Becoming Anne Again

Chapter Eighty Two

A/N Hello again loves! I know it's been a hot minute, but at least it hasn't been another year. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and know I love you all! Quick reminder that you can always drop a prayer request in my inbox or in a comment. You are always in my prayers!

There was only one way to describe life in a psychiatric wing—completely and utterly boring. There was no manic screaming or crazed people running through the halls at 2 AM. She didn't even have a roommate, nor could she be entirely bothered to make any friends in the wing. All there was was group therapy and an activity room that had a single deck of cards, and a TV that seemed to be permanently tuned to cooking shows. Everyone was wearing the same scrubs—no one was allowed shoes, or any other pieces of clothing with strings.

Afternoon on the second day found Anne in art therapy. She had been given a piece of paper and watercolors, and was told not to "think too much about what you're painting." So absent-mindedly, she dipped her brushed into the black well pot and began making swirls on the papers.

"What are you making?"

Anne turned to face the girl next to her. She was a short blonde girl, a college student, she had said in talk therapy. She looked so earnestly at Anne, her lips spread into a genuine smile. "Um, I'm...I don't know." Anne shrugged her shoulders. "Just designs I guess."

"I'm painting a bird," the girl said, shyly holding up her own paper. It was by no means a masterpiece, but Anne could make out a beak, eyes, blue feathers, an orange underbelly, and legs.

Anne smiled obligingly. "I like it."

"Thanks." She ducked her head down, before peeking up at Anne again. "So what are you in for?"

"Suicide attempt." Anne dipped her brush so it was drenched in black, and painted thick strokes across the page so that several of her swirls were completely covered.

For a moment, Anne was certain that the conversation had ended, but then the girl said, in a voice surer than she had been previously, "I tried to kill my brother."

The brush dropped out of Anne's hand, and the paint splattered across the page. "What?"

"Yeah. I mean, I didn't mean to, or like, I wasn't trying to murder him. It's just started hearing stuff, and I just became convinced that angels were telling me to do stuff." She paused, her hands paused mid stroke. "I didn't actually try to kill him, I just like—had the urge to, you know? I didn't do anything."

"Oh." Anne's hand shook as she picked her brush back. Her page was irrevocably covered in black, and she rested it on the table in front of them. "So did you just check yourself in?"

"Yep. I didn't tell them about wanting to kill my brother though. Just said I was hearing stuff and it scared me. I didn't want to end up someplace super serious, you know? Figured I just needed meds." The girl dipped her own brush into brown, and began painting a branch underneath her bird. "I got a shot of Zyprexa. I'll go home in a few days after they've monitored me enough."

"And you're going home? To your..."

"To my brother?" The girl looked up at her sharply. "I told you, I don't actually want to kill him."

"I know," Anne said quietly. "Are you scared?"

The girl's face softened, but she quickly dipped her brush into green and focused on her page. She painted green leaves onto the branches. "I guess. I mean, yeah, but what can you do?"