Author: korey

    one.
 
    the part of new haven i hate the most is the scrubs. they’re an unassuming blue, benign to the average eye, and actually quite comfortable, though they hang loosely off my despair-hollowed body. i can’t stand them, though, because they leave my arms bare. i haven’t worn short sleeves in months, and i feel horribly exposed. i’m cold.
    a spritely girl dances into the lounge and perches in the chair next to me. my eyes flick towards her, but i can’t bother to move from my position, my knees drawn protectively to my chest.
    “hey, newbie,” she chirps. “what’s your name?”
    i stay silent, staring at my bare feet. my toes are tinged with periwinkle.
    she leans in. “we get those- the ones who won’t talk. think you’re better than the rest of us, huh? we’re all fuckups here; don’t think otherwise.” i would be appalled, but there’s something in her voice making it seem light, the words bright.
    at this point she’s invading my personal space, so i have to look up. i do so, and am met by a pair of hazel doe-eyes, made immense by a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. a smattering of freckles decorates her cheekbones. she smirks.
    “the name’s lia,” she says. “what’s got you in this hellhole?”
    i’m taken aback. surely it’s obvious just from looking at me- the jet-toned hair, the indelible frown, the shell-shock stare- surely she can see it. why would she ask such a question when the answer is written right there- right under her nose, in the heavy bandages swaddling my forearms?
    there’s no honoring her question with a confirmation. i refuse to speak, glaring sullenly. why is she doing this? i’m not here to make friends.
    then, as i try with my eyes to set fire to her twig-limbs, she offers her hand, as if to shake mine- like this is a place for casual introduction- and i see the reason for her words. the blood drains from my face; a wave of nauseating heat rushes through me.
    she knew. she saw, somehow, the part of my skin i was trying to keep covered, the roadmap of my failures, and she offered up her own for a peace treaty, an i’m-on-your-side-i-understand-i-
    her arms, like mine, are crisscrossed in pink ribbons, mauve marring her birdlike wrists. she saw, and now she’s saying it, silently- we’re the same brand of failure, we’re the same type of crazy, we- are- the same.
    i’ve never seen anyone outside of the depths of the stranger side of the internet who has arms like mine- and i’ve never seen someone who would so easily let that secret escape from under long sleeves. but here she is, reaching out-
    i try to say something; my mouth works silently. the words won’t come out. in lieu of an explanation, i accept her offer. her hand is soft but cold. i meet her eyes through the glasses, the soft lashes.
    she glances at the plastic bracelet on my wrist. “it’s nice to meet you…maxwell.” there’s a ring of green around her pupils, a pale olive which flashes as i make contact. she has blazing spotlight eyes, overwhelming me. i can tell, intrinsically, that the handshake is more than a simple greeting. it is, on my part, an unusual display of trust- but she’s reaching out, too, and there’s something about her-
    “max-” i croak- “it’s just max.”
    we’re interrupted by the nurse on duty. “hey, you two!” she snaps. “you especially, lia; you’ve been here for more than an hour. you know there’s no touching allowed.”
    we hadn’t gone over this during my hasty induction earlier in the evening. “what?”
    lia withdraws her hand from mine, nestling it in her lap. “something about not forming connections with other patients,” she mutters. “you’re supposed to be focusing on yourself only.”
    “that’s right,” the nurse affirms, and turns back to her paperwork.
    “if you ask me, it’s total bullshit,” lia mouths.
    i glance towards the woman, who instinctively looks up from the clipboard to pin me with her withering gaze. “don’t think i’m not paying attention to you,” she drawls. “you’re on suicide watch, kid; you’re not doing anything without my knowledge for the next few days.”
    i turn back towards lia. “bullshit,” i echo.
 
 
    two.
 
    i was being an idiot the first time i tried to die. i was aware that exsanguination only had a six percent lethality rate, but it was what i knew. i thought the familiarity would be comforting, and the image of it seemed so beautiful in my deranged mind. i was a romantic right down to the very end.
    i learned very quickly that it’s not what they say it’s like, not what they portray in the movies. you don’t just make two quick incisions and then float away on a crimson tide of sorrow into the darkness, no- you fucking feel it, worse than anything you’ve known before. oh, you know what you’ve done. even if you’ve stopped fighting, your body hasn’t. as you dig, searching for an artery, the flesh screams out, yelling, you stupid fuck, that’s dangerous! and the red spills and it pulsates, whimpering, why, why would you do this to me-
    and then you reach for the other wrist, fumbling this time because your fingers are already numb from the lack of blood. this isn’t the languid flow and stumble you’re used to, no, this won’t be fixed and your body’s pissed. the red spreads to your vision and then closes in until the bathroom floor is suddenly very close and then you wonder, finally sleepily, if they’ll find you in time or if you’ve succeeded.
    when i woke up in intensive care, i wasn’t devastated. i didn’t cry. at that point, i was beyond caring. i decided to get out as quickly as possible, pass their tests and get back to ending my pathetic existence, and this time i didn’t care about aesthetics. i knew where my father kept his gun.
 
