Samantha Brittain

December 11, 2006

Brenner, Fiction One

Final Rewrite

Kitty handed her therapist the letter, smiling, knowing she had to since the woman didn't know anything was wrong. Not yet. She handed the woman the letter, hoping against hope that she was wrong about the therapist would react. Once again, Kitty, still a kitten really, not yet a cat; was risking everything. Once again she was telling a painful truth that could mean terrible things for her. Kitty knew she had no choice now, she had to find someone to help her save her own life. Her session finished, she and her mother left the office.

The call came about a half an hour after they were home. The therapist was direct and to the point when Kitty answered. She asked the girl to pack a bag, because she would like Kitty to be checked into a hospital. Kitty knew what the delicately-worded phrase meant: You can either go quietly and have your mother bring you; or we will send Them to get you and you can be hauled off kicking and screaming. Your choice. She knew her therapist wasn't a cruel woman, but at that moment she couldn't help hating her.

The order shocked her, though she had known it was coming. She came close to dropping the phone before brusquely shoving it at her mother. And then the tears began to flow down her cheeks, and her entire body became wracked with sobs. Her mother stared at her, then went white as what the therapist was saying clicked into place.

She was off the phone quickly. She said little to Kitty, but they walked upstairs together and began throwing the things Kitty would need into a bag. Not knowing how long Kitty would be gone, they brought as much as they could. Actually, Kitty's mother did most of the packing. Kitty continued to sob.

On the car ride there, Kitty called every friend she could think of. She told them she loved them and where she was going. Some cried with her. When she got an answering machine, she would hang up. How did someone leave a message like that? "Hi, this is your friend Kitty. Just thought I ought to tell you they're locking me up. Who knows how long?"

She saved James until last. James, the one who had saved her life, had been there for every panic attack; every breakdown. James, the boy she loved. James, the one she knew was slowly slipping away from her. Yes, she saved him for last, telling him that she loved him and would "for always and always and always". Looking back on it now, she finds it odd that she can still remember the exact words she said, but can remember so little of the events. He responded that he loved her as well. He couldn't say much else.

Finally, there was no one left to call. They reached the hospital, a brown brick monstrosity in a rich neighborhood. They drove around the back and reached a small building, also of brown brick. So this was Linden Oaks at Edward Hospital. Funny, she didn't see any oaks. She was numb; her tears having finally stopped. They walked inside.

The building was freezing after the stifling summer heat. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. At least, it was dim compared to the fiery brightness outside. The room was possibly one of the strangest (and the ugliest) she had ever seen. The decorator had either been a simpleton or on Ecs, it was impossible to tell.

To the left, there was a sitting area and a huge fish tank with exotic fish. To the right, a reception desk. There were several doors leading off from the room; some open, some closed. Across from the entrance were the largest doors of all. They were closed. To their left, was an odd wall panel that glowed a color that was really a combination of all the other colors. Near it were ugly, brightly colored chairs. Ecs, then.

The nurse seemed sympathetic as they signed in, smiling the same carefully manufactured smile that she must use for every patient, especially the young ones. Kitty wondered if perhaps the youngest ones were the most frightening. She wondered if this woman feared her. Kitty was, after all, only fifteen. She also wondered how many young people the receptionist had seen go through that door and never come back.

Another friendly woman asked if Kitty wanted some juice. Kitty shook her head and backed away, putting her mother between herself and the woman. This was a ridiculous gesture, as Kitty was already almost taller than her mother. The woman smiled at her and said to let someone know if she changed her mind.

What happened next was a blur. Even four years later, there are gaps in Kitty's memory. All she knows is that a squat woman with a short brown perm unlocked the double doors. She led them to a room the size of a walk-in closet. Kitty couldn't help looking back behind her, watching the doors close and wondering when she'd be allowed to walk back through them.

If it was cold in the reception area, it was nothing to this. Here it was downright freezing. Kitty wondered if a thin sheen of frost covered her skin. She looked down at her woefully inadequate flowered skirt and tank top. Dimly, she thought they wouldn't have to kill her here. They just had to wait for her to get hypothermia.

