Young Writers Society

I'm back in the office of the great and powerful Doctor Chamberlin, who so far has done little besides tell me what I already know. I thought he was a professional, but so far he's informed me of nothing that I couldn't have figured out just by looking in the mirror or thinking about myself.

"You are practically drowning in depression, AJ," he says, almost as if it should come as a surprise to me. "And you have demonstrated that you are suicidal to the point of taking action. Therefore, it is in your best interest and my clearest conscience that I send you to a facility that can best help you and prepare you for living independently."

He makes me sound handicapped. Like I don't know how to take care of myself. I let out a long sigh.

"Where am I going, and when do I go?"

"Bridges Youth Rehabilitation Center," he answers, handing me a slip of paper. "And you'll hopefully be leaving today. We have permission from your father since you're a minor, but your consent is also very important. We'll send you either way, but your signature on that paper"--he presses his pointer finger onto the paper--"will make this process infinitely easier."

I take a deep breath and snatch the paper from beneath his hand. "So what you're telling me is that my opinion doesn't matter, but you still want my signature?"

"Your opinion always matters to some degree, but your safety and wellbeing matter infinitely more," he answers, though I'm dissatisfied with his explanation. "AJ, I personally only want the best for you."

I read over the paper. Too many medical terms, but the gist is that I am pretty much surrendering myself to a bunch of health professionals and examinations. Plus I don't get to dictate how long I stay; that's up to them, too. Maybe if I BS my way through and pretend they've fixed me, I'll get out of there as quickly as possible.

Oh, well. Might as well go without a fight. It's easier than going kicking and screaming, and to be frank, I don't have enough energy left to kick or scream anymore.

"Yes, sir," I hear myself say, and my hand reaches for the pen on Chamberlin's desk, scribbling an illegible signature on the paper. "Now what?"

He smiles, taking the paper back. "It's not that we don't trust you," he begins, pausing for an extensive amount of time.

"C'mon, Doctor Chamberlin," I chide. "I thought we agreed to be honest in here."

"Right, well, I don't think it would be wise to let you go unattended," he says, standing up. "I have my suspicions that you'd never arrive there, so you'll be accompanied by one of the nurses. You've had Maxine, right?"

"Yeah."

"She'll be escorting you," he explains, standing and putting his hands in his pockets. "I'm certain you'll find that Bridges is a wonderful, caring place."

I'm not so convinced. "Thanks, I guess," I sigh, resigned to my inevitably awful fate.

"Don't be a stranger," says the doctor, a gentlemanly smile on his face. I seriously doubt that he is all that eager for me to come back. I'm not so sure I would be."

I get up from my chair and walk to the door, feeling the sting of tears on my eyes.

I have never dreaded something so much. I don't deserve to be institutionalized. I'm not crazy. I am reasonable; all I wanted was for the pain to stop. But it didn't work because of people like Maxine and Chamberlin and my father. I turn back toward Chamberlin.

"Will I get to bring any of my stuff from home?"

He answers, "Your father will bring it to the office tomorrow. You can call him and tell him what to bring, if you'd like."

"We're not on speaking terms," I snap. I want to continue and chew him out for even suggesting that I look at my father, much less speak to him, but I've lost every shred of energy I thought I had. Feebly, I muster, "I'm gonna go now, doc. Let me know when you want me to leave."

He sighs, nodding. "Maxine will come get you in an hour or so."

I leave and walk down the hallway, weaving my way through the twists and turns of the hospital until I'm back at my room. It feels like the rug has been pulled out from under me, like everything has been turned on its head.

It's ironic, isn't it? There's plenty of people who want nothing more than to live long, happy lives. People who are dying from cancer or some other terminal disease, and all they want is a chance to survive. But they die every single day. And then there's people like me who want nothing more than to die so the shit stops. And yet, for some reason, the cruel hand of fate rescues us in the form of bandages and blood transfusions and men in lab coats trying to be heroic in any way possible. I guess it's funny how people always want what they can't have.

I lie down on my bed. Maybe sleep will provide some form of escape from this misery I'm trapped in. Even so, it would only be for an hour. I wish there was something in this room besides a bed, something that would make this hour go quicker. But only my thoughts keep me company.

Closing my eyes, I try to force myself to sleep. Caught somewhere between consciousness and slumber, the memories come flooding to me. Despite my best efforts, I cannot ward them off.

Her face creeps into the folds of my mind.

"Abilene, let go," she'd said so harshly, but I'd clung to her like she was my lifeline, the only string holding me on the earth. But she'd yelled two words at me over and over again: "Let. Go."

What had I done? Suddenly, she it was like she hated me. I felt like an incurable plague, the way she looked at me. But even that paled in comparison to the looks my father received constantly.

He pleaded over and over again, "One more chance, sweetheart. Please."

And every other time, she'd said yes. This time, when she said she was done, she meant it.

"Are you coming back?"

She'd looked at me, grief in her eyes, caught in a moment of regret, perhaps even second-guessing her awful decision. But that moment died soon, and she blinked away the tears in her eyes, clawing me off of her leg.

"No, Abilene," she'd answered, suddenly losing every shred of remorse that had so briefly given me hope. "So long as your father is alive, I will never come back."

As much as I'd witnessed, as much as I knew about my father's constant verbal abuse of my mother, she still seemed so selfish. I resented her and her decision and everything about the way she'd chosen herself over me.

"Get the hell off of me, Abilene Jude Collier!" she'd screamed when I tried to follow her to the car. And then she'd slammed the car door in my face and started to pull away as I was hanging on to the outside. I fell off. That's when she added, "You are just like your father."

I stayed on the ground, unable to cry, unable to move, for hours. The hot asphalt burned my skin, but it didn't hurt half as much as her words had.

And then I'd endured years of teasing from kids who'd never understood what it's like to be completely unwanted. They reminded me often that even my mother didn't want anything to do with me. As if I didn't know. As if it didn't hurt enough.

And every time they'd torture me, the last words she'd ever said to me haunted me anew, ringing in my ears:

"You are just like your father."

Startled, I sit up, hearing soft knocking at the door. I rub the sleep out of my eyes.

"AJ, darling, are you ready?"

No.

I'm not ready at all. But I stand up anyway, walk to the door, and prepare myself for the only thing worse than death.