Freedom of Sketch

Theatrics, Act IV

I whirl around, blinking through a film of tears.

Staff members gather at the mouth of the main hallway and slowly advance. The gloves snap on, long hair gets tied back. This is the point of no return. I'm already looking at a hefty dose of IM meds at the very least, so why not go all the way? Why not get as close to the edge and cause as much mayhem as possible before they turn my lights off? All I want is to get to Daniel, and I will get to him - even if I have to chew my way through these doors, or wear my fingers down to bloody stumps tunneling through the floor.

I curl my hands into fists and pound on the doors, which push back, rattling on their sturdy metal hinges. The sobs in my chest threaten to break my ribs. Can't see can't think can't breathe. Hands on my shoulders, strong, firm. I twist free. Someone grabs my upper arm so tight, ignoring the flesh, digging for bone.

Anxious, determined energy overwhelms the hallway, makes our skin crawl. I burrow deeper into my distress, withdrawing from voices laced with professional concern. My frustration feeds on itself, building momentum like a runaway car with no brakes, hurtling down a mountain toward certain destruction. I ferociously kick the doors - bangbangrattlebang - bruising my toes on the steel. The staff are shouting now, but all I hear is angry noise. They could be speaking Polish and I'd never know.

I flail around like a cat in a sack, clawing at anything and everything within reach. I shift all of my weight, pitching forward, pulling techs and nurses into me. Physical resistance is a psych ward felony, but I couldn't care less.

Wade eventually gets a good, solid grip on my shoulders and introduces me to the floor. Someone sits on my legs. A knee plows into my back. Gloved fingers hook onto the elastic waistband of my sweatpants and pull them down a couple of inches, exposing a vulnerable strip of skin. Someone vigorously rubs it with a cold alcohol pad. A needle stings me. Then another. I feel tiny explosions of the medicine under my skin. But I don't care. I'm numb. Daniel's going to die while I get dragged kicking and screaming down the hall to Seclusion and slapped with a life sentence because I'm crazy, hopeless, and stupid. I'm on a violence binge. Every bad thing that's ever happened to me, every wrong turn and dumb mistake I've ever made, rises to the surface where it turns into an itch I can finally scratch. It feels good to fight back for once, even though I know I'm going to lose.

"Shiloh!" Wade pulls me to my feet and shakes me. "You gotta stop this, all right? You gotta relax!"

I just want him and the rest of the staff and the world to fuck off. I unravel into more sobs and look up through my hair to see Dr. Fox leading my mother, who has a tissue pressed to her lips, away from my crime scene.

Evan steps in, takes over my left side, one hand on my wrist and the other curled around my upper arm. Wade mirrors him on the right. They haul me away like this, straining to hold me upright. Something inside of me has shifted, altering my gravity and weighing me down. What should be an effortless task for people of Evan and Wade's size and strength causes them to sweat.

Jenny leads the way, keys at the ready. Her strides are smooth, confident, but she frequently turns her head to glance back at me. Her hair is falling loose from her scrunchie.

Since I won't quit swinging my legs, another pair of macho men separates from the edgy stragglers and wraps their arms around my thighs, lifting my feet off the floor. I'm then subjected to a very hands-on tour of most of the hospital. It concludes with an ominous view of a wide, metal door. Everyone knows about This Door - it's a topic frequently discussed in hushed, anxious tones - but few have ever seen it. Even fewer have seen what's behind it, because most people know their limits (that, and you're usually drugged up to your eyeballs by the time you reach such a drastic step in Circle Valley's crisis intervention plan). Lucky me... I don't have limits. Daniel's dying - there's no limit to what I feel now, what I can do.