The closet room held a tiny desk with a computer on it, and a small decorative plant. One half of the far wall was block glass; blurred so that you could only see distorted shapes wandering around the hall. This also meant that the people out there couldn't see you. This was a relief, as Kitty was sure she looked an absolute mess.

The woman, who Kitty disliked almost immediately, asked droning questions. Kitty gave what she hoped were the sanest answers, downplaying everything. She may have thought that this was the safest place for her when she'd handed over that damned letter, but she had changed her mind. They couldn't really do this to her. This happened to people on television. Not nice, honor student virgins from the suburbs near Chicago. Her utter terror at the thought of being locked up made her lie. She would go home, she would be fine. There would be no more talk of "treatment" and "emotionally unstable". She wouldn't let there be.

Bad Perm Woman trundled out of the room with the forms to "call this in to your psychiatrist" and get "his opinion". Kitty's mother called her father, if the man could be called that. Yes, he'd sired her. But he had lived in Michigan for years, only seeing Kitty on infrequent, emotionally scarring visits. Kitty thought of him as a mere acquaintance. A HATED acquaintance. He didn't answer the phone.

About five minutes later, he called back, demanding an explanation. He and her mother argued over the phone, then he asked to speak to Kitty. She flatly refused him. She didn't want to talk to him under the best of circumstances. He'd never been involved in anything that meant anything before; it would be worse than stupid for him to start now. Of course, this implied that he wanted to be included. He didn't.

Bad Perm Woman returned, and in a dull tone told Kitty what she must have told a hundreds of nervous psychos before: "Your doctor would like you to be admitted."

Kitty is unsure whether she screamed or not. She doesn't think she even cried. But there would be more time to cry later. Oh yes, there would be time.

It was late at night by the time they were seated in another room of the adolescent ward. The nurse interviewing saw to it that Kitty had some food, for she hadn't eaten since before she left home. That seemed years ago; or like something that had happened to a complete stranger. All Kitty remembers is that there was a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. Her comfort food should have reinforced her courage. It didn't. All it did was start a new wave of tears to pour down her cheeks, and her ragged breathing to escalate into sobs. Her mother patted her back, looking pained, as the nurse rifled through what Kitty had packed. She refused to let Kitty take her comb or her soap, and would not permit her to hold on to her beloved Converse All Star hightops. She also wouldn't let Kitty have her hoodies, despite the fact that it was freezing and the girl's arms were covered in gooseflesh. The professional explained that Kitty could use the string from the hoodie to choke herself. Kitty halted her crying momentarily to stare at the woman as if she'd grown a second head, then resumed crying with even greater force.

Kitty was shaking terribly and though her mind was in turmoil, her body was failing her. One cannot be continue the flight or fight response for hours on end without wearing oneself down considerably. Soon, Kitty subsided into silence. Her throat ached and she had no more energy to put into her tears. After assuring Kitty's mother that they would take good care of her daughter and that she'd get her sleeping pills, Kitty was separated from her mother. They clung to each other helplessly, but it was Kitty who let go. I have to let go of her, she thought lifelessly. I have to be strong for her. If I can stop my hysteria, she can. She's got to drive home, she needs to be strong. So Kitty managed a weak facsimile of her usual smile and hugged her mother goodbye, unable to keep from thinking that it might be the last time.

"I love you, Kit-Kat." Her mother said. "You're my little Kit-Kat. Always." And she handed Kitty her sweatshirt, the one she always wore. The one that would forever smell like her. The young lunatic clutched it to her chest, not knowing what else to do. She left with the nurse, but couldn't take her eyes off her mother leaving her here with these people.

