. Like it’s all for appearances. Everything is a little too perfect.
Darla directs me to a black door on the left of the staircase that’s flanked with plants on either side and a gold handle.
“Please leave your suitcase here in case any contraband has been packed. Including your Kindle.” Richard seems like he will be the fun police.
“Of course.” I give him one of my sarcastic-but-looks-friendly smiles and make my way to the toilet. Once inside, I can see the black, white and gold theme carries on, and I put down the seat cover, making sure it’s clean, before I take a seat.
Harley specifically asked me for a safe word in case I needed him in an emergency, but what constitutes an emergency? If I send him the safe word this time, what if he doesn’t think it’s an emergency and then next time he ignores it? Do I just take the risk?
Fuck it.
Me: Magpie.
Me: MAGPIE.
Me: FUCKING MAGPIE
Me: My parents have somehow managed to gain power of attorney, and they have had me committed to a mental hospital because of my prior suicide attempt—which wasn’t even a suicide attempt. Whatever they’ve been told will have been a lie.
Me: They brought me here for ECT therapy.
A therapy I never wanted. I only came because they said it was an initial appointment and I thought I would be able to convince the doctor I didn’t need it.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if you can help me or if you even want to help me, but I’m scared, Harley.
There’s something about this place that feels off, like there’s something I’m missing; it’s too perfect.
Me: They’ve said phones are contraband, and once they strip search me, they will find it, so I’m in the toilet texting you this. After this message, I won’t be able to communicate with you.
Me: Please don’t reply, or they will know I have asked for help.
Me: Please, Harley, I’m begging you to help me.
Me:
Once the double ticks show they’re delivered, I delete the messages. Someone starts banging on the door. “Come on, Quinn, we need to finish your intake.” Of course, it’s Richard.
“Coming!”
I stand up, flush the toilet I didn’t use, and turn on the taps in the sink to pretend to wash my hands, the same process as always: soap twice but wash with water four—I know, I know, a terrible waste for the environment.
I check my appearance in the mirror. Mascara streaks cover my cheeks, and my eyes are puffy.
My baby hairs are frizzing everywhere, and my ponytail is loose, so I section the hair, pull it tighter, and grab some tissue to tidy up my face.
If Harley does come to rescue me, I need to look less like I’m the result of absolute carnage, don’t I?
I turn off the taps, dry my hands and take a deep breath. Opening the door, I plaster the fake smile I’m quickly becoming used to on my face and walk straight into Richard.
“Good, we were about to come in and get you.”
“Why?”
“You won’t know this yet, because we haven’t completed intake, but patients only get five minutes in the bathroom at a time as a safety precaution.”
Internally, I roll my eyes, because clearly this man has never experienced a period poo. There’s nothing five minutes about that.
He leads me through the hallway towards the back of the house.
Paint is crumbling off of the window frames and doorways, bits of rubbish and dirt litter the floor.
The walls are stained by—is that blood?!
Just when I thought my levels of anxiety were diminishing, I see that, and the levels spike through the roof again.
He reaches a door at the back and pulls it open.
If I thought the first door needed work, there are no words to explain what this one needs.
An exterior light pings on, giving enough light to see where I’m walking, but not much other than that.
The back garden is overgrown; weeds come up to my waist, and you can’t see through the trees.
There is a dilapidated wooden fence around the sides, with barbed wire on the top and a sign that says, “Electric fence, do not touch.” I’m not sure how a wooden fence can be electric, but the darkness has set in, so I’m limited on the distance I can see.
The exterior light turns off, and I’m engulfed in the dark. I can’t see my hand in front of my face. Darla, who is in front of me, grumbles, “Of course, the light would go off now.” And Richard thinks it’s highly hilarious. “I hope you’re not afraid of the dark, Quinn.”
“There’s nothing that could find me in the dark that doesn’t find me in the daylight. Which way do we go now?”