Sam

17 year old Sam lives in the epitome of an upper class life. Everything should be fine right? But what's behind his forced simile is much darker.

He looked down at the mess he had  made. Sometimes he would forget, just in the few minutes it took, how much damage he had done. The red stream from his wrist was slowing down now and he unrolled the badges he kept safely stored in the bedside drawer. He wrapped up his arm, from his wrist to just below the elbow. His deep sigh was hardly audible over the music he played. The relief brought by his razor was already wearing off. He felt heavy; he felt pained. Not from his wounds, but from the regret that inevitably follows each session. 

Black jeans and a pale blue button-up under a white sweater. The red high-top Versace sneakers are his own little touch. His father can only control so much of his life. Dr. and Mrs. Jones are the epitome of power couple. “The brilliant doctor and lawyer” Sam always says with a roll of his eyes. The pair have been grooming their bored son, since he was in diapers, to be a successful businessman.  The cliche was too much even for Sam to take. So he rebelled in his little ways. His little attempts to stick out from the swarm that is the preconceived plan of his life. 

He does a last once-over, glancing at every aspect of his appearance, hovering over his wrists- making sure the sleeves cover the stained bandages. He grabs his black backpack. His phone. His keys. Only been driving three months and already his parents bought him a car. But it wasn’t for him, not really. It was for them, their ego, their reputation. No, no, they could never have the son that wasn’t miles above everyone in practically every aspect.

Out of his bedroom-his sanctuary. Down the hall and the stairs, into the foyer. His dad sits scrolling on his computer, piece of toast in his hand. Freshly pressed suit. His mom, not there. Must already be at the gym. Can’t fall behind on that workout routine, can she? he thought to himself. The sarcasm rang in his head. 

His father glanced up and nodded. Sam did the same. That was all. All of their interaction for the morning. He proceeded to the four car garage and hoped into the black Lincoln, pushed the start and “Well I guess it’s off to hell” he mumbled to himself as he turned the radio up and peeled out of the long driveway out to the hedge lined road.

School is a blur of designer handbags and expensive watches. Sam, by no means popular, has his friends and fits in just enough to play the part that all his classmates and teachers expect him to play. It’s easy, really. No one will ask, no one will care, so smile. Although unsure of its origin Sam still kept this motto fresh in his mind as he smiles blankly and laughs emptily. 

He takes notes and does his homework. He reads the text book and writes his papers. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Same day, same Sam. Except now he sits home alone. No one notices while he slits his wrist and cuts at his hips. He lines the razor up along the scabs and indents from the past. Push down, drags across. Push down, drag across. Little perfect droplets of blood form along the line. They grow and then break spilling into one another and down his canvas. He feels relief although he hoped for something more from it. 

Looking down at his wrist, it’s not that deep, I don’t need to stop I’ve barely done anything. -it’s crazy how blind one becomes when the belief is that there is nothing to lose- Thumb and middle finger pushed and gripped the sides of the blade while his pointer rested on the top. It hurt at first, then the longer he held it, as he  pulled it across, the pain faded. One end to the other. He looked down at where the razor had been. 

Hmm. 

It took a second to register. His skin had spit, the wound was gaping open, he could see what looked like a layer of yellow bubbly fat under all the blood. It was rushing. Streaming. Pooling on the hard wood floors. Tears fell with the blood. It wasn’t the pain or even the regret. It was shock. Think. Think. OK, relax find the bandages. No, no regular won’t do. Where are the better ones? Sam digs, trying to find the butterfly bandages used to pull together skin of gaping wounds. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn't want to be taken to the hospital. He can’t be found out. This will ruin him. Ruin the picture perfect family. 

He can't find them. The desperation fades into hopelessness. Of course they aren’t here. Why would they be? Why would anything ever go right when he needs it to? F**k it. Who cares, nothing matters anyways. The tears keep falling, but he ignores them and picks the razor back up. He has a whole canvas to write his pain on. And he does.

