Day 5

                                    

                                          
The light was different—soft and dim, artificial in its attempt to mimic daylight, casting the room in a sterile glow that felt like a pale mockery of the brightness Trey had once known. The psych ward was designed to soothe, with its muted tones of pastel blue and beige, but to Trey, it only felt suffocating, like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for him to break.
Another social worker, same tired routine. She sat next to his bed, reading off the list like it was some kind of grocery receipt—foster homes and petty crimes that stacked like bricks in a wall between him and the world. But this time was different, an involuntary commitment, locked in until they decide he's psychologically sound. No checking himself out early, like he could when it was just an overdose. Her voice was a dull hum, nothing but noise in the background. He didn't hear her anymore. Didn't care. It was always the same questions, the ones he had no answers to, as if they still expected something from him. He stared past her, at the wall, at nothing. The words drifted, muted, muffled, sinking into the silence where they belonged. 
Days blurred, each one slipping into the next with a monotonous rhythm that made time itself seem irrelevant. The routine was both comforting and maddening—meals, therapy sessions with Dr. Bryan, medications handed out in small cups. There was a strange peace in the predictability, but it was a peace that came with a weight, pressing down on Trey, making everything feel farther away.
Dr. Bryan's voice cut through the haze, soft and probing, like someone testing the depth of a wound. "How are you feeling today, Trey?"
Click. The silver Zippo lighter snapped open in Trey's hand, though no flame lit. They had confiscated the butane when he was admitted, but Loretta convinced them to let him keep the lighter, a small token of comfort that seemed to ground him.
"Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"
Click. The lighter opened, then closed again, the sound small but sharp in the quiet room.
Every day, it was the same. Questions, gentle and persistent, like waves lapping against a shore, and every day, Trey responded with the same stony silence. He didn't need to talk. He didn't want to talk. The world outside had nothing left for him, and the world in here wasn't any better. His only solace was the sound of the lighter, ticking like the passage of time—something small he could control.
Click.
Dr. Bryan removed his glasses, the delicate sound of metal meeting the desk breaking the stillness. He leaned forward, his gaze steady, like a man watching the tide slowly rise. "You know, Trey," he said in that calm, unshakable tone, "the longer you don't talk, the longer you'll be here."
Trey didn't look up. His eyes stayed fixed on the lighter, flicking it open, then shut, with methodical precision. The silence thickened, stretching out until it felt like a living thing. And then, finally, he spoke, his voice flat and devoid of feeling. "Better than life out there."
The doctor slid his glasses back on, his expression unchanged, though his eyes narrowed slightly, watching Trey with a quiet intensity. "Why don't you tell me about your life out there?" he asked, his voice soft but deliberate, as though the question had been waiting in the wings, just waiting for its cue.
Out there. The words rattled around in Trey's mind, looking for a place to settle, but there was nowhere safe to land. Out there had never been kind to him. Life had never been kind. He tried to conjure a memory that wasn't tainted by violence, fear, or grief, but it was like trying to find light in a room with no windows. There wasn't much left that wasn't already burned.
His mother had disappeared when he was young, slipping away one night and never coming back. It had been just him, Tommy, and their father after that. An alcoholic, a man with fists like steel and a temper that erupted without warning. Trey had learned early how to protect Tommy, how to step in before the blows could land on his little brother. He had been the shield, absorbing all the rage and drunken anger, pulling his father's focus away from the fragile boy who deserved better. Trey had taken it all, every punch, every shout, because he knew it was the only way to keep Tommy safe. But even that hadn't been enough in the end.
Click.
Trey's hand tightened around the lighter, his fingers trembling slightly, but he stayed silent. He wouldn't give Dr. Bryan what he wanted. There were some things too broken to fix, some wounds too deep to heal, and no amount of talking was going to change that.