SHORT STORY: The Writing On the Wall

Static. That's what it sounds like in my head. At least that is what I tell my psychiatrist. It sounds like something she would like to ponder; something to study. After all, she is the head of the department. I can see how the other doctors straighten up when they see her walking towards them down the hall. I notice a lot of things from my quiet corner of the "Well", the ironic slang for the common room. No one here is even close to being well. They tell me my stay here will depend on how I progress through the treatment plan. But I know that my stay will be dependent on so much more.

I can hardly hear the monotone voice over the incessant rattling. A particularly agitated teen is trying to loosen the craft room door from its hinges. Wing Nut is giving a tour to a representative from the latest potential funding source. I can see the whites of her eyes in her picklepuss face as he steers her away from the offending noise. Dr. Suovren, the Director of the program, stops mid-stride when he spots me in the corner. I hear him wheezing my name and affliction in her direction as he waltzes her close to me. I have half a mind to bark at her, but I refrain. They could use her money and she needs a story to convince her to separate from it.

"When Corinna arrived, she was mute", he says putting his bird hand on my shoulder. I shudder under his feathery touch. The sour face of the visitor reconstructs into something approaching benignancy. His Harvey Weinstein eyes rest on mine and he leans a little closer.

"Can you tell our guest about your experience here?"

My mind races to find the right words to describe my 'experience'.

"Most people call FM interstation hiss static. But static only happens on AM radio."

She tilts her head a smidge and I sense the edges of a smile. I like this woman. I like this woman a lot. She has a touch of zany in the light of her eyes like she has experience with the inside of the ward. Maybe there is more to this donation than I thought.

Wing Nut presses his palm into my shoulder and withdraws his hand.

"She speaks in riddles half the time, but it's progress".

He directs her attention to the ping pong table standing useless on the other side of the room and they walk away. I use one of the calming techniques my psychiatrist has taught me. I breathe through my nose and exhale, counting each breath. Before they get too far out of earshot, she turns to me and asks "What part of your experience has been most helpful to you"?

This is a no-brainer. I answer immediately by holding up my adult coloring book. She nods and keeps going.

Trey shuffles over. The scars on his face have a tight film over them stretching his skin. His cheek looks like the surface of a faraway planet. One pock near his temple has a fresh bandage. I wonder if his lengthy stay is enough to slay the demons that cause him to pick at his face. He proffers a square package with sheets of something dark and thin. "Is that seaweed"? I ask intrigued as I reach for some.

He nods. "That's an odd thing to have in a vending machine", I say. As the salty snack lands on my tongue he responds "They bring it in for Dr. Suovren, he loves the stuff." My mouth loses all moisture and I race to the water fountain.

"Not a fan?" Trey asks. A large chunk of seaweed blacks out one of his teeth making him look like a caricature. Decidedly not a fan. I take a seat next to Trey.

I am keen to fill in more of the story that is Trey Holland. Bits and pieces have been dropped like bread crumbs with each interaction, but it is time for some direct inspection.

"How many rehabs have you been in, Trey"?

His hand falls away from his scratching and his eyes hit the floor. I have to sigh as I watch him walk away. This is my first foray into a psychiatric facility. I have a lot to learn about etiquette.