 
    three.
 
    a plastic chair groans uneasily as i sit down. across the desk, the shrink nods at me. “how’s your mood?” he asked. “scale of one to ten.”
    “one’s the worst?” he nodded. “…two.”
    he types something into his computer. his eyes scan the screen. “anxiety level? one to ten, one’s the worst.”
    “…four.”
    more typing. “are you having any thoughts of harming yourself or committing suicide?” the way he says it is nonchalant, like he isn’t talking about life and death. i suppose he goes through dozens of people like me in a day.
    i stare at him.
    “i need a verbal answer.”
    “…yes.”
    “to which?”
    “…both.”
    “do you have a plan?”
    “plan for what?”
    “to commit suicide.”
    “oh.” i look out the window and refuse to say anything else. telling the truth won’t get me out of there anytime soon, but it feels immoral to lie about something so huge.
    “honesty’s the best policy. you won’t get better otherwise.”
    i squirm in my seat- but i hold my ground. “…no.”
 
    four.
    “i’m vegetarian,” she says. “i’m vegetarian and they gave me bacon.”
    i rise out of my morning-stupor. “everyone loves bacon.”
    “then why didn’t you eat it?” she says, picking at a bowl of fruit.
    i look down at my tray. i suppose i hadn’t. not wanting to leave my argument unsupported, i pick up a slice and munch on it. “i thought hospital food was supposed to taste bad,” i say. “this is actually pretty decent.”
    “that was in the old days,” she says through a mouthful of watermelon. “back when we would have been put in an asylum and given tranquilizers.” she lets her face go slack, her eyes glaze over. “we’re all zombies waiting to happen,” she drones.
    i swallow. “most of us are partially brain-dead anyways. malfunctions with the neural pathways. lack of serotonin in the brain.”
    “well, aren’t you smart.” she grins.
    “not really. i just took psych, is all.” i shrug.
    “well, don’t make me feel so stupid. it’s still news to me.” she says it with a smile, but her eyes stay flat. i know the technique- pairing possibly upsetting statements with a well-intentioned smile in order to deflect others’ concern. i’ve used it in more conversations than i can count. i feel like an ass for downplaying myself- if i’m stupid, then what’s she?
    i don’t say anything, though. the issue’s awkward enough without me bringing attention to it. and i know well enough that if no one says anything about my emotions, i can pretend that they didn’t notice that anything was wrong. i guess lia’s the same. i glance sidelong at her and know i’m right.
 
 
    five.
 
    the other inmates here are either nearly normal or almost insane. it’s our age that has the most to do with it- there are a lot of depressed kids, who, while definitely affected, aren’t quite the brand of crazy you tend to find in an asylum. we’re not specifically told what each other has, but i can figure it out easily enough with the way they blather about themselves during group therapy.
    none of them talk to me. they’re simply beings who occupy the same treatment center as i do. their faces meld into each other’s. i could care less who’s who. lia’s the only one who’s bothered to connect, and i can see why, but i don’t want to be making friends with anyone. it’ll make dying later that much harder.
 
 
    six.
 
    i was reluctant to talk to lia in the first place, but i couldn’t get her out of my head. she pervaded my mind, clinging to the folds of my thought process with the intensity i usually reserved only for hate and guilt. she just- wouldn’t- leave. there was something about her- maybe it was her eyes, the life i saw in them which contrasted so strongly with the damp, resigned halls we were trapped in- or it might have just been the markings on her wrists, linking her tenuously to me, in a way i was naturally inclined to be curious about. everyone wants to compare scars, especially when they have such stories behind them. i was hooked.
 
 
    seven.
 
