Freedom of Sketch

Talia

Turns out Talia is also a senior, and therefore we have our classes together. But both of us decide we don't want to go. "Too anxious; not ready," I moan.

"Too triggered," Talia complains.

Jenny eyes us suspiciously, but says she will tell Ms. Gabriel. "But this is only for today, girls, and only if you agree to behave appropriately and do so quietly."

"Of course," I say.

"No problem," Talia responds.

We slink off to The Lounge, where we hijack the only couch. We sit facing each other, our toes almost touching. Talia sits directly under one of the fluorescent lights, and her hair shines dark teal. I take a closer look and see that some of the hair sticking out from beneath her cropped ponytail is bleached blonde with fading teal highlights. We talk about her hair, my hair; her school, my school; her pets, my pets. The conversation is perfectly boring, plain vanilla stuff you'd discuss outside of a residential treatment facility. The deeper we go, the more I wonder what the hell landed her in a place like this. Eventually, we reach our mutual impasse. A dense silence follows after almost an hour of Real World chitchat.

Talia closes her eyes and slowly fills her lungs, taking the deep "belly breaths" staff encourage us to employ during moments of anger and anxiety. "You probably want to know why I'm here." She traces the seams of the couch with one finger.

"You're probably wondering the same thing about me."

Our eyes meet, and we both chuckle.

"Do you wanna go first, or should I?" she says.

"Doesn't matter." I pretend not to care, but inside I am burning with questions. Is she crazy? A psychopath? Does she have a split personality? Multiple personalities? Did she kill someone without knowing she was killing them?

"--Suicide note," she's saying.

Me: "Huh?"

"My parents; they found a suicide note in my desk drawer and totally freaked on me." She sighs and picks at one of the couch seams. "My girlfriend had just broken up with me, and I found out I was failing Social Studies. So I got really upset and just started writing. It's what I do." She leans back against the arm of the couch. I notice a tiny diamond stud in her nose. "I didn't really mean it. I just wrote a long good-bye to the people I cared about, an apology to the people who care about me, and included a request that my body be cremated. I took a picture of it and sent it to my ex." She scrunches up her face and breathes out a very amused "ha!"

"That part about cremation makes it sound serious," I murmur.

Talia nods furiously. "That's why I laughed just now. I realize that maybe my parents didn't overreact. But still. To be locked up for writing something, especially when writing is your freaking. coping. skill. That's ridiculous."

I look at my feet in their dirty blue hospital socks. "I know what you mean."

Talia: "How?"

"I'm in here because I drew a picture of a girl slitting her wrists. Apparently she looked a little too much like me. But it was just a drawing. I draw things; art is my coping skill."

Talia widens her eyes. I notice that they're a light, smoky gray, like a sky just before it starts to rain.

"There were some other things, they say," I sigh. "I had gotten into a fight at school, and the art studio burned down after I was the last person to sign it out." Tears slowly fill my eyes. I try to sniff them back, but they roll down my cheeks as soon as I blink. I rub them away with my thumbs. "I'd been having arguments with my mom, too, and a couple of them got... intense." I sniff again, but my face crumples. I hold my hands up so Talia can't see me cry.

Talia's voice is soft. "We're a couple of screw-ups, huh?"

I nod, laughing through the tears. I sigh out some of the pain and feel a little bit lighter in my chest. Then I understand: if Talia and I are here because maybe our stars weren't properly aligned, or because sour luck is written into our DNA, perhaps the other girls here are like us, too. I mention this out loud.

"Exactly," Talia says with a gentle nod.

I laugh again. "How horrible do I look?" I say, indicating my swollen eyes and red cheeks.

"Not any more horrible than the rest of us mental patients," Talia responds, grinning.

"Thanks," I say, then, "so how did you manage to keep your nose stud in?"

Talia: "Told them it was a new piercing. They let you keep it in to avoid infections, or something like that."

"Fuck. Wish I'd thought of saying that," I grumble, tucking my hair behind my ear, which is riddled with tiny holes. I run my tongue over the spot where my lip piercing should be. I've lost pieces of myself.

I must have said this last thought aloud, because Talia whispers: "You can always get them back."