tw: suicide
Another day, another snap in the back. She was used to it, the pain becoming a regular routinely thing she hated. But that's what happens when you listen to a song with the window open—you fly out of the car when you crash.
Kellie had been at the hospital for at least five years, but nothing was working. She longed to go back to the side of the road where her mom died again. But she was already a high-risk patient in the psych ward, so to run off and go to the side of the road wasn't smart.
It was her birthday. She was .. sixteen, now? Maybe she was seventeen. She couldn't remember, the days blurred into one another. Time was supposed to just stop when her mom died, but it kept on moving. It was terrible to her—cruel, even.
But the routine of the hospital was at least a good thing for Kellie—or at least that's what she was told. Wake up, get ready, breakfast, group therapy, activity, individual therapy, activity 2, group therapy, dinner, book reading (for the littles), and then sleep.
Today's activities. She always checked them while getting ready. Hers were.. Art and grief group. Fucking great! Kellie knew her mom was dead, she didn't want anyone to sugarcoat the fact that her condition wasn't better after more than five years and the facts that she'd tried to run into the street after the crash "so he could hit her too".
But Kellie had a follower. She sat across from her, she was one of the littles. So Kellie sighed and got up from her bed, meeting the green eyes that stared at her with longing curiosity.
"Morning, Zenia."
"It took you a while to get up," said the little girl, who looked and acted to be around ten years old, "You missed breakfast, but don't worry! I saved you a muffin!"
Zenia, Kellie's roommate. She was here because her parents were serial killers. But she'd get better. Everyone got better except for Kellie.
"Thank you. What time is it?"
"Uhhhh.. Kellie can you read the wall clock? I wasn't ever taught how."
"Right. 11:32. Thank you."
"Of course! And we both have art today! I didn't go to group therapy today because the topic was about something called 'brainwashing' and I wasn't ever taught what that meant," said Zenia, bright eyes looking down to Kellie.
Zenia was a tall little girl, 5 feet and one inch at ten. Kellie had topped out at 4'11. So it did fill her with a little envy, but she had rather it be that then the fact that Zenia had parents that were alive, because that was unfair.
"Kellieeee!!! Can you braid my hair? Nobody does it good like you do. I want it in the special braids," said Zenia, the childlike glow still in her eyes. She was childish to cope with her pain. Kellie knew the girl behind the childish glow, but she didn't want to. The other girl was sad. Very, very sad.
French braiding. That was what Kellie knew it to be called—the "special braids" she gave Zenia. Of course, she did them, and Zenia was happy and bright. Her smiles brought a little light to Kellie's life, too. She was like the child Kellie knew she could never have.
Once the two were both ready, they walked out together. Onto art. Zenia would go crazy, creating everything she could. Kellie would probably quietly color or make an origami thing for Zenia. She knew the little girl would keep them. They all lied on Zenia's windowsill, lined up neatly in rainbow order.
They both got to work on their separate things. The ward was calm, at least, over in the high risk area. Everyone there had been there for a while. At least a year. They knew there wasn't any hope of getting out, so why bother kicking and scratching to change anything?