What is that? What is that smell? Bleach? Chlorine? No, that’s not it. Ammonia, maybe? Whose voice is that overhead? Opened his eyes and bright white blobs are moving around. As they started to have distinguished shapes and features Sam noticed he wasn’t at home. Why am I in the hospital? Oh. As his sight unclouded so did his memory. Sam’s mom and dad sat on either side of his bed. They hadn't noticed he was awake. His mom sat quiet and still, staring at her hands. His dad talked in hushed and hurried whispers with a man in a white coat, a doctor. Probably one of his dad's colleagues. 

Evidence of previous cuts… Definitely not the first instance of self harming behavior… Bits of his father's conversation floated through his head, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. Sam stirred in the white hospital bed and all eyes were on him instantly. They moved in close to him but their eyes felt so far away. They looked at him like he was some strange creature, they were examining him, not really looking at him, not like they used to. Pity in their eyes, pity and fear. 

“Stop looking at me like that” Sam said turning his head away. He hated this. He didn’t know what he was feeling, he couldn’t tell what this emotion was- almost embarrassment.

“Why… Why in the world would you do this?” Sam’s mother said in a swelling tone. “Why did you never talk to us?” Why, why, why, why. The questions flew from her mouth. He couldn’t focus on her questions, he was distracted by her tears. His dad’s stern face was hiding a deeper emotion, but he couldn't read it.

“Please Mrs. Jones, your boy just woke up give him some space. We’ll need to get a psych evaluation. How about you and your husband get a bite to eat and relax in the cafeteria.” The doctor grabbed her hand and led her to the door, Sam’s father following close behind. Once in the hallway the doctor handed her over to her husband and pointed them down the hall.

Walking back into the room the doctor gave a sad smile. “So, Sam, I bet you have a lot of question, huh? Well we have some, too. If you're up for it?” 

“How did I get here? Why am I even here?” Sam said ignoring the doctors prod to answer his own questions. 

“Well your father found you in your room.You had passed out from blood loss. He called 911 and patched you up temporarally. If he wasn’t a doctor you likely would have died on the way to the hospital. Mind if  I ask you a question now?” Sam nodded slightly, keeping his eyes on the corner of the room. 

“What led you to attempt suicide yesterday afternoon?” 

“It wasn’t a suicide attempt! And what would you know anyways.” Sam snapped. He was not about to have this conversation, nope, no, not gonna happen.

“Sam, I’m Doctor Williams, a psychiatrist. I’m here to help you and your parents get you the best help for what you are going through.” Sam glanced up at his weathered features very slightly. Just long enough to make out the kind eyes and middled aged face. “Now if this wasn’t a suicide attempt, what was it?” Silence followed this question. Long silence. Maybe if I just ignore this he’ll go away. 

“Sam. I’ve got all day and you are going to have to answer these questions.” 

A deep sigh out and a breath in. “It wasn’t a suicide attempt. I just got overwhelmed, ok? No one was supposed to find out, I’m not supposed to be here I’m fine.” 

“Well this,” He said point at the thick bandages covering Sam’s arm, “doesn’t look ‘fine’ to me. We had to stitch you up, you know that right? Those were nasty wounds.” 

Sam ran his hand over the bandages trying to feel the cuts and the stitches. He winched. “They weren’t that bad. I could have dealt with it myself. Can I just go home? Pretend this didn’t happen?”

“But this did happen. And your parents won’t so easily forget.” They looked at each other for a moment. “You have people who want to help you. You can’t sweep this one under the rug.”

They talked calmly for a while longer. Sam answered what he could and ignored the questions he did not want to answer. Doctor Williams finished up and said good-bye, told Sam to get some rest. He would have a formal evaluation the next day.

“Ok Sam, there are going to be two parts, an objective section and a projective section, ok?” Her calm, slow voice annoyed Sam. He is not some fragile child that she needs to tiptoe around. Treat me like a normal person, God damn it. Despite this feeling Sam nodded, lips tightly shut. “Ok, how long have you engaged in self-harming behavior?” 

“Probably about two years.” Sam grunted out.

“And has anyone ever confronted you about it before now?”

“No.”

“So you’ve hidden it?”

