An Odd Kind Of Wonderful

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE
2 DAYS BEFORE THE NIGHT
(SEVEN DAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT)
"There's nothing to gain / A life goes down the drain / I don't want to die at an early age." (The Ramones)

I cross my legs over one another, and then again, picking at my fingernails in my lap. I watch as Doctor Joseph writes something on his little notepad. I read it upside down: Nathan is nervous at the idea of being discharged. "No, I'm not," I say despite myself. Doctor Joseph folds the cover of his notepad over itself and tucks it away in his shirt pocket.

"Nathan," says Doctor Joseph. He originally asked me to call him (just) Joseph, to establish some form of trust or friendship or something that makes him easier to talk to, but he's not my friend. Why would a friend keep me here in a place like this? "I need you to co-operate with me if I'm going to sign you off this afternoon."

"I am co-operating," I argue, and force my hands apart, shoving them in my jumper pockets instead. "I'm answering you, aren't I?"

Doctor Joseph smiles weakly and says, "How would you describe your recovery at six south?"

I mimic his weak smile. I now realise why it was weak. My recovery at six south? He treats the subject like I am staying in a resort on Fraser Island or somewhere like that, and he's asking how my stay was. Yes, I particularly enjoyed the vanilla slice. Room service was amazing, although my maid forgot to clean the toilet. Four out of five stars. I run a hand through my hair. "I've recovered," I end up saying.

"How so?"

"Well," I say, "I'm not dead."

Doctor Joseph chuckles. "And I applaud you on that progress. What I mean is—"

"I know what you mean," I wave his comment away, "You mean, 'how am I feeling better', in specific." He nods. "Aside from the fact that I'm not dead, I'm also..." I'm scrambling for the right word, flicking through a dictionary in my mind. Which word could both grab my doctor's attention but make me seem well enough to be let out the doors of this psychiatric hospital, hopefully never to return? What word would make me seem better?

"You're also what?"

I've got it. "Alive."

Doctor Joseph fetches his notepad and writes down that one word. "Is that true?" He asks. I'm almost offended he didn't believe me, but I calm myself with the knowledge that it's probably protocol. I'm good with protocols—now, I know what to say to set them off, and what not to say, in particular.

"Yes." I nod, for extra measure. I blink twice and breathe deep. That's what alive people do, isn't it?

The psychiatrist in front of me rises from his chair and offers a hand for me, but I deflect it. I'm not paralysed, I can get out of a chair on my own. Doctor Joseph tells me I've done very well, almost unprecendentedly so. I should hope that I have—I shouldn't have been admitted to the hospital in the first place. But since a week ago, I've made home in my room I share with an obsessive-compulsive boy named Josh—even though my socks have been re-arranged thanks to him about twenty times a day. I found comfort in a structure. I woke up, I had breakfast, I went to a group/individual therapy session, etc. Now that I'm thinking about it, I start to pick at my fingernails again. I'm scared to go home, to my mother and father and two little brothers. What will they think of all this? I've only spoken to them twice since the incident.

"Of course, you'll have to be physically examined," says Doctor Joseph. "But as far as I'm concerned, I wish you luck in the big bad world."