The Beckoms Suite

One

It wasn't like she hadn't been to a place like this before. On her mental health facility punch card you'd see six hole cut out. This of course being the last. It was almost like a routine. She'd leave here, listen to the instructions they gave to an extent until she didn't. until she thought for some reason she needed to do it on her own. That she alone had the power to fight the chaotic forces that swirled in and out of her wrinkled salmon colored control center. But the reason they taught her to return to places like this, is why anyone who can't be controlled is locked up. Because a mind that's uncontrollable is too powerful to be left alone. You have to dampen in. And this place had water.
It was called the Beckoms Suite though there wasn't hardly anything sweet about it. Behind two sets of rusty doors covered in brown paint resided unit one. She didn't know of how many but she'd heard of a Unit 2. Continue your stroll and you'd find yourself between two hallways. One with offices, the constant buzz of wires and machines telling you their always awake even when you turn them off. Sided with single bedrooms that contained either one or two wooden bed frames that looked thrown onto the floor. A mattress with a sheet that isn't fitted and a woolen blanket that felt like a burlap sack. In that room you'd find a shower plastered in some corner with hot water that worked in 15 minute shifts, and a sink far enough from it you could call the little hovel a mini studio apartment. Maybe a sad one you could rent in New York.
Amity's room was in the other hall.
It was topped with a nurses station framed with a thick plastic that could stop an angry man but wouldn't stand to a bullet. Behind the plastic walls were usually women working to pass time rather than help the mentally troubled that roamed the halls they employed. Amity didn't expect much of them, but they gave her less somehow. More studios littered this hall more frequently. Tapping into both sides. Amity's room had the gray plack ripped from the wall. She smiled when they lead her to her room that 'remained unlabeled'. Though there wasn't else much to smile about.

It wasn't like this place was a paradise. For good people to go when they had bad days. She knew she wasn't a bad person. And maybe her coming to this place meant she was a good person. She knew it meant she cared. But in her mind this was a place for bad people to go when they got so bad other people got hurt. But in reality that was jail. And she wasn't a criminal, just a newly birthed adult fighting the power of her own mind. How couldn't she control something that was hers? But wasn't it broken? She couldn't be categorized, or fixed only watered down. They'd do what they always did here. Give you good drugs, force you into group therapy and take notes about how much food you ate. It was always like that. Occasionally you got a nurse that was kind and tender hearted and it'd make you wonder if she's been here too long or not long enough to break her spirit yet. But you still appreciate them. She didn't get any sleep that night. The transport alone was enough to trigger her PTSD, and the consistent rush to get things 'done' didn't help.
She spent the first night crying. Melting the lash glue she'd worn so proudly hours before while trying to contain the depths of her sobs in the tan uncomfortable blanket. She didn't know why but something inside her told her to come here and no where else. That there was something here that she needed. But right now she could hardly feel it. She felt guilt. Eating away at her heart with a fork and knife. And she felt every cut and tear to pull the meat from the bone. How could she let herself decline so much she hurt someone that wasn't herself? That'd always been the rule. She could let her mentality faulter as long as she only hurt herself. Maybe she'd been hurting people the whole time but they just loved her enough to hide their pain. Maybe she'd just found the person who'd let you know how much you hurt them. Someone who finally struck back. But the thing was they'd been here before. A four year friendship was bound to have its fair share of arguments. But here she was. Punishing herself for the words she'd said. Finding the way to ultimately isolate herself. But she needed to heal. So she slurped her snot and cuddled her pillow. If she was a bad person, this was the first step to making herself a good one.