20 Confessions of One Clinically Depressed

Confession 09: I know why he's here

They bring him in.

He's sleeping, covered by white blankets, but I already know who he is. They debriefed me when they realized that there was no place else to put him. All other rooms were full in the boy's wing.

Apparently, they trusted me not to rip his throat out, as I'm labeled under 'self-destructive', emphasis on self.

And now I get a lovely, fucking bastard as my roomie. Great. Now we can stay up late and swap suicide stories.

 Roberts stops at the foot of my bed, his brow wrinkled. "Katia, you remember when we told you were going to have a roommate for a night?"

I would cross my arms if that didn't hurt. Instead, I glare at him, flicking my gaze to the motionless figure some ten feet from me.

"Obviously," I all but snarl. "I wasn't admitted for a goddamn concussion or memory difficulties."

"Well, what did we say then?"

"I don't know," I drawl. " Why don't you tell me."

"Because that's not called communication and understanding." Roberts pauses, his eyes looking at the bandages which I've peeled at the edges. "What did we say?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Katia. . ."

"Don't Katia me."

"This is called communication. You confirm of what I said earlier about your new roommate. It's called being responding, alert, and willing to cooperate. Go on."

Right. Our new 'goal' for this week. After I had spoken that fateful day at the therapy session, we had progressed to sentences and short conversations. We didn't talk about. . . you know, but we danced around it like some fucking fireflies.

"That he's a psycho like me?"

"Katia. . . ."

I mock, "Roberts. . . ."

"We don't call people psycho. That's a derogatory name that we expressly banned because of negative connotations."

"Good for you. You know, maybe you should be a goddamn lawyer instead of a doctor. You can use all those fancy words there."

Dr. Roberts is still pressing, and it's pissing me off. "What's his name?"

"I'm not about to disclose that information, it's private," I say snidely. "Isn't confidentiality one of your mottos, right? Not to disclose information to a third-party. I don't give a shit who is. As long as he's gone in a couple days."

Roberts takes my snark in stride; he's no doubt used to dealing with it. "His name is Colton Kingsly–"

"Any relation to Shaklebolt?" I snap.

"No, he's Caucasian."

That causes me to snort, my lips tilting ever so slightly up. Who knew that the doctor was a Harry Potter fan? But then my smile disappears, slipping off my face as I realize that this conversation has no point in the universe. No smile. No laugh. Nothing is important. I shouldn't be experiencing these things right now, had the bottle not shattered upon slipping from my fingers. I shouldn't be here, hot, sweaty, and itchy with these goddamn blankets and bandages and my stomach still sore from when they pumped it.

"Anyway, he's here until one of the wards is released in a couple days, giving him the room. I wouldn't put him here, seeing how your dad. . . anyway, everywhere else is full, and even the Governor's daughter shouldn't get special treatment."

I hate that look, that look in his eyes like he believes I think I'm entitled to something because my dad is governor. I hate that.

"Like I asked for any."

"Good." He sounds decisive. "You two should be chummy. You two do have a lot in common." The lilt in his voice raises my suspicion, and I shoot my eyebrows up.

"Is this a set-up? Trying to play matchmaker with your patients, doctor? Isn't that against a code of conduct or whatever?"

Roberts sighs, his gray eyes drifting past me. He runs a hand through his dark hair and then plasters a smile on his face. "No. I'm not, Katia. Just be nice, all right?"

"Got it. I can fucking fake that, right?"

Roberts can't be more than thirty-five, but his face wanes and the wrinkles deepen as I watch.

"Okay. Well, I'm sorry for that, Katia. I don't want you to fake anything. Anyway, take care. Remember, you have group therapy tomorrow."

He leaves, and I stick my tongue out at his back. Childish, I know, but I fucking despise him right now and I couldn't care less. The door clicks shut behind him, and I hear the slight turning of the lock. Yep. They lock us mental patients in.

My eyes drift to the sleeping form far away. Our – excuse me – my room is set up so that my bed is in the corner by the windows, giving me a breathtaking view to the concrete parking lot below. His bed is in the opposite corner, shoved against the wall. There are two TV's, two dressers, and the walls are painted a light sea-blue. There's a bathroom, just near the door, and the floor is actually tile. Like this was meant for short-term residency. This room was originally supposed to be a double, but I think my father paid off the staff to make sure I got my own room.

Until now.

I eye his form; I can see his chest rise and fall, but other than that, I don't know what he looks like. For a moment, a spark of curiosity blossoms in my chest. What if he was hot? What if he was ugly? But then that curiosity drains away, leaving me emotionless.

It doesn't matter.

I turn back to the blank TV. I haven't turned it on since I got here three weeks ago. Instead, I've occupied my time laying on my back, glaring up on the ceiling. I've tried numerous times to escape. I even tried to snatch those plastic knives the first time they served me food. I don't get those any more.

Everything is glued in place; I've tried unscrewing the metal bars of my bed, but with no success. This bed is even glued to the ground. I'm suspecting that the TV won't let me unscrew it either. It's pretty much a bullet-proof, kill-proof room.

The windows definitely are bullet-proof, most likely missile-proof too. If a plane should fly into this building, it would fare better than the World Trade Center. All right, damn that was insensitive for me. But I do envy those that perished; it was easy for them. My shoulder still aches from hitting the window pane.

I eye the remote. I'm so bored right now.

But I'm not that desperate.

Instead, I lay back down, and think of all the knives being wasted in the world, and I have the unfortunate, damnable situation where there's not one within a hundred meters.