A woman took Kitty into her room and made her take off all of her clothing except her underwear and bra, like in a prison movie. Kitty hated her to hell at that moment; despised the further destruction of her freedom. Her eyes pleaded with the stranger, You've taken my security, my family and friends, my pride, and my freedom. All I have left is my dignity. Please don't take that away. Please. But the woman did. She insisted that the girl turn around and around, carefully scrutinizing her to make sure she had no drugs, razorblades, or other contraband hidden on her person. Satisfied, she thrust Kitty's clothing back at her, allowing her to dress. Kitty turned a teal-colored glare at her, the one that had frightened people since she was a young child, the one that kept the lions off this particular wounded animal. The woman was immune.

From there, a male nurse gave Kitty her toiletries, pulling them out of a supply closet. A toothbrush and toothpaste, a cheap comb Kitty knew she would not be able to force through her tangles, soap, and shampoo. There was no conditioner. Kitty could not have cared less as she was lead to a table in the common room to have her blood drawn.

Having blood taken had always terrified the kitten. She had not had any taken since she had become a cutter, but she knew she'd despise it, no matter how used to the sight of her own blood she was. But this time she stared meekly at the needle in her arm, unable to work up the energy to be truly frightened by the red life filling the syringe. The nurse said little to her other than a warning not to fall asleep, which it appeared very likely that Kitty would do.

From there, she was taken back to her room. She looked around her, knowing she was really on her own. The room was ugly, weird plaid drapes and two hard, narrow beds. There were two small bureaus that doubled as desks with built-in stools in front of them. Everything in the room was connected to the floor; it was impossible to lift any one piece of furniture. The bathroom had a shower that had but a slight rim around it. Dimly Kitty was aware that this was so that a desperate patient could not drown themselves, but she refused to truly let the grim realization sink in. The sink was plain, as was the toilet. Kitty made a point of brushing her teeth as she did every night, trying to keep something normal in all of this insanity.

In a mental hospital, there are terrible things called "checks". Every fifteen minutes, one presumes this goes on even while they sleep, someone will poke their head into the room and look at you. There is nothing in those rooms that you can really hurt yourself with, yet they want to be sure. Kitty remembered her mother telling her that once in that fifteen minutes in the hospital where she worked, a man had hung himself from the ceiling using his sheet. He was dead when they checked again. Kitty made a note of that, in case they refused to let her out of here and she had to resort to that, but knew it was no use. Even standing on the bed, the dresser, or the stool, she was not tall enough to reach the ceiling. She checked.

She changed into her pajamas and then lost all energy. Her legs gave out and she sat down heavily in the middle of the (dirty, she noticed) floor. She cried without real passion this time, unable to get enough air for a sob. She cried quietly, not wanting her tears to disturb anyone. When the man came into to look at her badly shaken body, she put on a mask of quiet serenity and told him she was "just fine, thank you".

Several times she went to the nurses' station to ask about the promised sleeping pill. It was around midnight before she got it. She lay on the pathetic excuse for a bed and read for a time before sinking into fitful sleep.

Morning came too early, with an annoyingly cheerful nurse coming it to awaken her by opening the curtains and dragging the blankets off her. She took more blood (apparently that was standard procedure) and dragged her young charge into the common room without giving her chance to change out of her pajamas. Over her t-shirt and green and blue flannel pants, she worse a clashing, bright red sweatshirt. The one her mother had pressed into her hands the night before.

Kitty has no memory of what breakfast was, but she met the other patients for the first time. Danielle was small and thin, with long, wavy brunette hair. She was a sprightly, cheerful little creature, despite her numerous addictions (which her biological mother had forced her to begin). Marco was a young, soft-spoken Hispanic boy, with a kind face. And Christina was your usual definition of crazy. She was frighteningly pale and thin; it had been days since she'd consumed a single bite of food; they were going to start her on a feeding tube that evening if they couldn't make her eat. She was anorexic and depressed, and her eyes held a tinge of frightened madness, like a cornered rabbit. She was too weak to stand on her own by this time, and came to the table in a wheelchair. She smiled and introduced herself, ever friendly, but one could tell she was lost. It was apparent to anyone that looked at her that the shaky blonde was dying. She was indirectly killing herself, and could not force herself to stop. Kitty liked her, but could not help being afraid of her desperate eyes. Help me, the eyes seemed to be saying. I've fallen so far down and I can't get back up. Kitty, trapped herself, could do nothing; but the ice blue eyes tore at her anyway. Kitty wondered if Christina were going to live or not. She looked like a whisper; like a wraith. She'd never seen someone who looked as sick as this young woman.

