Mare Moody - [blank]

"Hey Ana," he says on his way out. The closet door slams behind him.

Dr. Simmons peers out of his main office and looks at me.

"You ready?" He asks.

"Um," I look back at the door that Brook just slammed. "Yeah."

I walk in and sit nervously on the couch. I don't know if it was Brook who got mad first or if it was Dr. Simmons.

"So, today is your last day."

"It was?" I am confused.

"Apparently we can't keep people for longer than 48 hours if we don't give them some sort of medication," he sighs. "Because you are pregnant we can't do much about it."

I try to process all of this new information.

"I can go home tomorrow morning?" I ask. I scared to ask because I'm afraid of him saying no.

"It appears so," he says.

All of my anger washes away and joy displaces any bitter feelings I had. All of my worries are pushed to the back of my head naturally.

"Is that all you need to see me about?" I ask, excited.

"Yep." Dr. Simmons seems very disappointed. He knows that I am not better yet. He knows I need more help but I don't want to stay and if I don't give them the ok to keep me, they can't. I get off the couch and walk out of the door. I waltz through the closet and meet Nurse Juay at the door. She smiles when she sees my tears are gone and we walk together down the hallway.

"Why are we going now?" I ask. I still want my sleep; especially if the next time I wake up I will be leaving.

"Dinner," she says. "I assume you are actually going to eat."

No.

"Yeah."

We walk through the hallway silently until we hit the threshold of the cafeteria. I get into the queue line and the overwhelming smell of tomatoes attacks my nose. Somebody massacred thirty dozen tomatoes to make this potent of a smell.

"Looks like spaghetti." Nurse Juay says with a smile. She walks away from me and stands with the mob of scrubs that spills across the far wall.

I grab a plate and walk to an empty table. I know she will join me soon but I hoping she doesn't. It would be nice to get even a second of alone time in this crowded hell. I put my plate down and sit. My eyes hover over the noodles. The memories of Noah and I making pasta flood my brain. Our smiles and laughter eat away at my heart. I want that back. Everything that the joy pushes back in now throwing itself to the front of my train of thought. Anxiety pulses through my blood. The cortisol makes its home once again. I lost it all. God, can I just get away from the spiral for even a moment.

"Heyo," Brook pushes his mounting plate of spaghetti onto the table. My mind eases off of my problems and begins prodding into his.

"What was going on in Dr. Simmons office today?" I ask.

"The bastard won't let me leave," he growls. "Apparently, I'm not 'ready.'"

He huffs again and crams a forkful of noodles into his mouth.

"Bullshit," He mutters through the half-chewed food.

"Why were you sent here?" I know this a bad question to ask but my curiosity begs to know. What can I say? I am a selfish prick.

"The same reason most people were." He puts down his fork and pulls up his long sleeves. Gauze patches are taped over his wrists and tiny slash marks trace all the way up his forearm. "They have kept me too long, though."

"How long?" I am pushing too far but I am already neck deep so may as well go all the way.

"3 weeks," He sighs.

I scoff and look at him in awe.

"3 weeks?" I am not sure if I heard that correctly.

He nods his head slowly.

"Then why do you still have gauze?" I point at his bandaged wrists.

"The cuts were deep as hell," he says examining them. He pulls up a bit of the overwrap but flinches and stops. "I thought I was gone for sure."

"Damn," I say in shock, "You remember it?"

"I remember dying," he says. "But apparently I just passed out for a few hours."

"I don't remember anything," I tell him.

"Nothing?"

"I remember my—" What is Noah to me anymore? He isn't my boyfriend but I don't want think of him as an ex, "friend saving me."

"What did you try to do?" At least he has also begun to ask the big questions.

"I don't really remember." I try to think back to what Dr. Simmons said but my brain blanks. I have no memory of it so any attempt at trying to get the information from that source is completely mute.

"Damn," he repeats my past interjection.

"Yeah."

I still haven't touched my spaghetti. I reach out and grab the fork. I twist around a small bit and force it into my mouth. I slowly chew it. I hate that fact that most things in my life have a negative memory attached to them. I eat the spaghetti despite this. I can see Nurse Juay's eyes on me from across the room. Surprisingly, she hasn't sat with me this time. I take another bite and look over at Brook who has scarfed down his entire plate in a matter of seconds.

"How does your body keep up with that much food?" I ask, stunned.

"How does your body keep up with that little food," he snears back at me while he scraps his plate.

"Touche, my friend," I say with a laugh.

"Oh," he looks at me surprised. 'I'm your friend?"

I laugh and nod my head.

He looks at me again with his green eyes. Damn you, Brook. The clock chimes and one by one all of the tables stand, clear off their trays in the trash and stream out of the room. The nurses follow our stampede. We walk in a line to the medications. I am towards the end of the line, with Brook in front of me. I wish they did this alphabetically but because I only have to deal with this once a day, I have no grounds to file a formal complaint. From the back, Brook looks much younger. He has a boyish frame and budding shoulders. He is one of those people who won't look like a man until he is 35. I feel bad because he will get carded until he is 50 but at the same time, he will look 21 until he is 50. Although my taste in men has always been nerdy skinny types, it melded a bit for Noah. However, now that I am looking at Brook, I feel it moving back. But I can't let it. I can't fall for someone new every time the person I fall for turns out to be shitty. Or I turn out to be shitty.

I watch as Brook takes a copious amount of pills. Each shining capsule bigger than the last. He looks grieved to be taking so many but then again, if he didn't he would need new gauze. I walk up to the nurse and she hands me my small dixie cup with one tiny tablet of benadryl. I swallow it and chug the water she passes to me. The water goes down my throat smoothly and pushes the pill further into my esophagus. I give the two cups back and walk to my room. The walk is slow and lonely. With Brook going to the men's side of the rooms, I have no one to talk to. They always tell you that mental facilities will help you get away from your distress but it had made it more intense for me. I am definitely not as depressed as I was a month ago but all this place has done is multiply my worries. Now I have weird thought at the back of my head to just drop Noah and Kane all together and go with Brook and I have the constant nagging of my diagnosis. I am not going to date Brook. I am not going to take medications. I am done with both of those ideas.

I push the door to my room open. Jamie is already in bed, most likely asleep. She has turned the light off. I clear my throat and flick the switch. She doesn't move a muscle. With one swift movement, I peel off my sweatshirt. Underneath is a simple tank top. Due to the 'no bra rule,' my breast hang free under the thin fabric. It feels relieving to not be constricted but then again, every other facet of my life is constricted. At least they let my body breathe. I fold the sweatshirt carefully. On the front is a vinyl sheen that spells out "Juilliard Conservatory." My eyes rest on it. I remember back to my sophomore year hopes and dreams. I sang in the chorus and performed the musicals. Either the other students hated me or loved me. There was no in between. Some wanted my voice or some wanted to hear my voice. It makes me laugh when I think back on it. I haven't sung since my grandmother died. I honestly think that might have been one of the things that drew my mother deeper into her depression. I will never stop blaming myself for her demise. No matter how hard I try, my mind always falls on my mother with slit wrists. I see all of these patients, ninety percent of them with gauze or scars, but me with none. It never crossed my mind to repeat what my mother did. Maybe it was because I had seen it and the trauma always pushed me away as a sister wouldn't do drugs after seeing her older sister overdose. It just never appealed to me. I know there must be something deeper but for the meantime, I will fold my sweatshirt, turn of my brain and sleep, the only thing that actually makes me feel worthy of life. I flip the light switch off and curl into my bed.