A murderous rage came over Torri. She wanted to kill the evil little bitch standing there, sneering at her. This wasn’t the first time Tanya had done something nasty to her. The first night they’d shared a room, the other girl had actually left a used tampon in her bed. Torri hadn’t realized it was there until she crawled into bed and felt something wet squishing against her skin—disgusting.
Tanya played other nasty pranks too—like stuffing Torri’s spare scrubs in the toilet or peeing on her pillow—which the staff all turned a blind eye to, because they weren’t actual violence. It was one reason Torri had been so glad to get a room of her own, away from her evil roommate.
But all the other nastiness seemed to pale in comparison to this.
Torri felt her jaw clenching and her fingers itching to wrap themselves around Tanya’s throat. But no, she reminded herself—no violence. No matter how much she was provoked, she couldn’t give in.
She had already had several incidents of lashing out at the orderlies when they tried to wake her from her night terrors—she didn’t mean to—it was an instinctive reaction. But they looked bad enough on her record. There was no way she could add an altercation with another patient to that list. She couldn’t allow herself to be labeled a violent patient or she would never get out of here.
And Tanya was right about one thing—St. Elizabeth’s did have a rubber room. Well, the staff called it a “soft room” but it amounted to the same thing—solitary confinement in a padded room where you couldn’t hurt yourself or anyone else.
Almost as bad, were the four-point restraints Torri had seen them use on another patient who had gone ballistic for some reason. They were thick, leather manacles that buckled around your wrists and ankles and bound you helpless and spread-eagle to your bed.
Torri didn’t ever want to be put in that position—not for any reason. It would make her feel so helpless—so vulnerable. Especially if they did it at night, when there was less staff and he was on duty…
But no—she pushed the awful thought out of her head and took a deep, calming breath. Then another and another. In through the nose, out through the mouth. “Peace breaths,” one of the Group Councilors called them. Torri had gotten pretty good at them, when she was still roommates with Tanya—she’d had to.
“What’sa matter? Ain’t you gonna fight me?” Tanya demanded, clearly disappointed that Torri hadn’t launched herself at her by now. She lived for conflict—thrived on it and needed it like other people needed oxygen.
Well, I’m not going to give it to her, Torri told herself, taking another deep breath. I won’t do it—I won’t let her provoke me. If I start getting into fights, it’ll go on my record and I’ll never get out of here!
“No, Tanya,” she said in a low, measured voice. “I’m not going to fight you. I’m not going to give you that satisfaction.”
She turned to go but Tanya hissed, “You bitch!” and ripped the canvas out of Torri’s hands. “Hey! Hey, nurse!” she shouted, rushing over to the therapist on duty.
“Yes, Tanya?” The therapist—a plump, middle-aged woman with short brown hair—looked up with a frown.
“Hey, look what she drew!” Tanya shoved the drawing of the tree with the noose dangling from it in front of the therapist’s face and then jabbed a finger at Torri. “I think she’s suicidal or she wouldn’t have drawn that, right? Shouldn’t she be on suicide watch or somethin’?”
The therapist looked up at Torri, a frown on her face.
“Ms. Morrison, are you feeling all right?” she asked in a carefully controlled voice.
“I feel fine,” Torri said impatiently. “Because I didn’t draw that.” She pointed at the noose. “Tanya drew that—she defaced my picture.”
“Nuh-uh!” Tanya shook her head rapidly, her limp braids whipping around her face. “I didn’t do nothin’ to her picture—I just found it like that!” she declared.
Torri felt like beating her head against the wall. It was all so ridiculous—so juvenile! She felt like she’d been put back in kindergarten and another student was tattling on her for something she hadn’t done. How had her life been degraded to this?
“Look,” she said, carefully keeping her temper in check. “You can see I’m not the one who drew that noose. Look how crudely it’s done, compared to the rest of the picture! It’s clearly not my work.”
The therapist gave her a worried frown.
“Well, be that as it may, I’m afraid I’ll still have to show this to Dr. Burrows.”
“But—” Torri began as Tanya gave her a nasty grin.
“I’m sorry, but maybe Art Therapy isn’t the place for you right now,” the therapist said. “Maybe you’d better use this time to go write in your journal, Ms. Morrison.”
Torri wanted to scream. Art Therapy was the only good thing about being stuck in the “loony bin,” as Tanya had so aptly put it. And now it was being taken away from her because of something her nasty ex-roommate had done.
No, deep breaths. Deep breaths, she told herself. If you start screaming in here they’ll drug you and mark it down on your record.
“Fine,” she said shortly, giving a quick, jerky nod of her head. “I…I’ll go journal some.”
Turning, she left the Art Therapy room. She would just have to explain to her psychiatrist, Dr. Burrows, that Tanya had been playing a prank on her and that she was not suicidal.
People on suicide watch got put in the soft room and forced to wear the “vest”—a one piece garment with no buttons, ties, or zippers made of thick, bulky material that was too stiff to be torn into strips and used to make a hanging rope. Torri had seen this happen to several other patients, and she didn’t want to be one of them.
It will be all right, she told herself firmly. Everything is going to be all right.
But honestly, she didn’t see how.
Three
There was more group therapy, then supper—dry meatloaf, gluey mashed potatoes that were obviously instant, limp green beans, and lumpy brown gravy—then an hour of free time. You could journal—which was highly encouraged—read, watch TV in the Patient Lounge, or just take a nap in your room.
It was also one of the few times you were allowed to use the phone.
“Back again, Ms. Morrison?” The head nurse raised her eyebrows as Torri approached the small plastic window at the nurse’s station where meds were dispensed morning and evening. It was also where you asked to use the phone.
“Here I am.” Torri spread her hands. “May I use the phone, please?” she asked politely, ignoring the snickering she could hear coming from the other side of the wall.
“Same number?” the nurse asked blandly, pushing the old-fashioned phone receiver with its long, curly cord through the window to Torri.
“Yes, please.” Torri nodded and heard more giggles.
Her constant attempts to get Chuck on the phone had become something of a joke among the staff but she refused to let them bother her—refused to get upset. Because getting upset made everyone think you were “having an episode”—getting upset made you look crazy.