Confines II

My eyelids drift open, blurring into focus a sea of white. Everything seems off and tilted and wrong, like there's an ocean trapped inside of my head, and my brain is but a helpless ship tossed between the waves. I'm cold and exhausted and numb. But I'm alive, and it is killing me.

I was supposed to be good and dead in an easy, comfortable darkness. Waking up was never part of the equation. Angry tears stream down my face and onto my neck, seeping into the pale blue hospital gown I've been forced into. I've never felt so betrayed in all of my life.

"She's awake," says a voice somewhere outside of my room.

A tall man in a white coat steps through the door before I can even make an effort to wipe the tears from my face. "AJ," he says, sounding a bit too relieved for my taste. "It's good to see your eyes open."

I don't answer. Instead, I focus my eyes on the two glaring reminders of my failure that wrap around my wrists in an unwarranted attempt to stop the bleeding. It takes every amount of self-restraint within me not to rip the damn things off.

"We were very concerned for you," says the doctor, pausing at length before hesitantly adding, "and we still are. Justifiably so. Your condition, though improving, is still delicate. Of course, we can speak more once you have recovered."

I look directly at him for the first time since he invited himself in. "No," I say flatly, ignoring my personal revelation. "Let's talk now."

"Frankly, I don't think you're in the frame of mind."

"I can assure you I am fully prepared for whatever conversation we are about to have," I say, surprised by the coolness of my tone.

He takes a step closer to the edge of my bed. "It is obvious to me, my colleagues, and your father that this was an attempt on your own life," he says.

"And?"

"That means that even after you have sufficiently recovered, is mandated that we keep you here for preventative purposes," he explains; his patience is wearing thin. I can tell by the way he exhales just a second too long each time he breathes. "Intensive therapy and even an extended stay in a mental care facility may be in order. We are here to help."

"What if I don't want your help?"

He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. "That doesn't really matter," he says, "seeing as you need it."

I let my silence be my protest.

He sighs, "You've left us no choice, really," and exits without another word.

The nurse walks in, smiling, and sets a tray down on the pull-out table attached to my bed. "You must be starving," she says.

I personally hate assumptions.

"I brought you some soup. Hope you like chicken noodle," she chirps. Everything she says comes out like a song. "I'm your nurse today. I'm Maxine."

"Hi," is all I can muster. I pick up the spoon, grimacing at the soreness of my wrists, and weakly push the soup into my mouth. And as soon as I swallow the first spoonful, it becomes clear to me just how hungry I am.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, staring at the rapidly emptying bowl.

I set the spoon on the tray. "I'm fine," I say. "You can take this, though. I'm full."

"Yes, ma'am," she says with a smile, collecting the dishes. "Anyway, Doctor Kachinsky told me to tell you that your daddy will be here shortly. He was instructed to, uh, clean up first."

Or sober up, if we're being honest. And honestly, my father is the last person I want to see, even if he's not drunk. But then I remember I'm being closely monitored, and I have absolutely no say in the matter. Seems like that's the case with most things as of late.

"What time should I expect him?"

Now, I suppose. Sheepishly, he steps through the doorway and smiles uneasily. I decide against saying the things I want to say, fight the urge to cry, and sit stone-faced, waiting for him to speak.

"You feelin' okay?" he asks, hesitantly approaching my bed. "Lost a lot of blood last night. I think they called it a Stage III Hemorrhage?"

I feel as though I should be surprised by how much blood I lost, but frankly, I'm more surprised by the fact that it was last night. It feels somehow like just an hour ago and like it's been years simultaneously. But last night seems completely out of the question.

"I'm sorry," says my father quietly.

I haven't heard him say something like this in longer than I can even express. I'd forgotten that somewhere deep inside the drunk, there has always been the mild-mannered, soft-spoken man that used to spend his weekends volunteering at a homeless shelter. I pity him, sort of. At least I pity the glimmer of who he used to be.

My sympathy is short-lived. "Are you finally sober?" shoots out of my mouth like a torpedo. And the worst part is, I want it to tear him apart.

His face falls. I've hit my target.

Clearing his throat, he answers, "More than I have been in a very long time," quietly. He shifts nervously. "But I'm going to try, AJ. I want to make things different."

"You've said that before," I say, challenging his resolve with my eyes. "Goddammit, you've said it before and you'll say it again because you'll keep doing this!" I ignore the sting in my eyes, clenching my jaw and refusing to let them out.

"I know I have, baby girl," he admits, tears glimmering in his eyes.

"Don't you dare!"

"Please," he begs. "I know I've said it before, but I'm not going to have to say it again. I'm serious this time. I promise, AJ, I promise."

"You can't promise that."

I feel a tear roll down my cheek, and I refuse to care anymore. I'm done with appearances and pretending that I'm not dying inside when I am.

"But it's different this time," he insists quickly. "Abilene, listen to me! I know I've promised it before, but I'm serious this time. Because I walked into the bathroom last night and saw you covered in your own blood. And I don't ever want to have to see that again, especially because I know it was my own damn fault."

I hang my head, weakly pleading, "Just go. I don't want you here."

He opens his mouth to protest, but it shuts without a sound. I watch my father leave, defeated and in utter disarray. And it's my fault. I feel a twinge of guilt, but ignore it immediately and focus all of my attention on convincing myself that he deserved it for being such a terrible father.

And I weep.