Chapter 1

1

 

A continuous rhythmic beeping pulls me out of my dreamless slumber.

Crap! I’m not dead.

This is the third time I’ve tried but failed to release myself from this dismal existence. I keep my eyes closed, hoping not to bring unwanted attention to my awakening. I don’t need the looks of disappointment, the words of false concern, or the endless questions about why I would do such a thing.  

I wince in pain as I try to swallow. My throat is raw and swollen. They must have pumped my stomach again. The first time I tried to end my life was with a whole bottle of my Zoloft prescription. I thought the irony of killing myself with a bottle of antidepressants was amusing. This time it was a container of aspirin washed down with a bottle of Benadryl. It seemed like a better way to go than my last attempt. Let me tell you, drowning is not as poetic of a way to go as you might think. The burning in my lungs, the pain and dizziness in my head from lack of oxygen, and the subsequent retching and coughing of water after being pulled from my moment of death, were so unpleasant, it made me vow to never try it again.

I crack my eyelids open just enough to peer through my eyelashes. I want to see if I can spot my mother. I can make out a blurry form in the corner. I open my eyes just a bit more. I’m not wearing my glasses, but I can tell by the way her head is leaning off to the side that she is asleep in the rocking chair. Good. I have an itch on my nose that has been driving me mad since I woke up. I try to lift my hand as slow and silently as I can, so as not to wake her, but something pulls on my wrist and my hand stops only inches off the bed. What the…? I try to lift my other hand, but it, too, is strapped down. My heart races, causing the beeping of my heart monitor to quicken. I start hyperventilating as a panic attack sets in. All I can think about is freeing myself from this newest prison.

I start to thrash around as everything fades to black. It’s as though I’m looking through a narrow tunnel, seeing nothing but the painting hanging on the wall across the room. My hyperventilating turns into a full-blown asthma attack. So much for being inconspicuous. My mom is awake now and rushes over to the call button to get a nurse in here.

“What’s going on? Why am I strapped down?” I squeak between shallow breaths.

“Calm down. You need to just calm down,” my mom says.

I squeeze my eyes shut, tears leaking down my cheeks, and I try to hold still. My chest is heaving as I struggle to take an adequate breath. I know the drill. I have had so many asthma attacks in my life, it seems as though I spend more time using my inhaler than I do breathing on my own. My muscles tremble from the adrenaline that is coursing through my body.

Why couldn’t I have just died this time? I hate my life!

My mom grabs my inhaler from her purse and holds it up to my mouth.

“Ready? One, two, three, breathe,” she says, as she squeezes the medicine down my throat. I try hard to hold my breath for the ten seconds before exhaling, but my lungs burn from a desire to cough.

Hold it…hold it…

I let my breath out with a chest wrenching cough. My already sore throat feels like it’s about to rip out of my neck.

“What’s going on in here?” asks a plump nurse, as she makes her way to my bed followed closely by a man dressed in white.

“She’s have a panic attack which triggered an asthma attack,” my mom answers.

“Give her another dose of her inhaler while I go get something for the panic attack,” the nurse says, turning around and waddling back out of the room. The man stands at the foot of my bed, watching me closely.

Every muscle in my body is shaking now. I’m still not breathing well enough and my face starts tingling from the insufficient amount of air.

“Here you go. One, two, three, breathe,” Mom says again.

I breathe in the medicine and I’m able to hold my breath this time. My mom puts my glasses on me, so I can see again.

“Where am I?” I ask, eyeing the man who hasn’t moved an inch since coming in. My heart is still racing. I wish I could run away right now.

“You’re in the psychiatric ward of St. Mary’s hospital, Olivia.”

I shudder at the thought. I’m in the looney bin? Great. I pull at my restraints again, hoping they will break so I can fight my way out of here.

The nurse makes her way back into the room holding a syringe.

“Orderly, I need you to expose her backside.”

I start yelling incomprehensibly. Every word I utter dies in my injured throat.

“Hold still, please,” the nurse says, annoyingly calm but firm. “I’m giving you a dose of diazempam. It will help you calm down. It’ll take a little bit to kick in, though. I suggest you try to relax until then.”

There’s a pinch in my butt where she injects the medicine and then the orderly lets me go. I stop pulling at my restraints, but my heart is still pounding, and my head is fuzzy.

“How…” I try to clear my throat, so I can spit out my question. “How much longer do I have to be tied down?”

“Until we feel that you will not try to run away or injure yourself again,” the nurse answers. “You will be staying here in the hospital wing until you’re healed. Once you no longer need medical attention, we’ll move you to a different room in the psychiatric ward, but until then, you need to stay in this bed and rest. I’ll be back to check on you in a little while to make sure the medicine has taken effect.”