“Uh yeah.” Well if no one has confronted me, then obviously I've hidden it from them…

“Do you engage in any other destructive behavior? Drinking, drugs, burning, starving, et cetera?” 

“Not really. I drink at parties a little but no more than everyone else.”

“I’m sorry but please stick to short answers for this section. No explanation is needed, just your answer. So, YES, you do engage in other destructive behaviors.” He glared at her for the remainder of the test as she wrote down his answers.

Do you consider yourself to be suicidal? Have you attempted before? Are you depressed? How are your relationships? How often do you feel: hopeless, lonely, abandoned?

Next she moved on to the perspective section. “Now you can provide examples and elaborations on your answers to the questions and scenarios I pose to you.” He nodded. Sam desperately just wanted to leave. He had already been in there for an hour and still had not seen his parents since the day before. 

“Now, can you tell me what you see and believe to be happening in this picture?” He looked at it questioningly. It was a black and white inkblot. Two black circles with wholes in the middle, donut shaped. A dark line curving down under them. Spots and smears, symmetrical on both sides, dark and cloud-like.

“I see a face. A simple, like… Classic frowning face.”

“Mhmm, I see.” She took back the picture and scribbled a few notes. “What about this one?”

“Umm, I guess two figures walking away from each other.” 

“Alright, alright.” More scribbling. More pictures. More inkblots. God it’s been almost two hours.

Then she brought out a detailed black and white drawing of a woman. Her hair fell over her face, which was cradled in one hand, while the other was on a door. 

“Tell me what you see in this picture, but also tell me about this person, and their thoughts and feelings as you interpret them. Tell me the story you see from the drawing.”

Sam sighed as he thought for a moment. “Um ok. There’s a women. She’s… She’s sad I guess, crying maybe. She’s walking through the doorway and her hand is on the door. She must be leaving, about to close the door behind her.” He finished the describe and quipped, “So um yeah, that’s what I’ve got” with an eye roll. 

“Can you tell me more about the details in the picture? Maybe even why she is leaving?”

Sam grunted out a “yes” and squinted at the picture, trying to pick out something important from the pencil marks. “Well the way she’s coming from, the room she’s leaving, is dark. She doesn't want to leave, I guess. But she still is, she might not even know why she is leaving, but still walking away from the dark room.”

“Ok good, thank you. I think we can be done here.” Sam stood up quickly and moved to the door. A man, in white pants and a white nurses shirt, pulled the door open from outside and lead Sam through the bright, unnaturally lit corridors back to his room.

A small hand gentle nudged Sam out of his sleep. A larger, rougher hand rested on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw his mother and father on either side of him. “Hi, honey. How are you? Can we talk to you?” Her sweet voice was at a whisper.

“‘Bout what?” He asked suspiciously. 

“We aren’t mad.” She said glancing at her husband whose lips were tightly shut. “We just want to understand.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself! I cut, ok!? I’m not suicidal, it’s just what I do and it’s no one else’s business.” He snapped at her and looked away. He did not want to see the tears in her eyes. 

“I’m.. I’m so sorry I was such a bad mother!” She burst into tears and Sam’s father moved around the bed to hold her. 

“Stop. Just stop. You didn’t do anything, none of this matters.” 

Sam’s father spoke for the first time, “It does matter. Look at your arm, you needed stitches. Do you even realize the harm, the damage you caused! We can’t just ignore this and look the other way for the rest of your life until we wind up back here again.”

“What do you want from me? What do you want me to say?!” Sam’s eyes were stinging.

“We want you to go to Riverside Hospital upstate!” Silence followed. Sam’s mouth opened slightly but said nothing. “It’s a residential treatment facility that is highly recommended. They’ll be able to help you.”

“I don’t need help! Am I just some freak, nutcase that you have to lockup?”

“That’s not it at all!” Her brown eyes seemed to tremble with her body.

“We just want you to be better.” Sam’s father said, successfully ending the conversation. There was nothing left to say on either parties side.

He spent his third and final night in the hospital and was sent home to pack for his indefinite stay at Riverside. There would be no discussion of it.

