Ashes, Ashes

Numbered Days

- c h a p t e r   o n e -

Thank goodness someone else was keeping track of the days, because Emma was far too deep into her stay at the psych ward to start making notches for each day she'd been there. That reminded her of a prison, but the psych ward felt sort of like a prison to her. Most of her day was severely restricted, and she hadn't left in...well, she didn't know how long.

All that she knew was that there were only a few more days left. A few more days left with group therapy, the random strangers who gradually became familiar prying into her life. A few more days left with no cell phones and no hair dryers. A few more days left with the therapist pretending like she actually gave a damn about anything in Emma's life. A few more days in the dismal place.

But at least she was okay, she decided. The whole point of the psych ward was to help her through her problems, and Emma supposed it had done a fair enough job for that. It was less so that she felt as if she were supposed to be alive - rather, she no longer felt the need to be dead. For the moment, she didn't think any more progress was necessary.

Apparently, those who ran the psych ward agreed with her on this matter - they were going to be releasing Emma back in the world, allowing her to function once again in a normal environment. She'd been deemed mentally healthy enough for this to happen, and she was thankful for this. There was little she'd miss about the psych ward, so getting the opportunity to finally leave felt like quite a blessing.

When she'd first moved into this particular room, she could never see herself possibly getting used to it. In some respects, she'd been right. The bed never became comfortable. She didn't grow to enjoy the tiled floors, the fluorescent lighting, or the grey ceiling. But at the same time, she did find a way to settle herself down in it.

At the moment, she reflected over her past several weeks spent living in the room. It simultaneously felt like very little time and then years on end as well. She didn't try to decipher this herself - frankly, it was too much work. All that she knew is that it certainly wasn't a fun sort of thing.

She gave a slight sigh as she saw her roommate passing by in the hallway. Thankfully, she didn't enter the room, but it still gave Emma somewhat of a shaking. She didn't want to interact with that woman - she much preferred Lydia from when she'd first been in the psych ward. The two hadn't gotten along from the very first words they'd exchanged - although that was somewhat of Emma's fault.

"I'm Emma Newman," Emma had said, introducing herself and extending out a hand in an attempt to be polite.

"Francesca Simmons," the woman replied. She left Emma's hand hanging out in the air, causing an awkward moment for both of them...but of course, mainly for the woman who had to slowly take her hand back.

"Oh, Francesca," Emma replied, nodding slightly. She had been grasping around at something to start a decent conversation, but hardly anything came to mind. The first thing that made sense she jumped at. "Francesca, yeah? Actually, my father murdered a woman named Francesca."

"What?"

"He didn't actually murder her directly, you see, it was complicated...you know about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, right? You've heard of them, at least?"

"I don't see what they have to do with anything in here," Francesca said, letting out a slight snort.

Emma had started up a protest that she was only trying to make a decent conversation between the two of them, but then she shut herself up. The last thing she wanted to get involved in at the psych ward was more problems. She already carried enough of her own along with her everywhere she went. Like the fact that she'd been found by Sherlock and John, and that might be the only she was still alive.