Freedom of Sketch

Molly

Riley wanders in, dragging her feet and rubbing her behind. She performs the Thorazine Shuffle across the room to her bed, which hides beneath a mound of dirty clothes, used tissues, and wrinkled papers. "They got me again," she groans.

I prop myself up on my elbows. "What happened this time?"

Molly sorts her clothes by color, folding them tightly and lining them upon her shelf, labeled "Molly J." She tilts her head, listening, her brows pressed together. She looks like she's fearful that Riley and I are the violent type of crazy that will attack her in her sleep.

Riley blinks tiredly. "They probed me."

Me: "You got a shot?"

Riley: "They probed me and I need you to yank it out." She starts to pull down her pants.

"GAH! No, no!" I hold up my hands. "That's okay! Um... if you wait a few minutes, it'll crawl out on its own."

Molly: "Oh my God."

Riley gives me a half-smile. "You're the best, Shiloh," she slurs before slamming herself facedown into her nest of filth.

Molly and I exchange worried glances. "Is she dangerous?" Molly asks me.

I laugh. "No. She's just kind of... out there."

"OUTER SPACE!" Riley's voice is muffled.

"She's spacey," I clarify.

"Yeah, okay." Molly gives her head a little shake, like she's trying to realign her thoughts. That's when she sees the camera. "Who's watching us?"

"Aliens," Riley immediately responds. "Illuminati."

"Big Brother," I answer. "Riley named him."

"Him?" Molly echoes.

"Never mind." I twist a length of hair around my finger until it goes numb.

The sides of Molly's lips briefly turn up a bit, then creep back down as a grin passes over her face. "The staff see us?"

"It's for safety."

"Ah." Her gaze travels to my wall, where I've taped up a collection of artwork: my construction paper daisy, a caricature of Violet, a skeleton, inspirational words in wacky fonts, a beach, a hand-drawn map of Europe and Africa, and a half-assed self-portrait, among other things. "Whoa," she says, her little pink mouth hanging slightly open. "Did you make all of that?"

I shrug one shoulder. "Mmm-hmm. I like to do art."

"You're amazing!"

"Thanks, but it hasn't done me any good."

Molly crosses her legs, sitting Indian style on the end of her bed. "What do you mean?" Her fingers dart to her wrist. She pulls a rubber band from under her sleeve and snaps it against her skin. I've seen a lot of other girls do this, usually when they're stressed and want to hurt themselves. I think of the blood on Molly's clothes and wonder if that's why she's here.

"I drew a picture that was taken out of context," I explain. "Long story short, people thought it meant I was suicidal. I got put in here. Some other shit went down, too, but if it weren't for the stupid drawing, I wouldn't have gotten locked up."

"How long have you been here?" Molly says.

"Since February."

Molly snaps the band harder. "That's a really long time." Suddenly, her eyes turn glassy, and her face slackens into an expression of nothingness. She is empty, a void. She begins a snapping frenzy. Pink welts rise to the surface of her skin.

"Molly?" I say, concerned.

Molly: "..."

Me: "Molly, are you okay?"

Molly: "Good night." She slides back her covers, lies down, then folds herself into her blankets like a letter in an envelope. Her eyes close. She rests her hands on top of her chest and looks peaceful, reminding me of a corpse in a coffin, a comatose sleeping beauty.

What the hell just happened?  I carefully climb out of bed, turn off the light, and climb up onto my nightstand where I sit and watch jewels of rain race down the window like tears. I'm still awake when we cross over into the pitch-black beginnings of November, another page turning on the kitten calendar behind the nurse's desk.

I regret not taking my sleeping pills.