Freedom of Sketch

Haunted

The days grow shorter while the hallways grow longer, stretching on into infinity as I pace. My whole body is filled with sand; it doesn't want to move. Seems like it takes forever for me to get anywhere, to do anything. I find myself avoiding the seams on the floor where the linoleum squares come together, because my head has somehow decided that I'll end up killing Daniel if I step on one. I made the mistake of telling this to Dr. Fox, and now he thinks I have OCD.

They called Lizzie into a private meeting to explain everything about Daniel's accident. She didn't snap like me. At least, not on the outside. "I don't understand it," she tells me. "I can't feel anything. It's like someone tied a tourniquet around my emotions and I'm just waiting here, numb, until the blood comes rushing back." Still, she cries at the sight of my tears, and at the fear of what's going to happen when the feelings hit her all at once.

We sit in The Lounge. I watch Lizzie work on a 1,000-piece puzzle of a glowing brick two-story with an elaborate garden. I imagine that the people living there are the type who sit down to dinner together every night at six o'clock. They bundle up in their minivan and go to their kids' recitals and sports games. They have family movie nights every Friday, and sleepovers every Saturday, as long as the homework's done and the report cards decent. The only medicine in their cabinet is Tylenol, maybe multivitamins. They solve their issues with votes and discussions, not therapy. I want to destroy them, ruin what I can't have.

Every day, my mother calls with updates on Daniel:

"Daniel won't open his eyes."

"Daniel won't squeeze his doctor's hand."

"Daniel still can't breathe on his own; he remains intubated."

I don't share my sicknesses and failures with her, but there's no stopping Meredith:

"Shiloh skipped class again."

"Shiloh won't get out of bed."

"Shiloh refuses to talk in Group."

I thought staff would be happy the day I finally agreed I was ill, that I needed treatment, that I belonged here. But they just keep pushing and pushing - changing my meds, giving me more assignments - lecture, lecture, lecture, on and on, like the hallways.

One day I go off on Tori, screaming that she doesn't understand because she's never had her heart crushed, that she's just here for the money, she doesn't actually give a flying fuck about us, that she's crazier than we are because she chooses to be here. But she doesn't fight back, just shakes her head. "Oh, Shiloh," is all she says before turning away. It makes me hate her even more, except that I don't really hate her... it's the whole universe that I hate.

***

I dream of shadows, monochromatic shades of gray. Daniel stopped visiting me in my sleep. A darker dimension claimed him because he is too weak to exist in this one. He no longer holds my hand; the distance between us is too great.

Daniel's mother has decided to withdraw life support. Tomorrow, she will sign the official papers. My mom told me that a police officer at the accident site fished Daniel's scorched driver's license out of the wreckage and noted his status as an organ donor.

The heart I have tried so hard to win will soon be relocated to a new home: the foreign body of a stranger. My face burns with resentment when I think too long on the subject, and then burns again in shame when I realize how selfish I am. I unexpectedly fell madly in love with Daniel's heart, and the idea of losing this secret yet powerful connection has completely crippled me. My own heart is broken. I want to throw it away because there's just no point in keeping something that carries this much pain.

Like many other mornings, I wake up on the inside and stay hidden within a faked sleep until I'm ready to open my eyes or even stir. The dream world to which I traveled last night returns me to the mental hospital and to my bed, which is securely bolted to the floor. But I feel like I've tumbled into yet another dream world, one with the potential to be real but that is so absurdly insane that I can't stop wondering whether or not this is all one very elaborate, drawn-out nightmare. I've also considered the possibility that I'm actually dead and this place is a purgatory or even a hell cleverly disguised as a treatment facility for troubled girls. Based on what I know about my fellow patients, I believe that if this is hell, we all experience it quite differently.

Regardless if this is an indefinite nightmare, a twisted afterlife, or a tangible reality, one thing is certain: today is Daniel's execution day. We will no longer share the same plane of existence, and that makes my life hell. All I can do now is hope that wherever Daniel goes, he will understand that I did fall in love with him and will never manage to pull myself out.

Someone raps their knuckles against our door and flings it wide open. "Good morning! Rise and shine! It's a beautiful day so come on and get out of bed!"

Ugh. Brynn.

My roommates groan and kick off their blankets. I pretend to be dead. I've pretended to be dead every morning since Daniel's accident, so as usual, Brynn isn't buying my act. "Shiloh, you need to get up," she says. "I understand that this is going to be a rough day for you, but you won't begin the healing process under the covers."

I remain stiff, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

Without warning, Brynn tears the bedding away, exposing me to the frigid air. My bare skin breaks out into a field of goosebumps.

"Don't force me to sing to you," she threatens slyly. The end of the mattress sinks down as Brynn sits on the corner of the bed by my feet. I haven't changed this pair of hospital socks since I last showered, which was roughly a week ago. I hope they smell revolting enough to convince Brynn that I am actually dead today, or at the very least force her to move away from me to avoid choking on the stench.

But she doesn't. I hear her sigh. "I'm not going to insult you by pretending that I know exactly what you're going through, but a good friend of mine passed away from leukemia last October. It hurt so bad. I didn't think I'd ever manage to move on with my life. But I didn't have a choice, so I kept on going, even though the pain of that loss seemed unbearable. You're such a strong person; I know you can fight through this."

Wrong.

I think about the person scheduled to receive Daniel's heart. It'll save their life, probably just this one time. But they won't appreciate the many times that heart has saved mine. When the idea of receiving the gift of a foreign organ eventually loses its thrill, that small piece of Daniel will merely become an accessory to them, its steady beat taken for granted. I'll spend the rest of my days playing that rhythm in my head, connecting to all of my memories of Daniel: his smile, his laugh, the way he smelled before he tried alcohol for the first time.

I try to picture him now, bring him to life in my head. Every time, he appears empty-eyed and bloodied: a walking corpse. He needs to decide - quickly - whether or not to move into a nearby grave. I can't have him haunting me when I'm trying my hardest to "recover".