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"So you're not really into finding out why you're here, huh?" Thayer asks as we make our way into our respected seats. We are in Dr. Jean's art session -- apparently this is her way of getting our emotions -- and was assigned to draw whatever it is that we first think of when we hear the word 'home'.
At the far end of the room, a nurse is silently watching us, supervising us. Apparently, men and women cannot interact inside this place unless there's someone supervising you two.
"Oh I'm dying to," I reply taking the medium sized canvass on the floor and attaching it to the stand.
The other depressed patients belong to this session. It is more like for those people who have a chance to live normal again, according to Mike. So I have the possibility, so maybe I didn't do such terrible thing, "I just don't know where to start."
"Ask the doctors, they have your records," Thayer starts stroking his canvass with a brush, but then changed his mind and went on for a pencil first. I stare at my own canvass not knowing what to draw. What does home look like? I can't even picture it.
One patient near us is drawing a tree (I guess?), I don't know what I would draw exactly. Should I use some imagination from my nightmares?
"I really don't want any of their help," I say finally getting my pencil and started drawing something that comes first in my mind, "and I highly doubt they would give me straight answers. And of course, knowing their thoughts, I bet they'd ask me first why I would want to know. I don't want to risk the thought of them thinking I am really lunatic."
Thayer nods his head continuing his work on his canvass. I on the other hand looks around the room, maybe I could just copy their ideas about home? But then Dr. Jean might notice.
"But isn't that their jobs?" Thayer says after a few seconds, "I mean they're curing you. I think it's in ther job, and also in your rights, for them to let you know what's actually going on."
"I don't know," I say absentmindedly. I mean, he has a point, but maybe I'm just scared.
It is Tuesday morning after breakfast. Gladly, I didn't have any nightmares last night. I had a good sleep so far.
I continue drawing shapes onto my canvass as Thayer gets his brush and stroked something on his work. I try peeking but he would cover his canvass away from me. That idiot.
It had been four days since our proper introduction in the cafeteria. Every meal hours, we sit together at the table now. Apparently, he was the guy who keeps on screaming and shouting the morning last week.
Despite of his nearly psychotic facade - maybe that was just the facade being built for patients of an asylum - he really has a way of being funny. Making fun of the snotty asylum nurses, even laughing at one of the guards guarding the patients in the courtyard and cafeteria. He even laughed at Mike.
"A penny for your thoughts?" Thayer asks snapping me out of my trance. I look at my canvass, staring at the drawn lines etched on it. I pick up my brush and starts tracing every lines in the canvass.
"You're not gonna answer my question, right?" he asks again nudging my sides. I laugh at his reaction, "you know me so well, of course not."
He laugh along for a second and then we both shut our mouths closed fighting the urge to laugh when we received various glares from the other patients. Uh oh.
"Why don't you want to share any of your thoughts?" he asks. I now just realized he has a very cute accent. I know it isn't American accent. It is different, I just don't know what. Oh well, whatever.
I look at my almost finished work, feeling a bit nervous yet relaxed. I don't know why, but somehow drawing the thought that first entered my mind made me feel a little lighter, "because..."
"because?"
"Because they're dangerous," I admit, not looking anywhere but my own canvass. It is a representation of my thoughts. And it's scary, dangerous.
I never wanted to share my thoughts to anyone, that's why I never told Dr. Collins about my dream. Every therapy sessions and check-ups I always stay quiet. I didn't even tell Mike what exactly I have in mind every time he asks.
Because truth is, even I, get's scared at my own thoughts. It was like something I can't even imagine thinking, but then I do. That's why they're dangerous.
And somehow, along those lines, I think that makes me dangerous too. Maybe that's one reason why my parents sent me here and never even bothered checking up on me.
"How'd you say so?" he asks, putting down his brush and staring at his own canvass, and then back at me, "why do you think they're dangerous?"
I didn't answer his question. There's just tons of things running through my mind every single second of every day.
I'm even surprised that my body and mind doesn't get exhausted from thinking. I look at my finished work, touching it gently and getting my fingers painted with colors. Thayer knows exactly that I wouldn't answer his question, so he just stood there in silence too.
I'm glad he gets me. He gets my point of just dropping the subject every time I get silent. He doesn't push for answers, unlike Dr. Collins and Mike. He just see through me at times, and as much as it's great, it's somehow scary.
Because I'm afraid that he would just see right through me and then happens to magically read my thoughts. So far that didn't happen, so it's great.
Dr. Jean appears from behind, "that's a great work Scarlett, what is behind that?"
I stare at my canvass, not feeling proud as much as I did a few moments ago. I feel exposed, it was like my thoughts were screaming inside the canvass.
One of the reasons why I hate art sessions. I didn't answer her question. I just stood there, silently hoping that she'd move on to the next patient. Thayer looks at me, at Dr. Jean and into my painted canvass.
"Would you mind telling me, Scarlett?" Dr. Jean urges for me to say something, but I won't be saying anything right now, "you should talk about it y'know? your feelings"
"I don't have anything to talk about," I say deadly.
"I see," she nods moving into another patient, "but somehow you would have to."
I look at her and see the smirk playing across her lips. I stare once again at my canvass wanting to rip it into pieces, but I would be punished if I do so. But whatever she's planning, I wouldn't back down. I wouldn't tell anyone about my thoughts, because it's not worth talking about.
