13 Novella 1

Visit

TW: psych wards, suicidal references and mentions of triggers.

October 15th.

You calculate from your bed, trying to get a glimpse beyond the barres on the window. So, exactly four years since you met The Doctor.

It feels like much longer.

You sigh and swing your legs over the side of the narrow single bed you have learned to call your own. It's not like you're getting out of here any time soon.

You wish you could open your window and let some fresh air in, but of course, these windows don't open.

You make your way to the bathroom you have to yourself, courtesy of being a long term inpatient.

You strip and take a shower, letting the warm water (not hot, which is not allowed) cover your body and truly wake you up properly. You wash your hair and brush your teeth, drying your self with the standard white towel, before dressing and heading down to breakfast.

You select some dry toast and sit nibbling thoughtfully, resigned to using the plastic safety cutlery. Georgie, your friend of two of the five years of being in the psych ward, slides onto the bench next to you. You try not to flinch, knowing it could trigger her.

A new girl is staring across the table at you both. Your friend is hard to get used to, and it takes the new inpatients a while to stop staring at the shiny red scar around her neck from the noose the failed to end her life two christmases ago.

"Jam" she says without looking up, but you have already passed it over; the girl goes mad for it.

You drop your toast and rise, bored of eating, only to be told to sit back down and finish by one of the nurses. You consider arguing, but you haven't got the energy. Not today of all days.

Four years since meeting The Doctor yes, a wonderful day, but also four years since something else that shattered you beyond repair.

You finish your plate to please the nurse, she's new and you haven't got the heart to break her yet, that'll come soon enough.

Georgie leads the way to group therapy, where you tell everyone, as you have done once a week for the past half decade, your name, how you are feeling today, your achievements this week, and your goals for next week.

You have been here long enough that no one is interested in what you have to say, least of all you, but they listen as they are told to. Bless them. They still have hope of escape.

The girl who stared at Georgie's scars over breakfast doesn't react to having her name called, and has to be provoked to speak on the promise of free time later. She can't be any older than 16 or maybe 17, the same age you were admitted.

"My name is Codie" she says in a voice heavy with sarcasm. "I'm 17 years old, and my achievements are not throwing up that mush you call cereal this morning, and my goals are to eventually unalive myself, better?" She voices bitterly.

There are several gasps of shocks, triggering subjects are strictly forbidden in group therapy, but you find yourself sniggering, Codie breaking a smile too.

"Enough" says Mandy, the group therapist. "Thank you Codie, I will take it you were not properly debriefed on our policies of certain topics before the session began?"

"Nope" she says cheerily.

"Right well, moving on, does anyone have anything else they would like to share with the group?" She says quickly, clearly eager to be finished with our lot.

"Yes" you say to everyone's surprise, Mandy included.

"I think I'm ready to leave" you say steadily, keeping eye contact with Mandy. Like you haven't asked this a million times before, but you wanted her to tell you in front of everyone.

"We'll discuss that when you are well enough" she says, recovering herself quickly. Always the same response. You sigh, you needed to stop hoping. It was going to kill you one day.

You are all dismissed, and Mandy moves to sit next to one of the girls who has burst into tears. Its not an uncommon occurrence for her. You try to keep yourself busy during your designated free time, but your mind wanders often from the cheesy tv show you are permitted to watch.

Nothing too triggering, nothing that could make anyone remember why there were here. Hours pass, and you sit opposite Georgie on a bean bag while you take it in turns to play card and board games interchangeably. The usual routine.

You are in the middle of a particularly boring game of rummy when a nurse approaches you with the same smile they all share. The dont-provoke-the-mental-kids-smile.

"(Y/n)?" She asks, pulling you from your tactical thoughts.

"Mmm?" You reply, staring at your cards, wondering what on earth you've done wrong this time.

"You have a visitor if you'd like to make your way back to your room"

You freeze, blood rushing in your ears, heart pounding and palms clammed up.

Four years since you've seen him, and you've tried not to think about him since the day he beat the shit out of you, threw you out a window and somehow convinced the authorities it was an attempt due to the grief of losing your sister, the results of which are why you have been trapped in an institution for four long years.

You begin to shake but rise to your feet. After all this time, you still wouldn't dare keep him waiting.

You walk as though through thick fog, and the short trek to your room seems more infinitesimal then usual. Your hand hovers over the handle as you try desperately to compose yourself.

You enter and look around, relief almost crippling you when you see he isn't yet here. Your room is tidy and besides a few books and your crappy phone on the bedside table, looks barely lived in.

You don't own much, maybe five outfits that are neatly stowed in your wardrobe, and you don't wear shoes around the ward. You look down at yourself and consider tidying a little. You are on day three of these joggers, and god knows how long since you washed your oversized black hoodie that has long since become your favourite comforter.

The only comfort you have is that, being a high risk patient, a nurse had to present during all confrontations. At least he would only get in a couple of hits before he was removed.

You collapse backwards onto your bed and arrange yourself cross-legged, to offer some protection of your neck and chest area when it came to it.

A knock at the door brings you out of your planning, and you clear throat in response, your sandpaper throat too dry to start enter. You brace for the emotional pain as the door swings inwards, and a nurse steps in, followed by someone who almost stops your heart.