Confines V

Despite the urging of the ever-optimistic Maxine, I refuse to make peace with the reality of what's about to happen. I feel like a lamb lead to the slaughter, like a messed-up version of Jesus, only I'm selfish and a sinner, and he was supposedly perfect. So I guess I feel nothing like Jesus.

I swing the car door open, sliding out and landing on both feet. Resigned to my fate, I read the sign over and over until I've memorized the words:

Bridges Youth Rehabilitation Center

Here Through Your Troubled Waters

This place couldn't be more overly sweet if it tried, except perhaps if the nurses walked around with carts and gave out free cotton candy or something. I almost want to laugh. It's all so revoltingly pleasant. This place has good intentions; I can practically smell them. Good intentions, bright paint, and rooms full of teenagers who positively do not want to be here. Myself included.

An lady stands in front of the door, waving and smiling like she's in a parade, and not one I'd see. "Hi!" she yells, much too loud for the small distance between us. "I'm Diane. You must be Abilene?"

I mumble, "AJ," and shove past her.

Maxine smiles nervously, whispering an apology to Diane. I refrain from saying that I and my bad attitude could be out of their hair in a jiffy if they would let me go. I simply huff in indignation.

"It's really alright," says the lady, smiling widely. She turns back to Maxine and whispers, "Reluctance and even aggression are very normal at this stage of recovery. You'd be surprised at how much progress you'll see in a week."

I roll my eyes and say, "I can hear you," under my breath.

"What was that, dear?"

"Nothing," I answer, plastering a fake smile on my face that I hope looks more like a challenge. "Are you going to give me a tour, or what?"

Diane forces a smile, stammering, "I would love to, AJ, if you'll just follow me to your temporary room so you can set down your things first."

"Well, AJ, I hope to see you later," says Maxine, and she is legitimately sincere about it. "I wish you all the best, sweetheart."

I roll my eyes and turn around, refusing to believe that Maxine cares about me at all. The words "she's just doing her job" bounce off the walls of my brain about a million times. It's just part of the gig. The words still turning in my mind, I follow Diane through the blue-walled halls. One sharp left turn and she leads me down a hallway and to a door marked SW-7. She hands me the key and nods toward the door.

"Go on," she says. "This will be your room this week. If you do elect to stay, or we decide that it would be unwise to let you go, you'll switch next Tuesday."

I push the key into the lock, turning the knob and entering what I assume will be my only room here. It's small, with white walls and wood floor. There's a small dresser, a twin bed, and a vanity with a mirror.

Diane points to a door in the corner. "That's a closet," she explains. "It's not very big, but you'd be surprised at how many centers don't give closets to temporary patients. That is not the Bridges way!"

I sigh and set down my bags. "Thank you," I say reluctantly. "Are we gonna go?"

"Of course, dear," she answers, flustered. "I'm just going to show you the most important things, alright?" She walks out the door and leads me back toward the entrance. "That way is what we like to call the Release Room. You go in there to do whatever you need to do to release your negative energy. I'll show you that later."

I nod.

Pointing to the left, she says, "Therapy happens that way almost all hours of the day. We're not going to go in there for obvious reasons. But you'll see that later, I'm sure." She winks at me.

I'm not sure I like the implications of that. It sounds a little bit too much like a warning to me. "Oh. Okay."

"Like I said, I'm only taking you to the key parts of the facility," she reiterates, "so this is going to be a relatively short tour."

Every time she turns, my heart sinks a little bit more. I get the sense this facility wasn't built with the directionally-challenged in mind. I can already tell I'll have a hard time navigating my way back to my room.

One apparently final turn and we arrive at a set of double-doors.

"This is our last stop for now," she says. "And you're just in time!" She pushes the door open. "Lunch is about to be served. In the cafeteria, we pride ourselves on great quality and delicious food."

It's a large, open room. There are orderlies posted at every corner of the room, even one behind the long self-service food counter. It becomes immediately obvious, however, that the facility was built with unfulfilled hopes of reaching many people. The room looks oddly empty.

