Mare Moody - [blank]

She walks down the hallway for what seems to be a mile. The white tile's pattern is entrancing. I follow it with my eyes. The diamond into a wide doorway that spills into a cafeteria. Metal tables are scattered throughout the room. People seem to be grouped in some sort of fashion but without proper speculation, I can't decrypt the organization. Some people are wearing sweat suits, while others, like myself, are wearing our own clothing.

"You can go through here," the nurse says to me. She points to a queue line that is made of a dirty rope tied to individual posts. A huge sneeze guard covers a long metal trough of food. Assorted cooks are busy at all of the different stations of said trough. I walk into the line and stand in front of the sneeze guard. A cook smiles at me and hands me a plate.

"It's pancake day!" She says enthusiastically

I hate pancakes.

"Yum!" I respond as I take the plate.

The nurse still follows me. It feels weird to have someone always behind me. Every second I wonder when she will go away.

The cafeteria is almost as unrenovated as my bedroom. Peeling white paint covers the walls. Tacky posters of happy people are placed randomly along the perimeter. Nurses are also places randomly throughout the room. It seems like everyone is under 24 hour surveillance. The tables are unsturdy and no amounts of cleaning would rid it of the germ infestation taking place before my eyes. It makes me wonder if the rest of the world even cares about mental health. Sadly, I don't think they do.

I put my tray down at an empty table. I can feel people's eyes on me. Hopefully they will mind their own business sooner than later. I know they are looking at my stomach. It has grown a lot over the last couple days. 'Why is a pregnant lady here' is most likely ninety percent of their thoughts. Or maybe they can't even tell. The nurse sits next to me. It attracts even more attention. She very well could go stand with the other nurses than right next to me. That's like tattooing "new person" on my forehead. I guess it doesn't matter because they will figure out eventually that I am new. I definitely don't fit in. I have never been in a facility like this and some people here seem like this is their second home. They lounge around, comfortable as can be. I sit tense with the least amicable expression I can muster.

I cut into the pancake. When I get my forkful close to my mouth, I realize that I am not even the slightest bit hungry. I put the fork down and sigh.

"Are you going to eat?" The nurse asks. She sounds more worries than I assumed she would be.

"I'm not very hungry."

She doesn't argue with me at all about this and simply pulls her clipboard up and scribbles on it. A part of me feels like I'm going to get in trouble later for this. Oh well. The nurse looks at her watch.

"Your appointment with Dr. Simmons is in 20 minutes," She says, "Maybe I could walk you around and show you some stuff if you are sure that you are done eating."

I nod my head. I pick the fork up and eat just the bite that I already sliced. The sweet taste in my mouth makes me nauseous momentarily. The bite gets swallowed and I proceed to throw my plate in the trash. The trash can is placed oddly in front of a door. It looks like it hasn't been opened in at least 30 years. This place needs to be fixed up, badly.

The nurse urges me towards her. She is walking towards the exit. I catch up to her and we down the hallway together. She ornately describes the advantages to being in a mental health facility. After she starts describing the group therapy, I start to zone out. Perhaps she thinks that creepy men with guitars will get me excited.

How did I get here? I don't think I have any serious problems that would warrant a mental hospital check-in. The only thing I can think is that my father brought me in under my own will. Maybe he drugged me? I'm very confused. My backpack wasn't packed by me either. Somebody else threw my clothes in. My backpack was at Noah's so maybe he and my dad had a plan? My father did tell me that mental issues ran in the family and I told Noah about the voices. Did they communicate when I wasn't around? What about Tabitha? Does she think that I'm safely at Noah's or does she also know about this. I don't know my confusion can get an more convoluted and extreme. I'm really hoping that this doctor does explain to me and tell me what the actual fuck is going on.

We continue to stroll. As time progresses, so does my anxiety. Maybe I'm in here for my anxiety?

"Here is the office." The nurse points at a door in the hallway. This one sticks out; it is the only one that has a window in its frame. I look at it. It looks very suspicious. It's probably just my anxiety telling me to be cautious and paranoid.

The nurse opens the door and gestures me to go inside. Inside is a little room the size of a closet with chairs strewn about. On the farthest wall there is another door. This one has no window and looks much more daunting than the last.

"Just sit here and the doctor will come out when he is ready for you," the nurse tells me. She points to one of the chairs, then closes the door. Other than my shoe voyage, this is the first time I have been alone since I got here. I look around the room and try to make acquaintances with it. Something tells me that I will be seeing these walls for a very long time. Who knows how long I will be here.

A bit of thread sticks out from the stitching on my chair. I pull at it nervously. My mother always told me that if I pull threads then the whole stitch will come apart. I have always wanted to test out this for myself. I feel like it would be so satisfying to watch an entire project be ripped apart, literally by the seams, just by pulling a single thread that was out of place.

The door creaks and I am pulled from my thoughts. I jump and my hand pulls the thread farther. I look up. I feel guilty for ruining it more. The doctor chuckles. His face is one of someone who needs more sleep. He has thick purple coloring under his eyes. Although he appears to be around thirty, he has wrinkles of a 60 year old. With his laugh comes raspy vocal cords and an exacerbated grin. I honestly feel sympathy for him. I can't imagine what he goes through day in and day out.

"Come talk with me, Ana." He tells me.

He opens the door to his office wide and walks back into the room. It is only slightly bigger than the closet outside but is still barely enough room for someone to properly utilize the space. The walls are a forest green with touch of shit color to them. The ceiling has a moldy look to it but it matches the wall color, so I can't complain. One thing does appeal to me: the giant couch he has sprawled across the far wall. Its plump cushions look so inviting. I walk over to it and sit down. I melt into the soft cotton. I am still anxious but the comfort does help a bit. My eyes continue to soar across the room. There is so many stimulants. I feel like it was decorated this way intentionally. Once again, posters of smiling families cake the walls. He sees me looking and smirks. I assume they are frequently stared at.

"Those are mandatory from the hospital board," he says.

The groups of people look so relaxed. A couple walks hand in hand in a sunflower field with the perfect lens flare on their backs. I wish life was that happy. I know they put them there as inspiration but honestly, it makes me more depressed. I see what I can never truly achieve. I know that I will never achieve it. Especially if I never find out why I am here. I still don't understand why I wound up here or what I did to warrant this admittance. I hold my hands in my lap and look at the doctor. He better answer some of my questions.

"They told you that you were in a mental health facility I assume?" He asks.

"Yes," I say, "but I don't know why."