Kitty got her first accurate look at the common room and the hallway where patients had their room in the early morning sun. It was ugly, decorated in bright colors; oranges, blues, reds, yellows, greens, purples. The décor must have been an attempt to be cutesy, as the children's ward was down the hall; but its overall effect was sickening. It was decorated with large, bright colored wooden puzzle pieces, and had yellow walls. The television cabinet was the orange of an Elmer's glue cap, or plastic seats in an intercity bus terminal. The (extremely uncomfortable) chairs and couch in front of the set were made to resemble real furniture, but were made of an odd, dark blue plastic. For some reason, this greatly angered Kitty. It was as though she wasn't even in the same world as the sane; she had slipped into a sort of parallel universe where there was no out-of-doors, no black or white, and no real furniture.

Life in the ward was a dime-store, second-hand version of reality. And though it wasn't as pleasing as the real thing, it was every bit as terrible.

There were two or three square tables with four cheap plastic lawn chairs around each. Kitty was informed by an irritating ward attendant that this was where they were to eat their meals and spend most of their time. Those who had been there longer and "behaved themselves" were allowed to go down to the cafeteria with a group and chaperone, but Kitty would not be allowed to leave the ward for at least twenty-four hours. She wondered if she'd ever be allowed to leave again, and a shiver went down her spine. Of course, she had already been shivering, the ward was freezing. She was amazed there was no ice on the floor.

Next, they tested Kitty for drugs. What they thought she might be taking, she had no idea. She thought it should be apparent that the last thing someone as depressed as she was needed was an intense addiction to feed. But she kept her opinion to herself.

Breakfast was followed by a group counseling session, which bored Kitty to tears. The patients of the Acute Care Adolescent Ward were not there because they knew how to talk to their peers, Kitty included.

"Why don't we introduce ourselves and say why we're here?" the young male counselor asked enthusiastically. The young crazies around him stared at him as though he were the one in need of counseling. No one wanted to become familiar; they wanted to hide from those around them. No one wants to feel like they're in an AA meeting. What Kitty wanted; what all of them wanted, was a little normalcy in this sea of things alien. That was something none of them was going to get.

Kitty could not help noticing that Christina was not here. She had been wheeled off to the real hospital to be treated. She wondered idly if the young woman had had a feeding tube forced down her throat, and was sharply aware of her own throat. What would it feel like to have a tube forced inside you?

Danielle finally spoke up. "I'm here because of drugs," she said, smiling despite the grim proclamation. "My real mom was an addict. She wanted someone to do drugs with, so she started me on them. She was injecting heroin into me when I was still a really little kid. And from there I just started using. I don't think there's anything I haven't tried. I've been here before." She looked around at us, the voice of experience, and though she was younger than the other two children, she seemed the most adult then.

"And why are you here this time?" the slender counselor asked gently.

"I was high. Somebody called the cops because I was standing on the train tracks, saying I was going to get hit by a train. They said I wanted to die. The cops brought me here. I don't really remember any of it." She said in her sweet voice. The counselor nodded.

"Thank you for sharing with us, Danielle." Said the man. He beamed at her, obviously trying to lighten the mood and just as obviously failing. "Marco, why don't you tell us why you're here?" he prompted, moving his pen along his clipboard and then looking up expectantly at the boy.

"I've been really depressed for quite a while now," Marco said softly. "I don't really know why I'm here other than that." The man accepted this response, though he made note of it on his clipboard.

"And what about you," he paused to look at his papers for a name to go with the pale face, "Kitty? Why are you here?" He looked up at her and smiled slightly.