    the packet is labeled “my health plan” and is embellished with one of those strangely grinning sweatered kids i thought didn’t exist outside of textbooks from the nineties. i fill out the brightly colored pages with answers i know are correct but don’t really believe in. why was i admitted? i no longer knew how to safely care for myself. in truth, i knew how- i just didn’t bother anymore.
    i’ve been a dealer in half-truths for as long as i can remember. i’m an excellent liar, and that makes my (lack of) life so much easier. had i been hurting myself? was i okay? yeah, i’m not feeling suicidal at the moment so i’d count that as okay.
    after the millionth page of “i’m ready to get better”, i’m exhausted. i sit in the window seat in the lounge, staring out at the little garden outside. it’s barely spring, so there isn’t much growing, just a few crocuses surrounding an ancient oak tree, its leaves that new-green color of springtime. the sun hasn’t quite set yet- it hovers low in the sky, bathing the entire scene in orange.
    i’m pulled from the view by a scraping sound as lia pulls up a chair next to me.
    “sick of empty promises yet?”
    i stare at her, deadpan. “who said i was lying? maybe i really want to get better.” it almost sounds convincing, but then a nervous laugh bubbles up.
    she snickers, like i had shared a particularly hilarious joke. “it’s in your eyes. i can tell the difference between the ones who just need convincing and the ones who’ve seen the other side and want to go back.”
    i try to smile. “it’s that obvious, huh?”
    “nah. your face is like fucking shakespeare. thankfully, i’m fluent in old english.”
    “yeah?”
    “yeah.”
    she closes her eyes a bit too long for the gesture to be called blinking, then gazes out at the garden. “it’s a nice place out there. no one really goes outside, though. it’s too cold most days.”
    “but you’re cold-tolerant?” i conclude skeptically. she looks too skinny to keep so easily insulated. she’s wearing two pairs of hospital-issued socks; they sag around her ankles.
    “not really,” she says. “but i like the cold better than the indoors.”
    i understand- sometimes peace is worth any sacrifice. “how long have you been here?”
    “two weeks as of yesterday,” she says. “it sucks, because it was the day before i was going to a motionless in white concert with some friends. i was so pissed.”
    my eyebrows rise. “you like motionless in white?”
    “yeah. you too?”
    “they’re one of my favorites.”
    “how was the show?”
     “i didn’t go.”
    “no one to go with?”
    “no, music just… lost its spark.” along with sleeping and eating and everything else.
    “oh.” she shifts in her chair. “would’ve been killer.”
    “how do you even survive the moshpits?”
    “i can throw a punch.”
    “you’re like ninety pounds. even i could overpower you, and- well, look at me.” i spread my stick-arms, illustrating my point.
    she frowns. “ninety-three and a half on admission. don’t know how much i’ve gained since; they won’t let me see the scale.”
    something in my head clicks. “…oh.”
     i wasn’t in the mood to eat, huh? no, food and i have a more… complex relationship than that.”
    “i’m sorry.”
    “don’t be. you’re not the one denying me.”
    “not to pry, but… why?”
    “i’m a bit of a perfectionist. surely you can understand that?”
    “it’s the reason why i’m here.”
    “can’t be the best, so you might as well be dead, eh? i guessed those were the marks of a self-discipline aficionado.” she nods towards my arms.
    i can’t help it; i laugh. “you couldn’t have said it any better.”
    “why can’t the psychiatrists be more like me?” she jokes.
    “prescribe me something to make everyone else understand.”
    “they’re the crazy ones, not us.” she giggles.
    “i’m sure that would get us out of here quick,” i add.
    once it was out of my mouth, i know it was the wrong thing to say. she turns sober. “yeah, that would go well with the scars on our arms. ‘i swear i’m sane. it’s the rest of you. how do you live with yourselves?’”
    “look, i didn’t mean that.”
    “yes, you did, and it’s completely true, too.”
    “is that really our fault, though?”
    “nah. just a lack of serotonin, right? everyone’s different.” she smiles at me, close-lipped, and i see it again, that green flash in her irises, but this time it feels- sadder.
    i don’t know what to do.
    “yeah,” i said. “just chemicals.”
    she walks away.
 
 
    eight.
 
    it’s strange to get used to the evening procession, a long sequence of blood-pressure tests, questionnaires, and pills. i had, three months earlier, decided to stop taking my antidepressants- the ones i had been on for three years. my reasoning was that they changed who i was. i didn’t want anything inhibiting the true me from expressing himself, and i was tired of using the pills as a crutch. i thought i would be strong enough to go without them.
    at new haven, they make sure i take all of the pills assigned me- the antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, pills for insomnia and stress and a stomach ulcer, vitamin d to fill a deficiency i didn’t realize existed- they totaled nearly a dozen, and the handful didn’t do much besides cause me to wonder if perhaps lia was right and we were still in an old-fashioned asylum, where drugs were prescribed randomly and ineffectively. i was starting to get frustrated about the amount of time i had to let my mind wander- though technically we only had an hour of free time in the afternoon, all our activities were mundane enough to perform while thinking about other things, and i was getting sick of being left with my thought process.
    however, after a week, i started to feel the pills working. it was subtle until i realized it- i actually had the energy to drag myself out of bed. i didn’t awaken to the dread i was used to, the pressing feeling of guilt settling on my shoulders like a heavy blanket for me to drag around all day. it was strange- i actually felt okay about facing another sixteen hours awake.
 
