𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXV

           Janes pov
Mara Dyer once said, when everyone tells you you're crazy and no one believes you when you swear you aren't, a small part of you will always wonder if they're right.

I stare at the mirror above me, stare at my reflection. Stare at my body that's been stitched back once more, stare at the limbs strapped to the chair. I think it's the twenty-sixth of December. Or the twenty-seventh, the nurses all say different things. I don't know how many days I've been a ghost in my own body, prisoner to a mind that wasn't wired correctly, answering questions I don't remember, doing things I didn't want to do, giving consent I have no memory of giving. All that I know is that it's past Christmas night, and Henry isn't here. Ever since I've taken the antipsychotics, he hasn't been here. Here at Birch Psychiatric Ward, you weren't let out of your room unless you had to be rolled to a different one, or your doctor needs you. Dr. Martinez hasn't trusted me enough to let me walk yet. Good call on her mark, because I've killed her a million times over in my head. But still, she's there.

I don't remember when I stopped screaming, or if anything ever came out of my mouth at all. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, because no one in their right mind would listen. I was the one who needed medication, who was seeing things, who was diagnosed and medicated. I was the patient, my words didn't mean anything. All they had to do was to mention my schizophrenia to dismiss my rights.

I can't remember the last time I've eaten, or drank anything. I don't remember the last time I've said something, the last time I've taken a conscious breath. I don't remember much, really. My thoughts are unclear, and my memories blurry. The meds, maybe? Or the sedation? It didn't matter to me, not really. Because I was still clinging onto the memory of an imaginary boy—of Henry.

I try to think back to our adolescence, back to before I had started to lean on him–because there is something wrong with my memory of him. October ninth, 2014. Our first tournament of freshman year of high school, and the day we had met, seven minutes before our tournament. I remember it clearly, my OCD was hyper-fixating on my case file for the past week, and I had abided every compulsion up until one of my partners had dropped my case. Dropped it, spilling the contents of it. He had tried to fix it, tried to calm me down, but my anxiety along with the compulsions wasn't a good mix. I had told him off, told him to not bother trying to help, because not only had he not washed his hands after eating, but he wasn't putting them away the way I had. Everything was wrong, so wrong—I had a specific order, one that made perfect sense to me, but I doubted it'd make sense to anyone else.

I was in one of the homerooms only a few minutes before my tournament, trying to desperately pick up the cards with my shaking fingers, trying to organize, tried to calm myself, and in that moment I was so fixated on the task at hand, so in my head, in my worries of failing, of not living up to my potential,  that I hadn't realized anyone else had walked in. Hadn't realized it until I had seen big scarred hands delicately help me pick up every card piece by piece. I looked up and glared at the person, only to find that they were close to me–too close– and that they were already looking at me. I was mesmerized by his eyes, only for a second, before I had seen his school colors. Blue. I frowned, "You're a Yale boy."

He raised an eyebrow, looking over my red skirt. "And you're a Harvard girl."

I was about to tell him to get lost, but he had already started putting the cards away. I was about to stop him, about to yell at him too, but I realized the order he put them in—exactly the way I had planned. I watched him master my system, learn the way I organized them, then he turned back to me and watched as he tried to master me. "You're not supposed to be here." I reminded him, fixing the ends of my skirt. "It's against the rules."

"I know." He said, but didn't make a move to leave. Instead, he studied the cards again, studied the words I had written, studied the system, the case file, everything. He took the rest of the cards from my hand, and I had just stood there like an idiot, letting him. I had realized though, that as he cleaned up everything for me that my breathing had calmed, my thoughts were distracted from their demanding compulsions, and my fingers had stopped shaking. Though I tried to hide it, I think he saw my small gratitude. Three minutes later, the announcements had called out individual teams. Three minutes later, we had met again, except this time, as opponents. We had debated. We had gone overtime. By two hours. It was late night by the time the judges had drawn the verdict as a tie–the first time in national debate history in two decades. I wasn't satisfied with the results, but Henry had seemed happy, almost. As if finally gaining a challenge. Since then, we have been competitors, rivals. Always put against each other, because nothing would come of anyone else—none of them were on our level. He began to be the reason I worked harder, the reason for all my determination.