Confines VI

The person in the mirror has become a stranger. My features, the auburn hair and blue-grey eyes, have always been something like my father's. But now the person in the mirror is just as hollow as he is. I've never before hated my own appearance like this. Not even when I was teased for being the only redhead in my grade. Even then, I took pride in being different. But this sameness, this awful connection between me and my father, haunts me every day of my life.

Not just my face is different. The hands that only turn doorknobs and carry meal trays have become oddly detached. Even my voice sounds foreign when I speak. I think the most alarming part is that I've become oddly acceptant of this. It sucks, but I've learned to accept the suck and live.

Time sucks, too. I'm not positive how long I've been here, though it seems like a billion years. I know it's not though, because I've yet to go in for therapy in the entire duration of my stay so far. But according to Diane, it'll be today at two in the afternoon.

I can't say I'm thrilled.

The clock ticks loudly, the second hand inching its way around the circle of numbers over and over again. I wonder why not every clock finds it necessary to possess a second hand, but wondering gets boring when the object of thought is clocks.

But this is very much the daily routine. I stay in my room, on my bed, wondering about mundane things like clocks and doorknobs. And I eat when I'm told to, and I sleep every night. I keep existing, day in, day out. After the stunt I pulled with Noah, who has yet to return to my table, I have become something of a celebrity here. Still, Noah's is the only name I know of other patients. It's strange to feel so wholly unnecessary and at the same time so guilty and like everyone is constantly watching.

Although I've been rather insistent about seeing the world that constantly seems to be just outside of my reach, the people charged with watching me have been equally unwavering in their resolve to keep me locked up. They always tell me the same thing: "If you're bored, AJ, the RR is always open." RR is their idiotic abbreviation for the even more idiotic full name: Release Room. And I always respond in exactly the same way: silently, but not without a roll of the eye. Plus I refuse to step foot in the so-called "RR" as long as I'm here, and hopefully, as long as I live.

I watch the second hand land on the 12, deciding that it's now 1:58. I'm exactly two minutes away from my least favorite thing in the world. Therapy.

A premature knock sounds from the door, unfortunately alerting me of my impending doom. God, I hate this place so much.

"What?" I mumble, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and standing. The door glides open, and it takes a moment for me to realize it's open because of me.

A grey puff of hair and an oversized smile greet me. "Good afternoon, darling!" Diane chirps like she's my grandmother. "Are you ready for your first session?"

I stare at her in disbelief. I peer down because she's short as hell compared to me, and I peer incredulously because of course I'm not ready. The people at Bridges make me question the intelligence of people, specifically those working in the medical profession. Well, at least in the crown jewel that is Jefferson County.

Diane leads me to the hallway we walked by the first day I came here, the hallway that she so menacingly informed me I would see soon. It'd be much less frightening if there were actual monsters and people with knives and such, but here the things to be afraid of are yet unseen. Which is terrifying.

"Here we are," she says, opening the door and gesturing for me to walk through. "Have fun!"

I ignore her blatant ignorance of the obvious fact that this is the furthest thing from fun and take a seat on an olive-green and mustard yellow striped chair. And then I see Doctor Chamberlin, his hands folded underneath his chin like always. It all makes sense. He sent me to the shittiest mental health facility in all of Alabama, perhaps even America, simply because he's the resident therapist here. Selfless motives my ass.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I demand. "This has got to be a joke. You seriously work here?"

He shrugs, admitting, "This is my primary place of work, yes."

"So, that's why I'm here? Because you want to get paid more or something?"

"AJ, please," he scoffs dismissively. "I get paid hourly, not by patient."

I cross my arms. "Still, I'm one more hour on your paycheck," I say, laughing at how revolting it is. The only reason he wanted me here was so that he could afford his next cruise to the goddamn Bahamas or something. "But just in case you want to maintain your integrity and indeed not get paid more by my presence here, I will take as little of your time as possible. That way, we'll both get just what we want."

"Absolutely not," he says, straightening his back and resting his hands on his desk. "I am here to help. I can't help unless you let me. Please, let me."

I sigh, "Fine, but I'm not convinced you're gonna tell me anything that'll surprise me."

"I'm not trying to surprise you," he protests, shaking his head quickly. "God knows you know yourself better than anyone. I'm here to provide an outside perspective." He retrieves a pen and a notebook from one of the drawers in his desk. "Tell me, AJ, what is one thing in your past that sticks out to you?"

A thousand memories fill my head at once. It's like he's pulled the cap off of the carefully sealed Jar of Painful Moments I've held inside of me for years. My mother leaving, the first time I ever saw my father drunk, when someone slipped anonymous notes that said, "No one likes you, Bitch," into my locker every day for weeks in middle school without ever getting caught, how many times I ate lunch alone under a tree, the first time I realized I wanted to kill myself. The list goes on and on.

The problem is none of them are easy to talk about. Even the thought of them brings about a certain sting, some more mild than the others.

"I don't know," I sigh finally.

He crosses one leg over the other at the ankle, reclining in his chair. "What was the first thing that popped into your head?"

That's easy. "When my mom walked out," I answer. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But you need to," he implores me. "It's the only way to recover, really. Talking about it."

I spit out the word, "Fine," and lean forward to make sure he hears the next part. "She chose herself over me, and I was nine, and I didn't get it. It hurt like hell, okay? So it's not exactly my topic of choice."

He nods. "Fair enough, but may I ask you a question?"

"Fine," I say through clenched teeth.

"Why is that what you remember?" he inquires, leaning forward slightly, like it's the most interesting thing he's ever heard. "Surely many good things happened before and after then. So why does such a painful thing pop into your head immediately?"

"Don't we always remember what hurt the most?"

He shrugs. "If that's what we choose to do."

"Is it really a choice?" I challenge in utter defiance of the idea that I'm choosing to constantly hurt like this.

"Undoubtedly," he says resolutely.

I feel my eyes roll. He's wrong.

"Fair enough," he says for the second time. "We'll talk about something else, then. A better memory, perhaps?" His pitch rises at the end of each sentence, even if they're not questions.

I pause for a moment, trying to think of something else. "I don't know, Doc."

"Hmm," he sighs, scribbling on his notepad. "Do you like art?" he asks without any warning. Changing the subject quickly seems to be his forte. "If you do, I know of a wonderful artist who teaches therapeutic art classes. It's just downtown."

"What? Why?"

"You aren't opening up to me," he states matter-of-factly. "But perhaps painting or drawing will be a chance for you to release some of your inner turmoil and express it in a healthy way." He chuckles, musing, "Besides, learning artistic techniques is exciting regardless of the additional benefits. I'd love to know how to make beautiful pictures with just my hands. Wouldn't you?"

I nod in spite of myself. I've loved art as long as I can remember. My mother took me to an art museum for my ninth birthday, the last one she spent with me. Almost like she knew it would be, like she wanted to make it count.

Ever since then, I've always thought it would be amazing to know how to paint or draw or sculpt or anything. Like Chamberlin said, to make something beautiful with just my hands.

"Sure," I hear myself say. The word falls out of my mouth unintentionally; I can almost feel it smacking the ground like a bowling ball, with a loud thud. The next three words that come out of my mouth are equally as surprising: "I'd love to."