Second Chance

Chapter 5

Demi's P.O.V.

A nightshift nurse had allowed me to use the restroom, though she was literally standing right beside me while I peed at four in the morning. As I was washing my hands, I heard this loud cry or scream or something from the other side of the wing.

This bathroom was not exactly close to my room; it was kind of in the middle of the wing. The startling, yet terrifying yells weren't that far away. I had convinced the nurse to let me check it out. She seemed pretty pissed at me, but she allowed me to anyway. By allowed, I meant we were nearing a hallway, and I sprinted in the direction of the bellows.

Before I knew it, there were several nurses chasing after me, trying to be quiet, but also trying to catch me. I took a leap of faith when the noise was the loudest and busted into one of the bedrooms. Sure enough, this one belonged to the one in pain. The light from the hallway entered the room in pale streaks, making the face of the person somewhat visible.

At the sight of me, she stopped screaming. She stopped doing anything, just sat cross-legged with her hands holding her shoulders, as she had been rocking back and forth. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders, framing her face beautifully, and her eyes stared into my soul in shock. Her face read traumatized, though I wasn't sure what to do about it. I could hug her, but we were strangers. Until I recognized her as Roxanne.

She was the first to speak, since I obviously wasn't going to. "Demi? What the hell?"

Before I could answer, four hands gripped around my waist, hauling me out of the doorway. Something came over me. I was tumultuous, absolutely apoplectic. But as I was being dragged out of her room, I memorized the number on her door. 34-MDWB. Mine was 67-MDWB.

We passed a sign that told me what MDWB stood for. Multiple Disorders Wing B. It made me curious as to what she was here for, but of course, I wouldn't ask. At least not yet.

No matter what I did, they wouldn't let me go. I screamed. I sobbed. I kicked. I punched. I hit. I spat. Nothing. And then, I felt calm. Unfazed. The thoughts slowed down, my muscles felt limp, and I relaxed. It was like I had just done a few lines of cocaine, like I'd chugged too many drinks, like I had just smoked something weird with Miley Cyrus and Joe Jonas.

On my right arm, someone removed a tranquilizing needle from my arm. It must have caused me to feel so serene.

"You're going to be okay, sweetheart. We're just taking you to the Quiet Room. You'll be monitored there until breakfast," a nurse told me in a hushed voice.

The Quiet Room was a small white room about the size of my room, maybe a little bigger. In one corner, there was a mattress on the floor with a folded blanket and pillow on the middle of it. In another corner, hanging a centimeter or two below the ceiling, there was a camera recording me. Except for the pitiful idea of a bed and the camera, the room was completely empty. And white. There were no vibrant acrylic colors or pictures hanging from walls. The color disgusted me, but I was too unperturbed to do anything about it.

The nurse who had taken me to the bathroom stood in the room with me while all the others left. I stumbled over to the mattress and collapsed onto it, unfolding the blanket and setting the pillow at the head of it. The nurse eyed my every move.

She stepped closer, closing most of the eight foot gap between us. "Get some rest. When Sarah gets here in a few hours, I'll discuss your punishment with her."

I nodded, waving her off as I covered myself with the blanket, bringing it up to my chin as I laid my head down on the pillow. "You got it, dude."

The lights shut off, and the glowing red button on the camera flashed almost invisibly every few seconds.