She went back to her coffee, ignoring Gloria asking how she had “stolen” it and at last breakfast time was over.
After breakfast, came group goals—where they all sat in a circle in the Group Therapy room and talked about their goals for getting better and living in the outside world. Of course, this was a pipe dream for most of the patients here and Torri was beginning to think it was impossible for her as well.
Never should have signed that form, she thought for the hundred thousandth time. Never should have let Chuck talk me into that “overnight” evaluation.
But her husband had been so upset, wearing the bulky bandage on his face that covered the stitches where she had stabbed him in her sleep. He had insisted that she needed help and Torri, feeling awful about what she’d done, had agreed and meekly signed the forms, giving away her freedom with a stroke of the pen.
But once you had been admitted to St. Elizabeth’s hospital, she found, it was almost impossible to get out again.
Maybe I should try calling Chuck again, she thought, as she sat in the Group Therapy circle on a hard plastic chair and listened to Gloria blather on about how once she got free of “this place” she would go find the women who had stolen her diamond jewelry and make them give it back. Maybe he’ll pick up this time—maybe he’ll come visit me and sign me out.
She didn’t have much hope of this. Her husband had stopped returning her calls and had somehow always just “stepped into a meeting,”—at least to hear his receptionist, a slinky blonde named Amanda tell it,—whenever she tried to get him on the phone. But Torri kept trying.
She hoped that if she could just get him on the phone, he would listen to her and come get her out. After all, hadn’t they vowed to stay together for richer and for poorer—for better and worse? She was definitely doing worse right now and she needed him to step up for her. Not that he ever had before, but there was a first time for everything—right?
I’ll call him, she thought, looking down at her hands. I’ll try again—why not? What have I got to lose? How else am I ever going to get out of here?
After Group Goals, it was Physical Activity Hour. This meant Torri got a small amount of solitude because she was allowed to walk around the part of the grounds which were walled off. The recreation area was a large, empty space with a big old maple tree in one corner, right by the far edge of the high, concrete wall. The ground crew were careful to keep the lowest branches trimmed so that no one got any bright ideas about using the tree to scale the wall. Nobody but a giant could have reached the lowest branch, which was a good twelve feet off the ground.
Torri wandered around the recreation area, looking up at the cold blue Autumn sky above, watching the birds fly past as they made their way South for the coming winter. When she’d been admitted, it was still summer. Now it was getting close to the middle of October—peak leaf season. The maple tree’s leaves were a riot of gorgeous crimson, vermillion, and gold. She shivered and pulled her hospital issued sweater, (no buttons to avoid swallowing incidents) tighter around her.
Am I ever going to get out of here? And when I do, will it be too late to get anyone to listen to me? About them—the invaders—the ones coming for us?
There were no answers. And soon enough, recreation time was over and she had to make her way back to the cafeteria for lunch.
Lunch was pretty much like breakfast. There were cheeseburgers and fries—one of the better meals the hospital cafeteria made—but Torri couldn’t get any ketchup or mustard because Gloria had gathered them close to her plate, like prize possessions.
She’s not even using them! Torri thought resentfully, watching the older woman with the bedraggled hair stroke the two condiment bottles as though they were made of gold. In the past, this might have made her angry—now it just made her tired. It was just another day in hell—a hell she couldn’t escape.
After lunch was Art Therapy. Torri looked forward to that—it might be pathetic but it was the one bright spot in her day. She had always been good at two things—math and drawing. Since it was the more practical skill, math had won out—which was why she’d wound up working at a bank. But she had always wished she had more time to pursue art.
Well, here at St. Elizabeth’s, she had all the time she needed.
They weren’t allowed to have sharp writing instruments like pens or colored pencils but there were crayons and charcoal and pastels—the latter were Torri’s favorites.
She had a scene she’d been working on for a while now. It was a picture of the big maple tree in the corner of the recreation yard, all bedecked in its bright Fall colors. The picture was done on a thick cardboard canvas that could be framed if she liked the finished product, Torri thought. And so far, she really did.
The scene was sort of abstract—the vermillion and gold and crimson of the leaves smudged artfully together so that it almost looked like you were seeing the tree through a wavy pane of glass. They really stood out against the deep blue sky.
It was possibly the best thing she’d done since college—when she’d managed to sneak in a few art classes as electives between her business and finance courses. Torri had been working on it for weeks and had enjoyed every minute of creating it—it was the only joy she’d had since coming to St. Elizabeth’s.
Now she went to her art cubby—every patient had one—and pulled out the 11 by 7 canvas, intending to work on it some more. Though really, she was almost finished. She just needed to add a little to the shading under the tree and touch up the deep Autumnal blue of the sky—
Torri’s thoughts stopped dead as she stared at the canvas. To all her hard work, someone had added something.
A crude hangman’s noose had been drawn in brown crayon, hanging from the lowest limb of the tree.
Torri just stared at it. Who would do this? And why? She had worked so hard on this picture—it was the only joy she’d had for three months—the only thing that brought her any small measure of relief from the horrible monotony and the dreadful guilt—not to mention the utter terror that consumed her when it was time for lights out.
Who would do this, she wondered again?
“You better be careful with that,” a nasty voice hissed in her ear. “Caretakers see you with any kinda suicide shit like that, they’ll throw you in the rubber room or put you in restraints.”
Torri whirled around and found herself face-to-face with Tanya. Her old roommate wore her dishwater blonde hair in limp cornrows and had a ghastly collection of demonic tattoos all over her body. A gargoyle grinned from between her breasts and upper chest and she had a pentagram on her left cheek. 666—the mark of The Beast—was tattooed in blaring red and black right across her forehead and a tiny red devil lurked just above her right eyebrow with an evil smirk.
In addition to her tattoos, Tanya wore a vicious smile on her face—the smile of someone who enjoys ruining something beautiful that someone else has created, just because she can.
“Told ya, better be careful with that,” she sneered, pointing at the crudely drawn noose defacing Torri’s lovely picture. “They’ll send you to the loony bin if they see that. Oh wait, I forgot—you’re already there!”
She cackled at her own joke, sounding—to Torri’s ears, anyway—exactly like a witch.