“Maybe if you remove the restraints I’ll be able to calm down better,” I plead. “I promise I won’t run away,” I say as innocently as possible. I have every intention of getting out of here once no one is looking. A psychiatric ward? I don’t think so!

“Nice try. The medicine should kick in soon and then we’ll have a chat,” the nurse says, turning to walk out of the room. The orderly follows.

I huff in frustration. I lay my head back down on the pillow and focus on a crack in the opposite wall. I try to do my breathing exercises to settle myself down.

“You did this to yourself you know,” my mom says, accusingly.

“No, I didn’t. I planned on dying, not being thrown in a mental hospital and strapped to a bed.”

“Olivia! Why do you want to die so badly?”

“My life is hell, Mom! You of all people should know this! I’m in and out of hospitals constantly, I have such severe asthma that I need to have at least two inhalers with me at all times, in case one of them should run out during the day and leave me unable to breathe, I’m practically blind without these coke bottle glasses, I have no friends-”

“You have David,” my mom interrupts.

“Yes. I have David. Another human who happens to be in the same boat as me,” I say, rolling my eyes. “If you recall, we met in a hospital.” 

“Well, you can’t expect to make friends if you don’t try.”

“Mom, everyone at school thinks I’m a weakling and an idiot. I’m failing most of my classes because I’m not smart enough. I get picked last in gym all the time, which I guess I don’t blame them. I would pick me last too.”

“You’re struggling in school because your hospital visits set you back. You’ll catch on eventually, if you would stop trying to do this…” she says, gesturing at me.

I roll my eyes. There is no talking to this woman. She will never understand the hell I have to live with. I’m not sure I have ever seen my mother sick in all my life. I, on the other hand, spend more time in and out of hospitals with illnesses than should be humanly possible. I just wanted it to end.

“Once you get home, I think you should invite Susan over again. You seemed to have a nice time together the last time she was over,” my mom offers.

“Yeah, maybe,” I agree, trying to dodge the topic.

Susan is my next-door neighbor in the apartment complex we live in. What Mom doesn’t know is that I made a deal with Susan that day. If she pretended to be having a good time whenever my mother was around, I would give her my week’s allowance. She was a surprisingly great actress. When my mom would walk in the room, Susan would put on a big smile and laugh extra loud, as though I said something profoundly hilarious. Once my mother would leave, we would go back to stony silence and Susan would sit texting anyone and everyone she could. Susan isn’t one of the popular girls in my class, but she has enough friends to keep her texting fingers busy and her big blue eyes glued to the phone screen. I’m not sure why she isn’t popular. Must be by choice or something. She has beautiful long black hair, a pretty face complete with long lashes and pouty lips, and a toned athletic frame. A great deal different from my short blonde hair, plain face, and sickly, thin body. I can’t seem to put on any weight between hospital visits. Most of the illnesses leave me with no appetite.

Now that I’ve calmed down, my muscles start to release tension. My breathing slows and the tingling stops. My mom has returned to the rocking chair and keeps glancing at me. I know she’s trying hard to hold her tongue and not lecture me some more like the last time I was in the hospital after trying to commit suicide. She went on and on about ‘how foolish I was’ and ‘how I have my whole life ahead of me’ and ‘do I know how expensive these hospital stays are?’. I finally screamed at her to just get out and she left me for a couple of days before returning to apologize. And that’s our relationship in a nutshell ever since I can remember: fighting, accusations, arguing, and then apologies and tolerance until the next fight. I don’t think my mom was ready to be a mom when she got pregnant with me, and with my Dad gone, she’s had to do it all alone. She tries to be a good mom sometimes, but I’m pretty sure she resents my existence.

I take a deep breath in and close my eyes. My muscles are relaxed enough now that I slowly start to fade into the state of waking dreams, that is, until the city’s air raid sirens start blaring. I get sucked out of my dream and reflexively try to sit up, but the restraints tug at my wrists and I flop back into the pillow.

            My mom is at the door peeking her head out.

            “Nurse? Nurse!” She calls out trying to get somebody’s attention.

            The hospital emergency system starts going off to match the sirens. The cacophony of sound makes me want to cover my ears, but of course I can’t.

            “Excuse me! What’s going on?” I hear my mom yelling out the door now.

            “This is not a drill. All patients and personnel are required to stay inside until further notice. This facility is in a lockdown. I repeat this is not a drill. All patients and personnel…” repeats an unnervingly calm voice over the P.A. system.

            I look over at the door to see my mom reach out and grab a nurse’s arm as she is hustling by.

            “What’s going on? Are we being attacked?”

            “No ma’am. It’s raining,” the nurse answers as she pulls her arm out of my mother’s grip and quickly walks away.