"This concludes our tour," says Diane. I'd almost forgotten about her entirely. "Go on and make some friends."

I resist the urge to laugh. Friends? At a mental hospital? I reject the idea instantly that I am anything like any of them, though the thought threatens to creep its way into my head. At least I had the courage to do something final about my problems. I took charge. I did what I had to do. They're all still sitting here, waiting for their proverbial knights in shining armor to rescue them from their own individualized hells. I am nothing like any of them.

I walk to the counter briskly and pick up a plate, though my appetite is anything but large. The utensils are plastic, and there is a glaring lack of knives of any sort. The only options are a fork and a spoon, and they're the flimsy type of plastic that make you want to stop eating altogether because they do such a terrible job at being utensils. I settle on fresh fruit and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The orderly behind the counter hands me a cup full of water.

"Welcome to Bridges!" he says enthusiastically. "You must be new here. I've never seen your face before." He expects an answer, but he doesn't get one. "Well, then, enjoy your meal."

"Thank you," I say softly, turning and looking at the options for somewhere to sit. I walk to an empty table in the corner and sit down.

I take small bites of my sandwich, chewing it about a thousand times before I swallow. The peanut butter has an odd over-nutty flavor about it, most likely organic, and the jelly is grape, my least favorite. What little appetite I possessed before is altogether extinguished by the weird flavors that have taken my taste buds captive. I set the sandwich down and settle on fruit.

Someone's plate hits the table. I expect to be upset, but find that I can't be mad at the sheepish face in front of me.

"Can I help you?"

The boy in front of me pushes his thick glasses further up the bridge of his nose, swallowing nervously. "N-no," he stammers quickly, sitting. "I just always sit here. But you don't have to move. That's not what I meant. We can sit here together."

"It's fine," I say. "Have a seat."

The silence that follows is positively suffocating. Neither of us eats or speaks of looks up at all. I clear my throat just to kill the quiet for a moment, however brief it may be.

He says, "I'm Noah," quickly, shoving a strawberry in his mouth.

"AJ," I say and take a swig from my water cup. "Are the meals all like this?"

He laughs nervously, "Well, your choices aren't the best. The peanut butter and jelly always tastes a little off. I'd suggest soup or a burrito." His pointer finger reaches up to readjust his glasses once again.

I eat the last piece of honeydew in my bowl. Noah's still looking at me when I look back. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. This feels unpleasantly similar to my first day of high school.

"What are the bandages for?" Noah asks without warning.

I'd almost forgot about the giant white bandages taped onto my wrists that hide the sounds that will inevitably scar. But rage soon replaces my confusion. I swallow hard.

"Son of a bitch," I mutter under my breath. "Don't talk to me about that." I decide against calling him an asshole, though it might be one of the hardest decisions I've ever made.

"I'm so sorry," he says so many times that he sounds like a terrible song on repeat. "It was just a question." Noah shakes uncontrollably, his hand flying to his chest. "Please don't hurt me," he adds pitifully, tears spilling out of his eyes.

"What the hell?"

Noah sticks three fingers in the air, and immediately the water-cup orderly rushes to him, demanding to know what happened.

"I don't know!" I say defensively.

"We'll talk later," says the orderly, pointing at me. He grabs Noah by the shoulders, hoisting him up. "Breathe, Noah, breathe," he instructs, and Noah performs a series of very unsteady breaths. "We're walking to the Release Room. Is that okay?"

He nods. "I'm sorry," he whispers to me through his tears as he stumbles out of the room.

I'm left with two half-empty trays and guilt like I've never known it before. A rail-thin female patient walks up to me.

"That's gotta be some sort of record," she says, sounding somewhat impressed. "You made Noah panic on your first day here." A wicked smile crosses her face. "Welcome to the madhouse, newbie."

I stand from my chair, dump whatever is left on mine and Noah's trays into the trash, and get out of the cafeteria as quickly as I can before I start crying in front of everyone. Collapsing just outside of the door, I bury my face in my hands, drawing my knees to my chest, and I ask repeatedly what the hell I've gotten myself into.