We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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I have never been more uncomfortable in my entire life. The thought itself is nerve wracking, let alone the action.
Each time I am guided through the process, it takes away another piece in my body, which is willing to live. What feels even more troubling than experiencing it, is how these inhumane people try to console you. You can tell by the look on their faces, that they don't give a rat's ass about your fears.
I wish I could do the same. So once again, when the morning rolls, I pull my cardigan over my head, for the officer to grab on its wool and toss it on the metal trolley on the side. She turns its sleeves inside out to scan the fabric for contraband. Empty handed, as well as frustrated, she demands for my jeans. I comply, stripping myself in front of three perfect strangers. Once they are convinced of my cleanliness, and done frisking me multiple times, I once more become a free resident of the United States of America.
I think I am starting to understand the whole point of rehabilitation. It does such scary things to you, the idea of even trying to take drugs again, makes you shudder. The only bright side seems to be the view of the skyline from 14 floors atop, and not even a single babbling human in sight. I, for one, am definitely not laying my hands on those things again— specifically if there is a great chance of getting caught associated to it.
While I almost want to hurl at my reflection in the glass windows, the sunlight entering past, gives me the least access to the world outside. Revelling in the summery breeze is better than people visiting to sympathise and stare at me with their ugly gazes. To be precise, I am referring to my dear parents. They are smart enough to realise that it is more profitable to invest in a multinational company than on their junkie daughter. I hope I have inherited this rare trait from them.
"Alright, let's change," I mumble to the skeleton in the frame, dressed in the same faded blue as that of hospital scrubs. I zip open my bag to pull out the same denim shirt and a pair of boyfriend jeans; ones that I wore on my first day of Arlington. As I stand under the cold shower, the running water blends with my tears. Luckily, there isn't anyone here to possibly identify it. All the while during the process, I strictly avoid looking at the five by five mirror hung on the bathroom wall. Sometimes illusions are better to live in, than reality.
I then comb through my hair, feeling strands fall down with every swipe through the tangles. They don't even tie up in a ponytail anymore— most of the volume now lost. Apparently, when you try to tear your insides apart, it shows the consequences on the outside to reflect your efforts. The same goes for my shirt, which even though hangs on my bony figure, makes me feel warm.
My feet take me to my designated spot, and I lie down in anticipation of the day ahead of me.They don't even let me have a cellphone, because according to these smart asses, that would set the limit to my shady activities. If I really wanted to defy the rules, it would have happened quite long ago. I don't fear the people here, not in the least bit... but I am rather afraid to face someone outside.
