A sudden knock on the doorframe of my room startles me. The black marker in my hand streaks across my sketch pad.
I’m not allowed to have a pencil—I might use it as a weapon.
Before I turn toward the door, my hand moves up to my head and starts scratching.
“Come on. It’s time for group. You’re late. Let’s go.” A redheaded nurse, toe tapping rhythmically on the linoleum, calls into my closet-with-a-bed. The pastel colored butterfly print scrubs she’s wearing, along with that thick shimmering hair, scream Mary Poppins. If she starts singing, I’m going to vomit.
Mind foggy, I hesitate before I say, “I haven’t been assigned a counseling group yet.” My fingers scratch harder. I can feel the fuzz of hair growing back on my bald spot. I don’t want to go to any group.
“Oh, no worries, dear. I know exactly whose hands to put you in.” I’m not sure how to read the smile she gives me. Then she looks at the clipboard in her hand. She happily huffs, if that’s even possible, and rolls her eyes. But that creepy smile remains. “You haven’t had your meds. Why haven’t you had your meds?” Not waiting for my answer, she says, “No worries. I’ll fix that. Let’s go, dear.” She wills me out into the hall with a wave of her hand, almost like a puppeteer. I can feel the pull.
Dear? And that smile—I think she took my meds.
After a quick stop at the nurse’s station, a plop of meds and water into my mouth, the redheaded nurse— Nurse Hatchet is what the tag on her lanyard reads— ushers me through the first door we come to that has a group of patients gathered inside. The door clicks shut behind me. I reach under my tongue, pocket my meds. My hand involuntarily starts scratching my head, again. I’m about to turn and flee, until every face in the circle of people whips toward me. My eyes immediately look away. I look down at the black and white checkered floor. I shove my shaky hands into the pockets of my jeans. With my sneakered-foot, I push an empty plastic chair toward the group of patients.
I enter the circle.
I have no idea if I’m in the right group. It’s only my second day here. Feeling all eyes on me, I can’t force myself to look up, to look anyone in the face.
Silence.
Shuffling.
A cough.
A man starts talking.
A weight lifts off from me.
The attention is now on someone else.
After a couple minutes of what I assume is someone’s psycho-babble, it feels safe to look up from the floor. His words—I can’t hear any of them. The vice that repeatedly squeezes on my head and chest has always caused a malfunction with my hearing, ever since I was a child. With the arrival of my teen years, it never got any better—which is how I’ve ended up where I am.
Institutionalized.
A new voice sounds out. I turn toward the sound.
A skeletal-thin man speaks with passion of an insatiable hunger. His voice sounds strained, scraping and clawing its way out of his mouth, stumbling past his dry cracked lips. His eyes scream pain, empty and hollow, drained of what may have been behind those doors before.
With every syllable he utters, I can’t stop staring at his neck. With every bob of his Adam’s apple, I’m fascinated, mesmerized. With every bob of his Adam’s apple it slithers around the base of his neck.
The scar.
The size of a mutant slug—fat and glistening— with a thickness five times my thumb’s width.
How did it get there? What is it from?
Does it hurt? Itch? Throb?
Does he ever, sometimes, forget that it’s there?
These questions shoot through my mind in rapid succession—as I stare.
I can’t make sense of the scarred man’s words. My questions are too loud. Too many.
And I can’t stop staring.
I need to hear his words.
I force myself to listen. Now I can’t not listen. I can’t un-hear the insanity, the desperation. His story is permanently etched into my brain.
“I reopen it when I need to re-up.” The man speaks with a gravelly voice. The slug writhes and slithers with every word. “I scrape a good amount with each incision. The more I chisel and collect, the less often I need to slice open the wound again. I stitch it. Let it scab over. Let the scab loosen and fall away before my supply runs out. ...