I wake up.
"She's awake. Mark, she's awake."
I hear muffled crying. I close my eyes, and somewhere stings dully.
Then it all comes alive.
My wrists. My chest. My stomach. Sharp licks of fire all over me.
Then I realize that I'm still alive and I start to sob so hard that my mother comes near me, hands fluttering around, looking for what hurts.
I wonder: Where do you put your hands on someone who hurts all over?
* * *
I remember the Before. When I wasn't in the hospital.
There was David, my boyfriend. There was Isabelle, my bestfriend.
In the After, there was...
There was me. The doctors. My mom's sadness. My dad's sadness. My therapist, Mrs. Huy.
My healing scars.
And then, there was him.
In the darkness, I found light.
* * *
"Sarah. What do you see when you look at the scars now?"
I stare at Mrs. Huy, weighing my answer. I hate group sessions.
"I don't know," I say. Someone snorts. Someone coughs. Mostly just silence.
Mrs. Huy sighs. "Alright, Sarah. Anyone else have something to share?"
"Yes," says Mary who always has something to share. "I had a dream last night that..." I stop listening fully.
Then, I hear a man's voice from around the corner, saying, "My son is just a very troubled young man. We were hoping that bringing him here would help him. I need to know that this will help him."
Then, a woman's voice,"We just want our son to be happy." I can't help but think that she sounds very fake. "Come on, Connie, will you please just talk to us? We're trying to help you, sweetie."
Connie. Weird name for a guy.
I hear no one reply, so I assume he's not going to talk to them.
"He'll settle in fine," I hear. They sound authoritative, which probably means it's one of the doctors.
"We love you," the woman says. She still sounds fake.
He doesn't reply to her. Their voices fade out and I assume they must've walked further down the hallway.
I tune back into the conversation. "...Alright, Mary, thank you for sharing with us."
The group session disperses, and we're left to either return to our rooms or go to the recreational center - where there's a crappy TV and stupid board games.
I choose my room. I walk inside, close the door. I stare at my scars, and think, what do you see when you look at your scars?
I see failure.
* * *
My boyfriend had stayed, when I was committed into the hospital. He had.
He visited me when he didn't have football practice after school. He would sit next to me on the plaid couch in the visiting area, and tell me about school and his friends and I would try to smile and listen.
And every few seconds, his eyes would drift down, to my wrists. I would pull down my sleeves over them, and I would say, "I think visiting hours are up," even though we both knew they weren't.
So yeah, he stayed for a while. Eventually, he just stopped showing up. I didn't blame him. I really didn't.
***
I wake up when it's still dark in my room. I don't have a new roommate yet because my last one was discharged.
Someone is here. I know it immediately, because I can hear breathing that's not mine. I stay very quiet, scared. I know logically no one would really break into a rehab, but I'm still scared.
People here on the inside aren't always, you know, friendly.
I pull my covers farther over my head and try to hold my breath. I wait for them to take whatever they want.
And then someone's ripping my blanket off. I gasp.
I'm about to scream.
Then a hand wraps around my throat, not tight enough to really do damage, but the warning is there.
"Shut the hell up," says a male voice. "Just keep quiet." His voice is really soft, but I'm still really scared. Oh God, I think, oh my God, I'm going to die.
"What do you want?" I say.
The hand tightens. He pushes me further into the bed, and puts a finger over his lips. The message is clear: Don't speak.
He let's me go, and I stay where I am. He's tall and really built, and his hair is cut short.
He bends down to retrieve the stuff he'd dropped in his hurry to quiet me.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I can't help but blurt out and he turns toward me, furious.
"Do you know what shut up means?" he says, "Or are you just too fucking crazy?"
"Hey," I snap. "That's really messed up of you to say."
He shrugs, grabbing the stuff and glaring at me again. His eyes, I realize, are an intense, bright, blue.
"I don't care," he says simply.
He's got all my books, I realize, in his arms. He really took all my books.
"Enjoy my books, asshole," I say, because I clearly have no sense of self preservation.
He just glares and then glances at my wrists, the scars there, and the scar that is visible on my chest. He doesn't lose his anger, meeting my eyes again.
The guy is huge. His shoulders are bulky, and broad.
I pull my sheet over me quickly.
"Go away," I say and turn onto my side, facing away from him.
He does. I don't even hear the door shut behind him, and I shiver.
What an asshole.
***
I'm sucking on a jolly rancher in Mrs. Huy's office. The couch she has in here is uncomfortable. I keep shifting, moving positions, endlessly fidgeting.
Only a half hour more of this private session.
She's been prodding at me for the last half hour, trying to get me to talk.
She says, "How are you, Sarah?"
I say, "Fine," then, "I'm good."
The flavor is grape. I hate grape.
"How are you settling in? You've been here with us for about two months, now." I hate how she says with us, like we're all a happy family.
"I'm..." I really hate grape. I stop sucking on the jolly rancher, and put it into its wrapper that had been crunched in my fist. I look for a trash can, but can't see one.
"Sarah?" she prompts.
I remember she asked me a question.
"Fine," I say. "Good."
Mrs. Huy sighs, and rubs her hand over her face for a moment.
"Give me a minute of complete, real honesty and you can leave the session early."
I'm interested.
"Okay," I say. "What do you want to know?"
"It's not about what I want to know," she says, "It's about what you want to tell me." I roll my eyes a little. Such therapist bullshit.
"Fine. I'll tell you something. You want honesty? I hate this place. I hate doctors. I hate how much white is here. Like, literally, you assholes couldn't choose a different color than white to paint everything? I hate that I'm here. I hate that I'm here-" I stop, suddenly, a sharp gasp and then I cut myself off. I don't know if I meant here, like this place, or here, like in general.
"Thank you," she says.
"Yeah," I say. My mouth is dry. I get up and leave.
I hate it here.