"I don't remember anything," I tell him.
"Nothing?"
"I remember my—" What is Noah to me anymore? He isn't my boyfriend but I don't want think of him as an ex, "friend saving me."
"What did you try to do?" At least he has also begun to ask the big questions.
"I don't really remember." I try to think back to what Dr. Simmons said but my brain blanks. I have no memory of it so any attempt at trying to get the information from that source is completely mute.
"Damn," he repeats my past interjection.
"Yeah."
I still haven't touched my spaghetti. I reach out and grab the fork. I twist around a small bit and force it into my mouth. I slowly chew it. I hate that fact that most things in my life have a negative memory attached to them. I eat the spaghetti despite this. I can see Nurse Juay's eyes on me from across the room. Surprisingly, she hasn't sat with me this time. I take another bite and look over at Brook who has scarfed down his entire plate in a matter of seconds.
"How does your body keep up with that much food?" I ask, stunned.
"How does your body keep up with that little food," he snears back at me while he scraps his plate.
"Touche, my friend," I say with a laugh.
"Oh," he looks at me surprised. 'I'm your friend?"
I laugh and nod my head.
He looks at me again with his green eyes. Damn you, Brook. The clock chimes and one by one all of the tables stand, clear off their trays in the trash and stream out of the room. The nurses follow our stampede. We walk in a line to the medications. I am towards the end of the line, with Brook in front of me. I wish they did this alphabetically but because I only have to deal with this once a day, I have no grounds to file a formal complaint. From the back, Brook looks much younger. He has a boyish frame and budding shoulders. He is one of those people who won't look like a man until he is 35. I feel bad because he will get carded until he is 50 but at the same time, he will look 21 until he is 50. Although my taste in men has always been nerdy skinny types, it melded a bit for Noah. However, now that I am looking at Brook, I feel it moving back. But I can't let it. I can't fall for someone new every time the person I fall for turns out to be shitty. Or I turn out to be shitty.
I watch as Brook takes a copious amount of pills. Each shining capsule bigger than the last. He looks grieved to be taking so many but then again, if he didn't he would need new gauze. I walk up to the nurse and she hands me my small dixie cup with one tiny tablet of benadryl. I swallow it and chug the water she passes to me. The water goes down my throat smoothly and pushes the pill further into my esophagus. I give the two cups back and walk to my room. The walk is slow and lonely. With Brook going to the men's side of the rooms, I have no one to talk to. They always tell you that mental facilities will help you get away from your distress but it had made it more intense for me. I am definitely not as depressed as I was a month ago but all this place has done is multiply my worries. Now I have weird thought at the back of my head to just drop Noah and Kane all together and go with Brook and I have the constant nagging of my diagnosis. I am not going to date Brook. I am not going to take medications. I am done with both of those ideas.
I push the door to my room open. Jamie is already in bed, most likely asleep. She has turned the light off. I clear my throat and flick the switch. She doesn't move a muscle. With one swift movement, I peel off my sweatshirt. Underneath is a simple tank top. Due to the 'no bra rule,' my breast hang free under the thin fabric. It feels relieving to not be constricted but then again, every other facet of my life is constricted. At least they let my body breathe. I fold the sweatshirt carefully. On the front is a vinyl sheen that spells out "Juilliard Conservatory." My eyes rest on it. I remember back to my sophomore year hopes and dreams. I sang in the chorus and performed the musicals. Either the other students hated me or loved me. There was no in between. Some wanted my voice or some wanted to hear my voice. It makes me laugh when I think back on it. I haven't sung since my grandmother died. I honestly think that might have been one of the things that drew my mother deeper into her depression. I will never stop blaming myself for her demise. No matter how hard I try, my mind always falls on my mother with slit wrists. I see all of these patients, ninety percent of them with gauze or scars, but me with none. It never crossed my mind to repeat what my mother did. Maybe it was because I had seen it and the trauma always pushed me away as a sister wouldn't do drugs after seeing her older sister overdose. It just never appealed to me. I know there must be something deeper but for the meantime, I will fold my sweatshirt, turn of my brain and sleep, the only thing that actually makes me feel worthy of life. I flip the light switch off and curl into my bed.
The benadryl has begun to fill my bloodstream. As soon as I get to 10, I should be asleep.
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6.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE SIRENS
The symphony of banging pulls me out of my sleep again. God, this hospital has the worse alarm system.
"Breakfast in 30 minutes!"
Not for me, it isn't. Joy once again takes over my thought process. I get out of bed with activated energy and grab my backpack. I pull out a pair of jeans, and rummage around for a suitable shirt for my return to the world. I don't want to actually pack my bags until I get the ok. Though I don't want to think about it, there is still a chance that Dr. Simmons could pull some legal deal and I'd be stuck here as long as Brook. I stir the pot for a few seconds until the tiny metal pieces slide by my finger gently. I hook my hand around the neckline and pull it out. The tank top I wore in the night club stares back at me. I clear my throat, throw it on the bed and zip my backpack back up. Normally my mood would slow me down but the reminder of my discharge lingers in my brain and demands that I don't stop for anything; even rough memories of a night a long time ago. I pull on the jeans and stare at the shirt for a moment. I need to get over him. I need to rid any object of his memory. Do I?
I hear the bathroom door open and I jolt. My head swings to the direction of the bathroom and my arms cover my exposed breast. It's funny how someone as loose as me is also just as modest around people who are not of the male gender.
"Dude, chill." Jamie stands in front of the bathroom with a dirty white tank top and frumpy sweatpants on. She looks exhausted, though I know she has been sleeping since I got here. I shove on the tank top without a second thought.
"Sorry," I stammer. "You weren't up normally so I assumed that you were still asleep cause I didn't lo-"
She puts her hands up and laughs under her breath.
"It's fine." She smirks and grabs her hoodie hanging up. She throws it over her tank top and heads for the door of the room. She hesitates at the threshold for a moment. She looks up and down at my house with a smudge of confusion spread across her face.
"Have fun on the outside."
With that, she walks out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Apparently when someone isn't wear a sweatsuit it's a sign that they are going home. I take a deep breath, and reach down for my zip-tie shoes. I pull them on, anticipating the feeling of my chuck taylors once again against my feet. I take one last look around the room and walk out.
The hallway has a distinct smell to it. It is a strange mix of pancake batter and medical equipment. If they made it into a candle, I would buy fifty. My journey begins to the nurses station, one step at a time. Now, I know my way. The funny thing about knowledge is that when you need it the most you don't have it but when you don't need it any longer, you have it readily available. Something in life just don't work out perfectly. I walk straight to the counter and shine my biggest smile.