 
    nine.
 
    lia’s the second one to notice my change in mood. i’m working on a list of affirmations- (i’ve been accepted to my first-choice college, i got a good score on the act, see, i’m worth keeping myself alive for-) when she flops down in the chair opposite me. “hey, max. why so chipper?”
    i roll my eyes.
    “no, seriously, dude. you’re not frowning. what’s up with that? we’re supposed to be gloom-and-doom, remember?”
    “that’s right. how could i forget? you constantly moan about the state of the union, and i mope silently next to you.” i stick my tongue out at her.
    “don’t be so harsh, dude. i’m fragile. i could kill myself at any moment.”
    “i’d laugh if it wasn’t so true.”
    “aww, come on, man. you know that’s not why i’m here.”
    “i wouldn’t put it past you.”
    “shut up, maxwell. besides, what’d you say? slitting your wrists won’t kill you anyways.”
    “it’s still a six percent chance, statistically. but yeah, there are much better ways to kill yourself if you really want to die.” i scribble down another affirmation. “some are less painful, too. a good snap to the neck could take you out in seconds. gunshot’s near instant. same with jumping off a building or throwing yourself in front of a train.”
    “you researched this, didn’t you?”
    i shrug. “idle minds, idle hands.”
    “what about overdosing?”
    “that’s only fifty percent lethal. too good of a chance of you puking everything back up. actually, that’s the way a lot of overdoses die- choking on their own vomit.”
    lia shudders. “glamorous.”
    “yeah, they don’t tell you that in the stories.”
    she lowers her voice. “so, when you do it again- because i know you will- how are you gonna do it?”
    i swallow nervously, whisper even though no one else is paying attention. “…my father’s gun. if he’s hidden that, i’d hang myself. can’t take away my sheets, and that’s really all you need for a noose.”
    she nods. “if you don’t mind my input, i’d rather you hang yourself. don’t ruin your pretty face with a bullet.”
    for some reason, her words irk me. “what?” i hiss. “you’re not even going to try to talk me out of it?”
    “why should i? i have no control over you. even if i said no, you’d still do it if you wanted to.”
    i suppose you’re right.” but i notice something strange- when i think about killing myself, it didn’t quite hold the same appeal as it used to. under the bandages, my arms are starting to scab over, and the wounds in my mind are beginning the same process. living doesn’t feel so raw anymore.
 
 
    ten.
 
    “you seem to be making progress. am i correct?”
    i bob my head. “could just be a phase, though.”
    the psych nods. “i’ll take that into account. however, your charts do seem to be improving steadily. you report lower levels of anxiety, an easier time sleeping- fewer thoughts of self-harm?”
    “yeah, actually.”
    “good, good.” he gestures towards my bandages. “how are the arms?”
    “itchy.”
    he laughs. “all part of the process, kid. how do you think you’d describe the way you’re feeling right now? forget about the numbers. tell me your emotions for once.”
    it takes me a while, but i find the words. “…i’m not… better, at least not all the way. but…” i pause. “…i think i could be, someday?”
    “so what’s our lesson here?”
    i smirk. “listen to the doctor and take your pills.”
    “you know it’s more than pills.” he types something into the computer- “-though i’m glad to see you cracking jokes. you’ll be out of here in no time.”
 
 
    eleven.
 
