She lay crumpled in the middle of the floor. The boards stretched over the infinity of the floor until they led to the wall and the door set square in the middle of it. It was a good, solid old wooden door. Scarred with marks and chips of old paint. It had obviously been through almost as much shit as she had. She could hear everything. The sighing of the house settling into it’s place for the night, the birds and bugs outside rustling in the dark, his slow and steady breathing as he sat leaned up against the wall in the hall outside the door she was staring at. It had a lock on his side. He’d used it. He always put her in this room when he thought she was in “one of her moods.” She hated him almost as much as she wanted to crawl into his lap and curl up and never move again. It was a very strange, tearing sensation inside of her.

She’s had something to drink, that’s what had started it. When she was up late and tired and worn out and drained and drunk, she got very bad. She got ideas in her head that shouldn’t be there. When he didn’t catch her fast enough, sometimes she carried these ideas with her into action. A few scars showed off her own handiwork. And they were very pretty in her eyes. Kind of like a leaf design. Showing where she was dropping apart. It was art, really it was.

His breathing came from under the door. He wasn’t asleep, just sitting and watching the door. Waiting for a sound to come from inside so he could know how she was doing. If she’d calmed down or not. The cut from the pan she’s thrown at him stung, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t bear. He was going to sit and wait until she was done. She wanted to scream at him. Jolt him out of his little serene mindset and show him what it was like in her own little world, where the nagging voices always goaded on to do more and more and get worse and worse.

She eased up and crept over to the door. Crouched down. Like a lioness. Yes, she liked the idea of that. A sleek and deadly woman is what she was. Capable of dangerous things. Without warning, she threw herself at the door. Her body and fists slammed into the solid oak, and she heard and felt him jump. “What the fuck do you want?!” she screamed through to him. “Do you want to put me on pills and make everything better, you fuck?!”

“No,” his low and steady voice came through, “That didn’t work. Remember?” She chuckled at the memory of the white walls and quiet voices and detached faces studying her. “No, no it didn’t. It didn’t work at ALL!” She shrieked out the last word, forcing it to him like the fist she wanted to hurl at him. The pills, the little yellow octagon pills, had not worked. They’d turned her into an emotionless zombie, capable of thought and movement, but not feelings. She’d hated them, if she was capable of it, and had thrown them out.

Her breathing was fast and shallow. Panicked, almost. She slammed her fist into the door again, wishing it was him. This bastard that had put her inside this goddamn room. She hated this room, too. With it’s plain walls and mattress, it felt like a prison. That was what it was, really, her own personal cell. He called it her “quiet room.” It was anything but quiet when she was in it.

She pushed off from the door and staggered across the room to fall on the mattress. It lay underneath a small window, and she stared up at the night sky through it. “I hate you, you sick fuck. I HATE you!!!” His voice came from the walls. “I know you do.” She started to cry in frustration. He wasn’t supposed to accept that. He was supposed to be hurt and angry, like her. He wasn’t supposed to be ok with it.

She pulled herself up by the windowsill and felt the draft from the poor sealing job seep through. Her forehead was pressed up against the pane, and it felt cool and soothing, like a wet cloth. Her tears came from nowhere, but they were there all the same. She slapped her hand against the glass, trying to press through it and out into the real world. “I belong out there,” she thought, “not boxed up. I don’t understand this. Why do I do this to myself?” Her sobs came from under the door, and he moved closer. After the tears was usually when she wore out and came back from wherever she went in her head. She was ok after the crying. It cleansed her and wore her out.

She slapped at the pane again, feeble and weak. She was small and worthless. Couldn’t do anything but hurt herself or the people around her. “I want to go home!” she shouted out, “I want to go home!!” He moved until he was pressed against the door, tried talking to her. “I know you do. You can come home whenever you want to. You just need to stop doing bad things.”

“SHUT UP!!!” she screamed, “SHUT UP!!! I can’t hear anything when you talk! Shut the fuck up!!!” She punched at the glass and heard a crack. A tiny mark was in the corner now. She could see it through her tears. She punched again, screaming and gasping. She could hear him asking her from the hall, “What are you doing? What are you doing? What’s wrong?” She punched harder. Again! Again! Break the glass!!! A crash came, and little sparkles fell. Shards stuck into her hand and glittered on the sill. A spider had made a pattern on the window where her fist had been hitting it. It spread out to the frame, and then stopped. She could hear his voice getting louder, asking her, “What’s going on in there? Are you all right? What happened?”

“Fuck you!” She screamed at him at the top of her lungs, “FUCK YOU!!!” She drove her fist one more time, and it exploded through in a shower of glass and blood. Pieces stuck into her fist and arm and fell at her feet. She scrambled to widen the hole, and stepped on the shards hidden in the sheet, staining them and making bloody footprints and handprints on the wall where she struggled against it. She was screaming, and it hurt so bad. It hurt in her lungs and in her hand and on her feet. Where was all the red coming from? “FUCK!!!” She screamed, “FUCK!!!”

The door flew open and he ran to her, catching her as she tripped over the edge of the mattress. She grabbed and clung to him, sobbing and bleeding on him. He held her close, stroked her hair and back, talking to her. “Shhhhhhhh, it’s ok, don’t worry, I gotcha, it’s ok, it’s ok, you’re ok, you’re gonna be ok, it’s fine, shhhhhhh…” his murmur seeped into her brain and slowly her sobs slowed down. Her breathing steadied and leveled, and she relaxed in his arms, burning out into unconsciousness.

He picked her up and carried her out of the room, closing and locking the door behind them. Up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he laid her down and took out the glass, cleaned the wounds, dressed the gashes and scrapes, changed her into clean clothing. She stirred as he drew the sheet up over her. Looking up at him through confused, bleary eyes, she murmured, “I don’t hate you.” He tucked her in, nodding at her, “I know you don’t. It’s ok.” As she nestled into the covers she sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok, don’t worry. Just get some sleep.” He brushed her hair out of her face and turned to go. Her voice carried after him as he went down the stairs. “What’s wrong with me?” He shook his head as he collected the broom and pan and cleaned up the room, covering up the broken window and scrubbing away the blood. The same thought ran through his head as it always did. “I wish I knew. Then I could fix you.”