Kitty wished they'd stop calling her by her first name, as if they knew her. "Actually, I'm here because….my therapist made me come. I'm suicidal." The girl said, acknowledging what no one had said up to this point. The other occupants of the room looked at her: Marco calmly with a bit of pity, Danielle as though she'd just made a new friend, and the counselor looked calculatory.

"I see. Why don't we tell each other a little about ourselves?" the counselor suggested, getting back into stride. They were not audible, but Kitty could have sworn she heard groans all the same. The counselor either didn't take note of the rather pained expressions on his charges' faces, or did not care. "Danielle, why don't you start?"

"I live with a foster mom." She responded. "She's the nicest I've ever had; I really like her. I think she might adopt me, and I'd like that. But I can't stop doing drugs. I want to, but I need them. If I go without, I feel sick. Can I get some Nicorette gum, by the way? I'm really wishing I had my cigarettes."

The counselor nodded and said something to the effect of, "I'll see what I can do." He then turned to Marco again. "And you?"

"I live with my aunt and uncle," said the quiet, dark-haired youth. "They're good people, I like them. They've never been anything but nice to me. I really worried them by coming here."

"But you needed to come," said the therapist. "This was something you needed. And they want what's best for you. Now, Kitty again?" he asked.

"I live with my mom, my step-dad, and my step-sister." Kitty responded without even pausing to think. "My mom's nice enough, but she's got problems of her own, and I don't like my step-dad at all. My step-sister is a sweet little girl. I take care of her a lot."

The session went on, full of mundane questions that never seemed to get to the heart of each patient's issue. They went through another equally dull session before break. Then Danielle was taken off to see either her psychiatrist or personal therapist, Kitty wasn't sure which. She and Marco sat in the common room at the tables they had eaten breakfast at, each quietly drawing.

Kitty noticed Marco's talent at sketching. He made graffiti-style pictures, but they were done with a careful precision. Kitty thought they were excellent, and had long considered graffiti to be an art form; one that needed more recognition.

"Hey." She said quietly, and Marco looked up from his careful, precise work. "You're really good at that." He smiled at her.

"Thanks," he said, looking at her pictures. "You're not so bad yourself." She nodded her thanks. Talking about art was comforting in this unfamiliar setting. It was relaxing and so normal that it cancelled out the hesitation and reserve that normally came with talking to strangers. She thought again how life in the mental hospital was different from life in the real world. I know this boy's deepest secrets, but I don't know anything of his normal, day-to-day life. It's like having the last part first. Everything is reversed; a mirror image of what it should be. Small talk should come first, then after becoming close, you share the big things. You don't tell those on the first day!

"Do you do that illegally? On walls and things?" Kitty asked aloud, shaking herself from her thoughts.

Marco shook his head. "No. My aunt and uncle let me use rolls of paper to make them. And I've won a contest for it. They give you a wall you're allowed to decorate anyway you want, and then you create your own design and put it up there with spray paint."

"That's wonderful!" Kitty said excitedly. "I didn't know they had anything like that." The conversation continued. The young patients discussed everything they could think of, each happy to forget their situation and their surroundings to talk about things that mattered to them.

Just before lunch, Marco removed a picture of a very pretty Hispanic girl from his pocket. "This is my girlfriend." He said in his polite, gentle way. "I miss her."

"I can tell. I'm sure she misses you, too." Kitty said, sympathetically.

"We're going to get married when we get out of high school. I asked her, and she said yes. Her parents agreed, and so did my aunt and uncle."

"That's really special, Marco." The young woman said quietly. "I'm really happy for you. And I know you're going to be ok, because you have her waiting for you." She smiled her encouragement. Marco smiled back.

It was that day that Christina's stepfather died. That night, Christina looked dreadful, haggard and hunched over, refusing to turn her ice blue stare on anyone. She would not look up from the table top, as though it was the most fascinating piece of art work she had ever seen. She had retreated behind sandbags, barbed wire, and trenches, and there was no reaching her. Kitty smiled at her, but could not be sure if it even registered to Christina. The girl didn't even blink in response. Marco looked at her with concern, but there was nothing anyone could do for the distraught young crazy with the pale skin and, one assumed, visible ribs.

