At Circle Valley Hospital, Halloween starts on October first. No one is too old to go trick-or-treating on the actual morning of Halloween. The administration even went so far as to decorate their office doors with friendly Halloween accessories like smiling spiders and benign marshmallow ghosts. Tori, wearing a pair of black cat ears, emerges from the exam room. She has penciled whiskers onto her pale face with a stick of eyeliner. I tell her she looks stupid, and she laughs. My buddies and I wander door to door, holding out our pillowcases into which the participating staff drop small handfuls of candy. For Lizzie and the other girls with eating disorders, this is the scariest part of the holiday. The mere idea of consuming any kind of sweet treat is more terrifying than zombies, ghosts, or ghouls.
The sky brews up a massive thunderstorm, which is particularly fitting for our Halloween night. Outside, the temperature drops dramatically, flash-freezing what remains of the balding courtyard vegetation. The nurses are religious about keeping us bundled up in sweaters and extra gowns, because a sick lunatic is worse than a healthy lunatic. Riley fights tooth and nail to wear next to nothing, because her brain has convinced her that her alien conspirators will use their thermal imaging technology to keep an eye on her warm, glowing figure. "I'm red!" she shouts, crying in terror. "I'm red on the radar!" Her attending psychiatrist, Dr. Bhandari, ups her meds. The girl quiets down and pulls a sweatshirt over her head. She wears it inside-out and backwards, but the techs do nothing. "Pick your battles" is one of their favorite sayings. "Aliens don't exist" is their second favorite.
Bored, I join Lizzie and flop down on The Lounge's threadbare carpet to stare out the window. More charcoal clouds roll in from beyond I-95, the wind picking up speed and teasing the dying leaves on the nearby oaks. This is weather fit for witches on broomsticks, agitated black cats on wrought-iron fences, and tornadoes of vampire bats. The storm churns like an angry stomach. We all startle as a white-hot vein of lightning sears the sky. Heavy rain patters above us. I count the seconds until a crack of thunder shakes the building. Several girls, Lizzie and Talia included, squeal and cover their faces. Riley cackles maniacally and exclaims that her "friends"are coming.
The lights sputter; more scattered cries travel down the hall from the cafeteria and nurse's desk. Lizzie unfolds her legs and stands, shaking. "I'm getting my PRN," she says.
"What do they give you?" I ask.
"Valium." She hurries out of The Lounge.
I follow her, as it's time for my medication as well and I haven't decided whether or not I'll take it tonight. I look up at the skylights. More lightning splits into branches that reach across the clouds and grab at the cowering stars. The nurse's station is like a bar at Happy Hour. Everyone stands around in their little cliques, chatting and waiting for their drugs. More than just a few want their benzos.
"Everyone, please form a line!" the nurse, Nina, instructs. "One at a time, girls! I will get to all of you."
Simon meanders between us and eyes the action at the counter to make sure no one is tonguing or trading their pills. "Be patient patients," he reminds us. He thinks he's so witty. His new tech friend, Katie, nudges him in the ribs and calls him "lame".
Another sizzle of lightning lights up the sky like a nuclear blast. Thunder explodes right over the roof, and the power dies.
"Aaaaah!"
"Ohmigodohmigod!"
I hear Riley shriek from the cafeteria: "It's them! It's them! The green men are coming - they're coming for you - no - YOU! They're gonna probe us all! Oh God, the needles! You're working with them, Illuminati assholes!"
"STAY CALM, EVERYONE."
Footsteps scurry around us. I hear the clinking of keys. Sneakers squeak on the linoleum. Someone gasps right next to my ear. I turn around and hit something warm and soft.
"Hey!"
I back away. "Sorry."
Simon's voice: "Katie, check the doors!"
Katie's voice: "They're locked!"
Nina's voice: "Thank God!"
A thud and electrical whir fill the negative space with a loud hum. The lights blink on and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. The techs conduct a quick head count and determine that no one has vanished or been abducted by green men. Riley curls up on the floor in the doorway to the cafeteria. Her head is tucked into her sweatshirt like a turtle's and her hands are clamped over her ears. Katie rushes to her side and tenderly guides her to her small feet, while Simon and Nina pick at the floor where sedatives have scattered like candy.
The unit doors open and the second night nurse, Tristan, comes in. A timid-looking girl with skin the color of skim milk trembles at his side and avoids eye contact with us as we hang back to stare. She wears black from head-to-toe: black turtleneck, black skinny jeans, black high-tops - every inch of her covered except her hands and face. I instantly develop a fascination. She is led into the exam room. Nina trades places with Tristan so that she can search the new girl.
When Simon's head is turned, I cheek my sleeping pills and bury them like perverse seeds in the potted ferns by the phones. I go to my room and retrieve my hygiene box from my nightstand. It is still raining outside, but the worst of the storm now hulks off to the west like a monster passing through.
In the bathroom, I am alone. I cleanse my face with a fresh washcloth, then wedge my toothbrush into my mouth and work up a lather, fiercely scrubbing my teeth to get rid of the bitter pill aftertaste from the ones that left a residue on my gums. I stare at myself in the polished steel mirror. My eyes remind me of empty holes, blank sketchbook pages. I am an unfinished drawing, a failed creation, a crumpled piece of paper balled up on top of a trash pile. Minty foam plops into the sink, dripping from my mouth. I look like I have rabies. The toothpaste starts to burn my mouth, so I rinse and spit, rinse and spit again, then quietly pad back to my room to see that the third bed now belongs to New Girl.
She clutches a paper bag to her chest. Shiny tears streak her puffy face. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick, raw and red. She wears a hospital gown over a long-sleeved shirt, the dark fabric stained with dried blood on the sleeves. How did all that blood get there? It might be better not to ask.
"Hi," I offer.
"Hi," she repeats, her eyes fixed upon her pillow.
"I'm Shiloh," I say.
"Molly." The girl begins pulling things from the paper bag: one pair of jeans, lots of sweatpants and hoodies with the strings removed, faded pairs of underwear. Her lean body suggests that she is prepubescent, but her face is worn like she's seen many hard years. Her gray eyes are ageless. She has thin, mousy brown hair chopped just above her shoulders. Her movements have a timid and delicate nature to them.
"What are you in for?" I ask.
She very deliberately reaches into the bag and freezes for a moment. "I'm... I'm really messed up." She withdraws a thick paperback novel: George Orwell's 1984. The spine has hundreds of creases and the pages are dog-eared.
I sigh and roll onto my side, facing her. "You'll fit right in, then."
YOU ARE READING
Freedom of Sketch
Teen Fiction-Completed- After seventeen-year-old artist Shiloh Mackenzie is accused of assaulting her classmate and setting her school on fire, her dark and graphic portfolio catches the principal's attention. Suspended pending a psychiatric evaluation, Shiloh...
