This Isn't Working

She needed something else, this treatment wasn't good enough. If only she could make the doctors listen.

She sat calmly, waiting for the nurse that came ever four hours. He came to wash the blood off her scalp and to disinfect the mess that existed there. She didn’t mind him, he was sweet and tried his hardest to help her. The doctors ignored her. She had asked to start therapy sessions, but they told her it wasn’t necessary. This was an addiction, therapy wasn’t necessary.

            The doctors forced her to spend eight hours a day in a straight jacket. The nurse put it on her when it was required and he always apologized. He asked if it was comfortable enough to be tolerable. And he often would bring her food during those eight hours and help her eat it. He was sweet, much like the boy she’d loved back in high school.

            She heard the knock on her open door and she looked up from the romance novel that she’d grabbed off the library cart that went by twice a week. A smile spread across her face as she scooted to the edge of the bed. He pulled up the chair, settling up beside her with his small medical cart. “Let’s see the damage today Jessabell.” He smiled back, the motion showing off the little dimples in the corner of his mouth.

            “I do it more often now, Tyler” She muttered to him, leaning her head forward so he could examine the raw skin that bled almost constantly these days. “The more they restrain me the more I need it. Why can’t I see a psychiatrist of a counselor? They’re the ones that are supposed to help me right?”

            He sighed, starting to dap up the blood with cotton. “The doctors treat each patient as they see fit. I’ll let them know that you asked for therapy again.” His touch was gentle on her head, caring as if she was a young child. “Here comes the sting.” He warned, reaching for the alcohol wipes he had brought. She closed her eyes tightly, bracing herself. It didn’t matter how many times she’d been through this, the alcohol still hurt like hell.

            She gasped when it touched it skin, biting down onto her lip gently. Her hands went to her arms, tugging at the hairs there and tugging them out one at a time. The nurse didn’t notice, too focused on the task at hand as he cleaned her scalp. When he was finished he dried her head gently and rose to his feet. “Is there anything else I can get you Jessabell? Anything at all?” he asked, tucking away his supplies.

            She thought a moment before giving him an answer. “I don’t want to go to the cafeteria today, could you bring me food?” Her voice was soft. She wouldn’t have dared as anyone else such a favor. The guards would have laughed at her and the doctors would give her another lecture about showing up to everything on her schedule on time, including meals.

            He chuckled softly at her. “Of course, I’ll be back in a moment.” He vanished out the door, leaving his cart there. She knew she was one of the only patients that could be trusted with it. Many of the others would take the tools and use them to harm themselves, or maybe even others. She ran a hand over her freshly cleaned head, searching for any sign of the soft peach fuzz that was all it could support anymore. Her fingers tightened around some, yanking hard. When it didn’t come free she pulled at the scab beneath it, using the hard skin as leverage to pull the hair free. She grimaced as it ripped off, running her fingers over the spot to make sure she got what she wanted.

            She wanted to stop pulling her hair out, she really did. But it had become an addiction just like cigarettes or meth. She couldn’t break from it on her own, and the methods the doctors were using were flawed. They just made her desire to pull it more. And no matter how many times she tried they wouldn’t help her the way she asked. It was almost as if they didn’t want to cure her.

*   *   *

He made his rounds slowly, delivering medication and medical care to each room that he needed to. He was only assigned as nurse to ten of the patients on ward two and seven on ward three. The children he worked with seemed mostly normal, but after a few visits he began to see just how bad off they all were. Ward two was better, here the patients were at least old enough to understand why they were here. At least, most of them were. There were a few that were too far gone to comprehend the real world.

            The only one he enjoyed seeing was Jessabell. She was just past her twenties and fully aware of her situation. She was the only one that seemed to know exactly what her problem was, and she knew how it should be fixed. He daily told her that he talked to the doctors. But he never did. He knew what happened to those that made an effort to actually help. He used to be a nurse on ward four. Used to watch as doctors and nurses went crazy due to isolation.

            He wasn’t allowed contact with them, was given no way to open their cells. He only had access to a little door at the bottom used to bring them food. When they injured themselves they were sedated and brought in for care, never woken up, left in the dark, forever alone, no longer knowing what it meant to have human contact. All because they were genuinely good people instead of the cold unfeeling men and women that worked in the facility.

            Working with Jessabell was much better then when he walked those halls. Her condition was called trichotillomania, and as soon as she was diagnosed she began to research it. She knew how she was supposed to be treated, and knew that she wasn’t receiving it. After she’d gained her own information she began to research the other conditions on her ward out of curiosity. She often talked about them with him and he was always learning something new.

            Jessabell’s door was open as always. He knocked softly before going in, making sure she knew he was there. She was curled on the bed, a cheesy romance novel open in her lap. The smile on her face seemed so out of place when compared to her appearance. There were small scabs up her arms and legs from where she’d begun ripping out her hair after running short on her head.

Her scalp was nearly all one giant, raw wound. It bled almost constantly because she picked at it, searching for more small strands of hair. The chair was already pushed up next to the bed for him. Either she had left it there from before, or thought to move it over just before she expected him. His visits with her were always short, without much conversation. But that was alright. He was glad that she would remain calm and collected the entire time.

When she asked yet again if she could be given therapy he sighed, knowing he couldn’t allow her that luxury. The excuse he gave wasn’t acceptable, but what else was there to say? She had become a prisoner as soon as she was brought to the institute’s attention. She had admitted herself, something that rarely happened, and had no idea what she was getting into. She still didn’t fully understand the true intent of the institute. And to be honest he hoped she never would.

To know the truth about the institute would break her. She was sweet and kind now, but he knew that the simple facts would drive her insane at last. Anger would become her one emotion and visiting her would cease to be pleasant. He wanted to help her get better, to allow her to go home and be free of this place. But it could not happen. It was selfish of him, but what else was there to do. Even if he did attempt to save her, the institute would never let her go. If she got better they’d find ways to make her relapse. They always did.

So he went about it the same way he always did. Assured her he would talk to the doctors without ever doing so. He would tell her she was doing better when really it was just the same. He couldn’t save her, but he would do what he can to make her life seem less grim than it was. He would give her the peace of mind no one else dared to. And while it wasn’t quite enough, it would have to do.