Christina finally stirred from her stupor, and wobblingly, stood up for what seemed to be the first time in days. She then picked up a chair. Marco, Danielle, and Kitty looked on in interest. There was no fear in any of them; even if she had chosen to throw the chair at one of them and they didn't manage to dodge, it wouldn't have hurt much. They were thin plastic lawn chairs; they could not have weighed more than two pounds. The nurse at the nurses' station, who Kitty recalls was a blonde named Katie, thought otherwise. She hurried out from behind the desk.

"Christina, I'm going to have to ask you to put that chair down." She spoke calmly, her voice betraying no emotion of any kind. Kitty wondered if she had seen this before with some other overwrought patient. Was it a common place occurrence, picking up chairs and holding them?

"No." Christina replied in a hoarse voice, leaving no room for argument. She held the chair, shaking slightly, and Kitty wondered dimly if she was going to have to reach out and catch Christina. The girl looked as though she might fall. The days without food had taken their toll. Kitty made to step toward the taller blonde, but Katie locked eyes with her and shook her head, knowing exactly what the girl had been about to do. Kitty fell back.

"Christina, you need to put the chair down. I know it's hard, but you need to relax. You're recovering, you need to sit down. And I cannot let you be a danger to the other patients." Christina just shook her head no and held on to the chair as though it was her last lifeline. Perhaps it was.

Katie motioned for Marco, Danielle, and Kitty to step away from Christina, and they obeyed, still wondering if the nurse was serious. How much damage could be done with a flimsy lawn chair? Apparently some. The nurse stepped back behind the nurses' station desk and picked up a phone, speaking to the person on the other end in hushed tones. Within minutes, three bulky orderlies came into the ward and surrounded Christina. Danielle flinched, but Christina seemed to be lost in her own head and barely noticed the men. Or so Kitty thought.

Within the next ten seconds, tears began to stream down Christina's face and she screamed in a combination of rage and misery. The orderlies took this opportunity to snatch the chair away from the young woman. She began kicking and screaming, and fell to the floor, wailing as though something inside her was breaking. Katie, the nurse, quickly approached the three calmer patients, who were staring in awe at the girl writhing on the floor. Kitty could not take her eyes off Christina's hysterical face as the girl seemed to cave in on herself.

Years later, Kitty finds is difficult to remember how it happened, but soon the orderlies were on top of Christina. Her scream changed to one of "Get off of me!" which even now Kitty swears she hears sometimes in her sleep. She recalls exactly how it sounded, hoarse and pleading, the lunatic's voice going up an octave on "me". It was now impossible to see Christina under the orderlies, and Kitty wondered dimly if someone as weak as Christina would be able to handle that many people on her. She looked so sickly, as though one could see the ghost she would become gliding behind her like an obscene shadow.

Katie shoo-ed them like a mother hen, leading them into the hallway outside the locked door of the ward, away from Christina. They had been so close to her, a yard away at most, and now that they were leaving her, the prone wraith on the floor seemed to wail louder, though she couldn't have seen or even heard them leave over her own screams. In the hallway, Marco fell against the wall and slid down it into a sitting position. Kitty looked with concern at Danielle, who seemed to be paler than normal.

In the time since Kitty had gotten to the hospital, she had become a mother figure to Danielle. She was in terrible shape, but she was always looking to the other girl's safety, trying to shield her in whatever way possible. Danielle seemed to feel safer with Kitty in the room. She told her everything, about the past she couldn't escape and the present that was slowly killing her. Kitty had listened, and if she had been allowed to perform the motherly gesture of ruffling the younger girl's hair, she would have. But in the ward, there was a strict No Contact rule. They were not allowed to touch another patient in any way, which was a dreadful mistake, because for Kitty and Danielle at least, physical contact was not only normal, but a comfort. It felt strange not to be able to hug someone when they were crying.

