Chapter 12

                                    

                                          
Song: "Machine Gun" - Portishead 
                          
Die young, save yourself. 
                          
"Jamie, may I take your vitals?" One of the day nurses stands in front of me, the small, portable machine in tow. She needs to check my blood pressure, temperature. In the hospital, they have to check each patient every hour or so, to make sure we aren't going to stroke out or get sick. I offer my right arm out to the nurse, sleeve rolled up. I'm an old pro at this, I know the drill and let the nurses and other staff members have their way with me. Fighting is pointless now.
                          
Turns out Mother had forgotten that she had company stopping by that day. The last day I was out. Her good friend, the one I told you about - the one that got all up in Mother's grill when she first started knocking back the juice. She came right in when no one answered the door, she said she came to check on me, to see how I was holding up. She found me after my lights went out, the puddle of crimson spreading, but not big enough to kill me. She had 911 on the phone in a flash, checked my pulse and went rampaging through the house to find my mother passed out in bed. Whiskey oozing from her pores, she was unshowered, filthy and so trashed, that her dear friend couldn't rouse her for more than a moment. 
                          
In short, ladies and gentlemen, I've failed again. Strike 2. They have me here again, in College Hospital, trying to put me back together. But what they don't know is that I've swallowed some of the pieces to the puzzle. They may get their disinfected hands on some things, but not the things that really matter.
                          
The nurse finishes with me, and walks over to a study patient. I stare out the window at the yard, wondering how long I'll have to stay before they let me out. Or if I'll even get out. I've been here for 2 weeks so far, and they haven't so much as hinted about when I'll be discharged. Don't they know that secrets don't make friends?
                          
Quite a rude bunch, they are.
                          
I'm making it a point to keep my eyes off the clock above the small TV set. Time passes slower here than it ever did in school, even on the worst days. People get so freaked out by the idea of mental hospitals, but the ward I'm in isn't too bad. Ironically, I don't qualify for SICU - the place where they house the real crazies. Instead, I'm the High Functioning Adult Ward - people that still have some kind of grip on the world, ages 18 to whatever.
                          
Anyway, it's not so bad. The people are decent, some can be quite nice. But this ward isn't like the movies paint it out to be. That stuff's just for shock value, mostly. It's just boring here in my ward, not much to do but watch basic cable, play cards, maybe read a book or two. However, I didn't get the chance to pack anything, so I don't have any of my favorite novels with me, and there's no way in hell I'm reading some dime-a-dozen romance book. Erlack.
                          
Just keep busy, play nice. Attend group and be civil to the doctors and nurses and they spit you back out into the world. I've been doing all these things, but I'm still stuck in my hideous, green, three bed to a room cage.
                          
Ya wanna know what really chaps my ass, though? Mother hans't come to see me once. Not once.  Her friend does though, daily. I find this very odd, we never spoke much and now she's here every night at 6pm for visiting hours. Puzzling.
                          
Her name is Daphne - like the whore from Scooby Doo, minus the orange hair and green tights. Although, I wonder what this Daphne would look like with green tights. She's not a mother herself, but has the basic maternal instincts that most women seem to have. She brought me some clothes from home, pats my hand and stays the entire 2 hours.
                          
I can't get her to answer any of my questions about Mother. Whenever I bring her up, Daphne's mouth caves in like she's just sucked on a lemon. She changes the subject to other things, school, my 'recovery', as she calls it. I listed her as one of the people that the doctors could tell everything to when I heard about how I got brought in here.
                          
You think I'd be mad, but I'm not. I'm just happy someone cared enough to take me in, and isn't treating me like dirt. She hasn't hissed at me, glared, or tried to bite me at all. It's a nice change. She's a nicr lady. Makes me wonder why she's friends with my mother. What could they have in common?
                          
 It's about 2pm now, time for a smoke break. Yeah, yeah, the people that are here for boozing, drugs, and about 1000 other reasons are allowed to smoke 4 times a day. Confuses me too. I'm not much of a smoker myself, but it passes the time and makes me feel better for a little bit, so I file at the door with the other nicotine puppets.  A day nurse squeaks over and lets us out; people spill out into the small yard, blinded by the sun. We hiss and spit at the bright light, our skin bubbling slightly. 
                          
We each get one ACE cigarette, unless you came in with a pack, or got someone to bring you one from home. The nurses hold the lighters tightly in their chubby fists. I get my cancer stick a glowin' and sit in the shade against the wall. We have to be outside if we're smoking, which makes me want to boil myself alive.
                          
My chest tightens into a ball and I taste pennies in the back of my throat. I take a long drag off the stick and hold it in until my lungs beg for mercy. It helps, a little. The smoke sneaks out of my mouth and escapes over the hedge, and on the freeway. There's a freeway right next to the hospital, you can hear the cars drive past when you're out on a break. It's a whisper or normalcy. A foggy memory of the world that seems so far away.
                          
 I watch the other patients gather at one of the picnic benches, talking and laughing. Voices husky and rough from years of smoking. They sound like my father's beard used to feel. It's mildly unpleasant.
                          
My hair falls into my eyes, blocking the not-so-great veiw, I stare at the glowing tip of my cigarette, mesmerized by the small force of energy. Ashes fall to the ground, land on my clothes, my shoes, some are swept away by the wind to far away kingdoms. I blink, flick the ashes off the end, and take another deep drag, finishing it off quickly. I can't be outside anymore...
                          
I drop the butt into the trashcan and give a nod of thanks to the day nurse that watches the rest of the smokers. Once inside I feel slightly better, but the feeling of impending doom is still following me around.  
                          
 I see my therapist standing in the doorway of the day room, watching me. When our eyes meet, he motions for me to follow him out to the hall, this can be either really, really good, or bad. According the my paranoid brain, it's bad. Very bad. But I have no choice, I have to follow. 
                          
When we get to a small room, me sitting across the table from him, anotehr empty chair next to mine, he tells me that we have something important to disscus. I wait for him to continue, wondering to myself about the extra chair, it's never been there before. Maybe it's his imaginary friend...
                          
He clears his throat, touching his bottom lip before he croaks out the words: Jamie, I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay with your mother any longer..