It's been only two weeks since I first saw this place where I will be living for, well, who actually knows for how long I will be here? A mental health treatment centre, hours away from my home. “It's for your own good”, “everything will be alright”, “there's no need to be embarrassed about this”, I remember my parents repeatedly saying this in the last couple of days I was at home. At least one thing they said was true; I don't need to feel embarrassed, because after all: there is nothing wrong with me. Nevertheless, this place and its people make me feel like there definitely is something wrong with me. Everyone here talks to me as if I'm a 5-year-old idiot, and I can't help but hear the pity in their voices as they speak. Constantly smiling, they try to make me believe that there is nothing to worry about. Well, clearly there is something to worry about, knowing that everybody who is hospitalised here has been labeled to be crazy in their heads.
I am back in my own room, which is located at the west side of the building, second floor. Just like every night I can see the sunset through my windows, painting the white walls with an orange glow. All the windows on the second and third floor are locked for safety reasons, and if I could change only one thing in here, it would be that I would be able to open them and breathe in the fresh air.
I sit down in one of the two comfortable chairs in my room, which are obviously only here to make the place look more like a home to clients. They did a bad job doing that, though. It looks like a hotel room, cold and impersonal. Everything is packed into one room, except for my bathroom, which is separated from the rest.
A big, wooden bookcase dominates the room, but its shelves are empty. I wish I had taken some books with me, just to place them on the shelves to make it look less sad in here.
The walls are white, the bed is white, the chairs are white, the floor is white, eve-ry-thing is white, except for the bookcase. It's so bright and peaceful in here that I often get headaches. It's just too peaceful and too silent. Besides, I am the only teenager in here, so I have no one to talk to, only my therapist. And I must say, the therapist isn't exactly the greatest company for me at the moment. Every day I leave my room to get breakfast, lunch and dinner in the dining hall. It's optional to get your meals in the dining hall, but I figured it would be better to show my face instead of locking myself in my room all the time. I always sit alone, eat my meal in silence, before I return to my room again. There hasn't been a day these annoying nurses didn't ask me why I don't join the other clients while having breakfast, lunch or dinner, but I just ignore their requests. The last thing I want to do in here is socialise with the others, who -from what I have seen- are mainly over their 30s.
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It's the next morning, I have an early session with my therapist. Pointless, since I barely say anything. It has become routine: I walk to the part of the building where all the psychiatrists and psychologists and however you call all of those mental health care counsellors, have their offices. I then arrive at his office, sit down, in the same chair everyday, and listen to the stories the therapist tells with the intention to stimulate me to get me to tell about my feelings and whatnot. Sometimes the therapist just waits, our chairs facing each other, without saying anything. He waits for me to finally say something, but I won't. Deep down I feel sorry for the poor guy. Sometimes sharp feelings of guilt get to me, and then I feel like I should say something, anything, just to make him feel better. But I never do. Except for yesterday. I just couldn't stop myself. I can imagine the therapist writing the word 'PROGRESS' in big, bold letters in my file on the page with yesterday's date, being very pleased with himself, thankful for finally having a reason to write something useful down in his notes. Maybe he even used an exclamation mark. PROGRESS!
I leave my room to start my well-known walk through the long corridor with all the offices.
White walls, green floor, blue doors. Each door has the exact same colour of blue, the only thing that is different on each door, are the nameplates. Every door represents an entrance to dozens of untold stories of all the clients who are hospitalised here, stories that have only been told to the therapists behind those doors.I read the nameplates of each door when I pass them.
'Dr R. Fenton, MBBCh, LRCP, MRCS, MRCPsych. Consultant Psychiatrist', 'Dr J. Morris, MD, Assoc MRCPsych, CCST. Consultant Psychiatrist', 'Dr C. Каrvasarsky, BSc (Hons), MEd, DClinPsy, CPsychol, AFBPsS. Child and Adolescent Clinical Psychologist', 'Dr E. Davidson, PhD, MSc, C.Psychol, AFBPsS. Clinical Psychologist'. All the names and the endless abbreviations to prove their academic achievements make me dizzy.
The linoleum floor squeaks every time I take a step. In the distance I hear a loud voice. I get caught up in the rhythm of my own footsteps, the squeaking noise functioning as a metronome.
My left foot hits the ground; squeak, I place my right foot; squeak, left squeak, right squeak.
Slowly the squeaking noise changes into a more familiar sound.
Left squeak, right squeak.
Why does it sound that familiar? Why does it sound so good? I keep walking, focusing hard on every step.
Left squeak, right squeak.
I stop walking. I suddenly realise what it sounds like. I take one more step, just to make sure I'm right. Slowly I lift my left foot and place it on the faded green linoleum floor. It squeaks again. But I don't hear a squeak. I hear Lily. I hear her familiar laugh every time I take a step, although now it sounds weird, a bit distorted, sending chills down my spine. I'm feeling numb, standing in the empty corridor with nothing but doors.
The long corridor, with walls as white as Lily's skin, with a floor, green like her eyes, and blue doors. Blue like the bruises on her body.
