Freedom of Sketch

Theatrics, Act III

One of the first things a person will learn when they get to know me is that I suffer from a severe case of germophobia (is that DSM material?). Convinced I'd contract everything from athlete's foot to syphilis to a fatal, antibiotic-resistant strain of flesh-eating Chinese ringworm if I so much as thought about stepping into the community shower barefoot, I begged my mom to toss a pair of black plastic slides into the goodie bag she packed and dropped off within days of my kidnapping/admission.

Stuffed full of the hospital's frozen lasagna, we noisily file into the showers with our hygiene boxes in hand. Most of the girls wear tank tops and brightly colored bathrobes, towels wrapped like sarongs around their waists. Some of them wear hospital gowns as pajamas while their clothes are washed overnight. The eating disorder patients have to sleep in gowns because they're weighed in them first thing in the morning. Fashion-conscious Lizzie is very vocal about her disappointment that she can't show off the new pajamas her parents bought her as an apology gift for forcing her into treatment.

Molly conceals her heavily scarred body underneath an extra-large terry bathrobe and enters the shower stall next to me on my left, while Riley takes her usual place on my right, by the wall. I hear Katie follow her in to prove to her that the shower head is not a spy camera placed by those big bad aliens who apparently have a thing for naked young earthling girls.

The water comes on with a loud ssshhhhh, and it's like American Idol. Everyone suddenly comes to the conclusion that a) they can sing, and b) everyone else wants to hear them sing. Some obnoxious girl starts yowling Disney tunes while others either laugh like hyenas or wail along with her, trying to harmonize. The cheerful yet mangled lyrics float up with the clouds of moisture and get sucked away into the vents. Also riding on the heat are the scents of fancy body washes and hair care products in every floral and fruit aroma imaginable. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, but my heart flutters.

I lean down to soap up my foot when I see a thin trickle of red snake down the drainage trough. I've been living in an estrogen palace - a kingdom constructed from secrets, lies, superficial giggles, and lip gloss - so I'm quite used to feminine nonsense like menstruation. One of the perks of being a resident in an exclusively female treatment facility is having your cycle sync up with the other three dozen girls in your company. I feel sorry for the males who have to work here. A larger stream of blood streaks down the trough. I hop back as the pink water laps at my toes. Must thank Mom for packing these slides, I think. More red. It's coming from my left. This doesn't look like menstrual blood, and I would definitely know if it were shark week around here. Another wave of blood, bubbling beneath an iridescent layer of soap, rushes down the trough. It's a darker, more threatening shade of crimson. "Red people! Metal cranberry human juice!" Riley screeches from my right.

"Molly?" I say.

She doesn't answer, and my heart leaps to my throat. "H-Hey!" I speak loudly, my mouth dry as I try to think of something humorous to say. "Who here is g-getting mauled by a b-bear?"

The aspiring vocalists stop singing. "What?"

A couple of stalls over, someone says, "Damn, that's nasty."

Everyone snaps to attention.

"Gross!"

"What, what is it?"

"Someone get this fool a tampon!"

A few girls giggle. A couple of the faucets shut off. "Molly?" I call out. Still no answer. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I turn off the water and still soaking wet, pull my nightshirt over my head. Soap bubbles pop in my hair. The nightshirt clings to my shaking body. "Molly!" I almost fall as I wrestle myself into my pajama bottoms. Shit, shit, shit. One of my slides comes off and I swear out loud.

"Language!" Katie admonishes.

I rush out of my stall, slipping on the wet tiles, and tear Molly's curtain aside. My stomach drops to my feet. A scream explodes from the deepest part of me.

Molly crouches in the spray from the faucet, the water now ice cold. She is naked, rocking back and forth, staring at her slashed wrists with dull eyes. Even in the choppy seconds it takes me to process the sight, a dark pool of blood expands around her. It seeps into the grout and reaches out in all directions as the growing red tendrils explore the maze of uneven tiles.

All I can do is act.

Fighting the urge to vomit, I lunge toward Molly and grab her under her arms, her wet skin slick and cold like rubber. I pull the girl backward and slip, falling into the spraying faucet. I yell for Katie, for Jenny, for anyone. I smell the blood, staining the air like rust, mixing with the sickly sweet scent of Molly's pink bubble bath. As I drag her limp body, I hear a clink and see a flash of silver. A razor blade shines in the middle of my bloody footprint.

Arms reach around me. Light fluffy hair falls in front of my face. Someone grabs the back of my nightshirt with both hands and pulls me out of the stall, kicking and screaming, hysterical. I crawl away on all fours, feeling Molly's sticky blood between my fingers. Katie shouts for help and the cavalry storms in. I'm vaguely aware of the other patients being herded into the hallway. Some of them still have shampoo in their hair. They crane their necks and stand on their toes to see some gore.

I sit with my knees to my chest, back against the wall, blood on my hands, on my feet, on my shirt. Water trickles down my face. My whole body shakes violently, teeth chattering. I have no tears, no words. The hallway is so dark compared to the brightly lit chasm that is the shower room. Dr. Fox appears. Simon hands him a pair of gloves and he kneels down at Molly's head. I can't tell if her eyes are open or closed. Does she know she's dying? Is that what she wants? Flecks of blood are absolutely everywhere: sprayed upon the walls, dripping from the bottom of the shower curtain, dotting Molly's small child's breasts, scattered across the floor like handfuls of red beads. It isn't long before Dr. Fox's white coat is stained, too.

Someone pounds on the doors by the ambulance bay. Katie races down, badge in hand, to invite the paramedics in. I recognize Ron immediately. He glances my way, his bright face ironed into seriousness, blue latex gloves on his hands. He carries a black bag spilling with medical supplies. His new partner is a blonde woman, her hair tied in a tight bun on top of her head. She follows him with the gurney and neon orange backboard. Together they rush into the war zone and take over. The techs move out of their way and stand back to observe from the sidelines. Their scrubs are soaked in watered-down blood.

The female paramedic hands Ron supplies over his shoulder as he barks out medical jargon. Molly's blood soaks through layer after layer of thirsty white gauze. Ron starts an I.V. drip and hands the bag to Dr. Fox, who holds it high above his head and periodically squeezes. He is soaked up to his knees in red. The paramedics wrap Molly up in a white blanket, roll her over, and shove the backboard underneath her cold little body. On the count of three, they lift her and strap her to the gurney. She is long unconscious, her face barely holding any color. Ron takes the I.V. bag away from the psychiatrist and runs down the hall with the gurney, his partner and Katie close behind. They disappear into the crisp night from which they came.

Red and blue lights paint the walls, the siren wails, and it's over.

Several pairs of red footprints lead to the ambulance bay.

I cannot move.