Exactly halfway through tenth grade, Katie Quinden blew up.

Oh, not literally, of course. That would have caused a greater uproar and--perhaps--a great deal more harm. When they finally dragged her out, she was screaming and crying nonsense; gibberish. The school psychologist called it word salad when she explained to the student body what had happened. Nothing to be alarmed about, no reason to be ashamed, it could not have been prevented--soothing words, calming words, that just might have been true.

Katie Quinden knew otherwise. They were against her, she explained, matter-of-fact. They had been plotting against her, recording her every move; they were angels in disguise, or demons, reporting her to God and Satan alike. She sat, quietly fidgeting, in the office of the school psychologist, who asked her questions. She thought them unnecessary but answered all the same.

Exactly halfway through the interview, Katie Quinden started laughing. The school psychologist frowned. She had been exactly halfway through a witty account of one or another childhood adventure, though in fact the psychologist had been after news of her schoolwork, when she began to snicker. “The key,” she said, “the key is inside, after all! They didn’t lie, they didn’t lie!” The evil little snicker turned into a full out laugh and Katie Quinden’s expression was exactly halfway normal.

The school psychologist pretended not to be puzzled, but she was. This bedraggled girl with the wild eyes and the bruises on her fists from pounding on the school walls had disrupted her routine. She was exactly halfway through her life, forty six years old, and she had been through the mill. Drug abuse, ‘child’ abuse, even though those in question were teenagers, peer abuse, self abuse; these were common and she knew them of old.

Katie Quinden leaned forward, expression determined and intent, then confided to the psychologist seriously that she had told all she knew. The school psychologist nodded, ushered the girl out of her room and into the nurse’s office, and typed up a report. It was surprisingly easy: textbook case, good ol’ college days, treatment highly encouraged.

She stapled the papers and handed them to the upset parents. In a few stark sentences, she explained the technical terms, laymen’s terms coming easily to her tongue. The school psychologist’s eyes were not focused on the man and woman opposite her; they were far away, just like Katie Quinden’s.

When they had gone away again, locked herself in her office for three hours and had a small panic the rest of her life, every so often she would wake up in a cold sweat from dreams filled with keys and eyes and small, battered hands. Then the school psychologist’s husband would throw a warm arm around her, and she would come back to this life, her life.

Exactly halfway through her college career, Katie Quinden committed suicide. She sat in the bathtub in her parents’ home, arms slit exactly halfway up, four times. A new bottle of aspirin was exactly halfway empty, and Katie, in a flesh-colored bra and faded jeans, was exactly halfway dressed. For the first time that anyone could remember, though, her smile was spread fully, muscles relaxed, and her eyes were closed.

Her mother was exactly halfway between relief and despair, and chose relief, because there had been too much despair already.

...I was inspired? Really, I have no excuse for this. It just kind of appeared. She’s schizophrenic, but I didn’t want to spell it out within the story itself. I have this (debatably morbid) fascination with mental illness.