"Are you alright?" Kitty asked softly, wanting more than anything to put a steadying hand on Danielle's shoulder. Danielle smiled weakly and nodded.

"I've never seen anything like this," Danielle muttered softly. "It wasn't like this before." Kitty nodded, unsure of what to say or do.

Katie, meanwhile, continued to look through the glass windows around the doors of the ward, trying to see what was happening within. She seemed oblivious to her young charges, who would have enjoyed not being watched like hawks had it not been for the circumstances. Danielle sat down, also leaning against the wall, and Kitty sat down in the middle of the floor, crossing her long legs under her and fixing her hair, putting it back into its clip. She wanted it out of her face. Katie looked at them and sighed.

"They need help in there. There's no one to watch you three; you're going to have to sit in there. Just stay as far from Christina as possible." Kitty swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. The three patients stood up, ready to face the screaming once again, and Katie led them back into the Adolescent Wing.

Once there, the two young women and the young male took seats against the far wall of the common room, near the television. No one paid them any mind, they were too busy helping the one most obviously in pain. Christina let out a shriek and Danielle flinched. Checking that no one was watching, Kitty took the girl's cold hand, knowing hers was no warmer. Danielle smiled her thanks.

Inside, Kitty's mind was screaming. This isn't happening, she thought desperately. I'm dreaming this. Dreaming it! I can't stand this, this isn't tolerable. I can't hold out much longer before it's me screaming. She was beginning to feel the panic rising insider her, her heart thumping hard against her rib cage. Breathe normally, she thought. There's a girl, just like that. She realized she'd thought something her grandmother used to say to her and flinched. Her grandmother didn't even know anything was wrong yet, had no idea where Kitty was or what she was feeling.

The cold that had surrounded Kitty's outsides had seeped inside her, leeching her strength and her sanity. She was shaking even worse that usual, her hands moving of their own accord. She wondered if Danielle noticed. She let go of the girl's hand and clenched her fists behind her back, digging her nails into her palms. Stay with me, Kitty, she said to herself. You're not a basket case, don't start acting like it. But even as she thought it, Kitty knew she was. Why else would she be here? She was as crazy as the girl across the room who lay screaming her throat raw.

Christina was weakening. The screams had stopped and were replaced by half hearted sobs. It had been two hours, and since the time had passed, they were now legally able to sedate her by injection, which they did. The orderlies lifted her to her feet and pulled her into the room behind her. Kitty stared, horrified.

The room was the room that every mental ward has to have, the ones you hear about on television. That closet-sized space with padded walls. Kitty had explored it yesterday, touching the padding, expecting it to be soft. It wasn't, it was hard and resilient; but it was softer than the actual wall. The room was supposed to be sound-proof, but it was not. They could still her Christina crying and begging them to let her out as they locked her in, watching her through the window. It was reinforced with iron mesh, so the glass was more difficult to break. Kitty wondered if that would do even more damage to a person who broke the glass.

It could not have been a worse time for visitors, but Visitation Hour had arrived and they were here. Luckily, none of Christina's relatives had come. Kitty's mother had, arriving looking almost as ill as Kitty. One of the nurses led them to a small room with two chairs where they could talk and shut the door. Kitty stared at her mother, and her mother stared back. Neither was sure what to say.

"You don't look so good, Mom." Kitty said softly. "Are you alright?" Her mother shook her head no.

"You're in a hospital, how do you think I feel?" Kitty thought this was rather ridiculous, wasn't she suffering more than her mother? How many friends had her mother watched sedated that evening?

Kitty's mother started to cry, silently, unable to get enough air to sob. This was the last step in the process, this is what drove Kitty over the edge. If her mother hadn't started crying, Kitty might have been able to gather the last of her reserves and stay strong and stoic as she always had on the outside. But she had made her mother cry, was making her suffer, and like someone punching a glass window, Kitty's composure shattered into a million sharp fragments, cutting her from within. She started to sob, tears running down her face like a flood, shaking uncontrollably. She screamed, too, though it's been so long that she now no longer remembers all that she said, but she does remember one sentence.