    the next day is unusually warm. i’m sitting in the window seat during free hour, enjoying the sun. almost all the other kids went to the gym to play horse, but i wasn’t allowed in case i split a stitch or something equally tragic. i found an old paperback and now am idly flicking through it- some old classic with a positive message at the end. it doesn’t keep my attention long.
    lia stands up. “i’m going outside.”
    she’s not allowed to exercise, either.
    i look out the window. “it’s still cold out.”
    “there’s no snow, is there? i won’t freeze to death.”
    “fine, i’m coming with you.”
    “don’t think you’ll be able to warm me up, stick-boy.” her eyes twinkle.
     i smile. “did i say i was going to?” i walk over to the door to the garden and push it open. i hold it for her and she sprints under my arm to the far side of the garden, her socks accumulating dirt. “how can you run so fast on no fuel?” i call.
    she pulls herself up onto the lowest branch of the oak tree. “i’m a master of efficiency,” she says, and grins.
    i marvel. “is there room up there for another?”
    she bounces on the branch; if it moves, i don’t see it. “seems fine,” she says.
    i climb up myself and sit next to her.
    we’re quiet for a while, shivering in the march wind. i look at her. she seems serene, staring silently at the clouds.
    her eyes flick over to mine. “what?”
    “nothing.”
    “nothing, my ass. tell me what you’re thinking, pretty boy.”
    i bite my lip. “you might get offended.”
    “i’m not as fragile as i pretend i am. take your best shot.”
    i take a deep breath, released it. “you just seem so… normal. stable.”
    i don’t think it’s what she was expecting to hear, because she doesn’t respond for a while. when she does, she’s quiet. “yeah, i’m pretty high-functioning. it’s pretty hard to convince people that what’s in my head is actually there when i’m able to put a mask over it.”
    i peer through the window; no one’s inside to see me do it, so i wrap her hand in mine. she’s freezing. “if it makes any bit of difference, i bet you’re still likeable underneath.”
    she looks at our hands. “my fingers are going numb, i think.”
    “seriously.”
    “what, you want me to say thank you? i know you’ll regret saying that you actually get to know me. it’s what always happens. there’s no stopping it.”
    “maybe there is, and you just refuse to believe so.”
    she takes her hand out of mine. “i’ve lived with this for years, max. if there was a cure, don’t you think it would have worked by now?”
    “well, it’s not just the drugs, you know? you have to help yourself. pills won’t do it all.”
    “what the fuck, max? you sound like the doctors. what happened to death-boy? in case you don’t remember, that’s your own handiwork under your bandages.” she gets quiet. “i thought we had a pact. i thought, maybe, we were the same.”
    “well-” i stumble over my own tongue. “maybe we can both get better. there’s got to be something better than wanting to die all the time. i want to heal. i want to be happy. and-” –i’m flying by the seat of my pants now; the words barely hit my brain before they fall out of my mouth- “-i want that for you, too.”
    it doesn’t work. my rhetoric obviously isn’t helping, because lia’s face is set in stone- her voice is granite. “don’t even try, max. it’s not going to work. i don’t want your sappy shit.”
    i try to stop the words, but they bypass my filter too quickly. “why don’t you want to get better?”
    as i speak, i reach out with my hands, like i could stuff the words back in my mouth unheard.
    lia is silent. when i motion towards her, she bats my arm away with no concern for the bandages. she slips down from the oak tree.
    “lia, i’m sorry-”
    “-don’t even try.” she goes inside. through the window, i watch her posture deteriorate. she slouches against the door and stays like that for a while. then she drags her feet all the way to her room and shuts the door.
 
 
    twelve.
 
    i thought the ward was on fire.
 
    one of the younger kids is screaming, multiple nurses are yelling things back and forth, and in my dreamlike state, i have no idea of what’s going on. the alarm clock on the nightstand reads six-fortyfour, its red blink perpetuating the surreal feeling of it all. the sun hasn’t risen yet. i stumble through the dark to my door. opening it, i find no light, no smoke. there’s a crowd of bodies blocking the window facing the garden.
    i walk towards them, try to peer past the nurses, but i can’t. suddenly i feel very sober. “what’s going on?”
    the head nurse turns around. “don’t let him see.” i’m surprised- she sounds nearly frantic. “maxwell? go back to bed.”
    don’t let me see what? her words only pique my interest. i ignore her, approach the window. i nearly trip over one of the other inmates, the schizophrenic. he must have been the cause of the screaming which woke me up, but now he’s simply sobbing. huge gasps rattle his tiny body. i sidestep him. “what’s going on?” my voice cracks on the last syllable.
    “max. go back to bed.” she’s firmer now, but i simply have to see. i push past the nurses and take the last few steps to the window.
 
    i saw the bedsheet first. in the predawn light, the white stood out the best. it’s jumbled now, but i’ll always remember how odd it seemed at first, the simple sight of a sheet hanging from that tree branch in the almost-dark- and how, one split second later, it all made sense as my mind put the pieces together. i recalled the conversation i had with her almost at the same time i recognized the shape hanging from the oak tree.
 
    the way i repeat the words couldn’t really count as speaking; rather, they ebb out of my mouth, riding on my breath.
    “can’t take away my sheets, and that’s really all you need for a noose.”