"You've locked me in hell!" Kitty screamed and her mother stared at her, cheeks still wet but startled out of crying. The nurse chose that moment to open the door, looking anxiously at Kitty. Kitty continued to scream as though it was the last opportunity she would ever have to do so. She stumbled out of the room past the nurse and collapsed on the floor. When the nurse reached out a hand to touch her, Kitty shied away, unable to tolerate the physical contact with someone she couldn't help hating. She threw herself backward, scuttling on her hands until she felt the cold wall against her back. No one could sneak up behind her.

I can't stop this, Kitty thought desperately. I can't stop screaming; can't stop crying. My mom is seeing all of this and there's nothing I can do. I am physically unable to stop.

In the middle of all of this, Kitty's best friend Alix phoned the ward, asking to speak to her. The orderly at the desk informed Alix that Kitty "couldn't come to the phone at the moment" and could she "please try back later". Kitty was only dimly aware of this, her mania made her surrounding seem out of focus and distorted, as though she was looking at them through a fish bowl full of water.

The nurse bustled away and came back with a small paper cup full of water and two pills. Kitty stared at her.

"You need to take these for me," the woman said, "just swallow them like a good girl, they're going to help you."

"Do I look like a want to be a fucking good girl?" Kitty yelled at her. The woman did not even bat an eyelash, just handed the pale, shaking teenager the water and the pills. In the manner of Hatshepsut swallowing the poison forced on her by Thutmose, she swallowed them. "Now tell me what I just took," she growled.

The nurse replied that one of the pills had been an Ambian. That pill was familiar to Kitty, she had taken them before when she desperately needed sleep. They turned her into a member of the living dead. The next pill, the nurse said, was called Ativan. When Kitty glared at her and questioned what it did, she did not mince words or brush it off as some might have done.

"Ativan will give you the symptoms of a schizophrenic until it wears off." She said quietly.

"Why the fuck would you want to make me insane for a few hours?" Kitty asked. Her mother knelt beside her and patted her shoulder.

"We want you calm. If you're hallucinating, you will be." The nurse replied. Kitty just looked at her, thinking to herself, These people are stupider than I am. The nurse and Kitty's mother, who was also a nurse, helped Kitty to her feet and lead her to a table. Marco and Danielle had been hurried off to their respective rooms, so Kitty was the only patient in the common room. "We're going to give you a packet to work on." The nurse said in a friendly voice. "Then you can get some rest."

It wasn't too long until Kitty could no longer read the lines of the packet. Purple tigers with the faces of humans paraded down the hallway, and she laughed exhaustedly. She could barely keep her eyes open. Look at that, she thought. All those people moving between those pretty red and blue lights. It barely registered when the nurse told her it was time to go to bed. She tried to stand and sat back down immediately. She didn't have the strength or the coordination to walk to her room. Her mother and the nurse had to help her, bracing her on either side as she stumbled down the hallway like a drunk.

Kitty insisted on a shower. Seeing how insistent she was, the nurse agreed. She broke the law still further by allowing Kitty's mother to enter her room and stay with her while she showered. Kitty's mother sat on the floor while her daughter showered and asked her every question she could think of. When Kitty didn't answer, dozing off against the wall, her mother would reach in and slap her as hard as possible, which would jar her awake.

Once Kitty had managed to dry off and dress herself, the nurse and her mother half dragged, half carried Kitty to the bed and allowed her to lay down, pulling the blankets up over her. Her mother stroked her wet hair, singing to her softly. Those damn tigers kept marching by. It was now time for her to rest.

Three years later, Kitty's psychiatrist sits across from her in his office, looking concerned. She levels her icy stare on him and does not blink.

"I think we're going to need to have you admitted to the hospital, Kitty." He says softly. The nineteen year old doesn't flinch.

"Fine," she said quietly. "Do it."