The black car pulled down the gated driveway, through acres of apple trees until a large white building presented itself. It had a certain southern charm to it, in the sense that it was a three-story house with frequent square windows and elegant pillars. Towering pine trees covered all sides of the house, with a small garden in front of the large dark doors. Intricate patterns were carved around the door and window sills. Long lines and swirls moved up and down, paired with flowers and long nature scenes. They seemed to tell a story, but Sam was not quite looking for the beauty in the place. Montgomery Manor was scrolled across a plaque sitting within the flower beds. His father pulled the car up to those doors and parked. No one looked at each other. No one spoke. 

Two orderlies, dressed all in white, came out to the car. One opened Sam’s door and greeted him, while the other waited for the trunk to open and take in the bags. 

“You must be Sam Jones” Sam nodded, disgruntled. “Let me give you a tour while your parents do a little paperwork.” The African American orderly waved a large, strong hand towards the garden and a trail around the building. 

“The whole property used to be owned by the Montgomery family in the 1800s. Heck, I think they owned the whole town at the time. Story goes that Ol’ Mr. Montgomery, around 1900s, had just one kid, a lil girl, who saw spirits walking around the property, so he kept her here thinkin’ she’d be safe from judgement of outsiders. She died of tuberculoses in her early teens and her father died shorty after. He donated the land and house to a local doctor who turned it into a treatment center. We’ve had historians all over this place, tryin’ to document and learn about the old family. Turns out, from what they've said, that the little girl was  schizophrenic, so it’s kinda cool this placed ended up being a psychiatric hospital. Don’t ya think?”  His voice was deep and gruff, but cheerful all in all. Sam, still sore about being sent here, just grunted out in  agreement. 

Looking around, the place was quite beautiful, despite how much sam wanted to ignore that fact he couldn't help but notice the flowers and trees littering the grounds. A tennis and basketball court could be seen out behind the house next to a pool, obviously much newer than the rest of the building. As they circled around the house he saw a greenhouse as well and scoffed. 

The orderly looked at him, “Guess you aren't here voluntarily, huh?” Sam shook his head, still saying nothing. They continued the tour. Sam ignored the information given to him as he walked and merely looked at his surroundings until they had circled through the inside, as well as outside, and reached the main office, just off the lobby of the manor.

The orderly, named Johnathan, lead him past a secretary into a large square office with light pouring through the two big windows and a large wooden desk turned away from them, towards the heavy door. His parents sat in the two chairs by the desk. Bodies turned towards each other. The aging woman, with short graying bob and glasses, looked up at him and Jonathan as they entered the room. 

“Hello Sam. How was the tour?” She said in an overly cheery voice that made Sam want to puke.

“It was fine. I don't Know…”

“Ok well maybe we should just start with a little briefing about why you were advised to come here, hmmm? Does that sound ok?” She squinted and smiled. Sam continued to hold back his vomit. Why does she think talking to me like I'm six will make this situation any better…? 

Sam, having said nothing, continued to glare at this woman. Dr. Jameson according to the  nameplate on her desk. Her smile widened to compensate for Sam’s refusal to respond.

“From your evaluation it was concluded that you have severe depression, possible anxiety, and well, obvious to you, self harming behaviors.” Sam felt a pang of anger and defensiveness. Not having anything to say, he rolled his eyes yet again. It’s starting to become his signature look. Her smile flickered a little, but apparently she wasn’t about to let Sam ruin her spiel. 

“Now the manor, as we like to call it, is like a big family living together. There are rules and punishments for breaking said rules. You will start out with certain privileges and as you make process and become accustomed to the manor you will get more and more freedom.” Sam’s mom and dad looked at Sam for any type of approval, any forgiveness. 

“Ah yes, of course. Now when do I get my monogrammed straight jacket?” His sarcasm cut through the room. His mother's eyes started to tear like she’d been slapped and Dr. Jameson’s face was strained by the force it took to maintain her smile.

“Oh, Sam.” She said faking a little chuckle. “This isn't an asylum and it isn't the 1950s. This is a place for recovery. A place to get better.” How can she not have cavities speaking like that? “We aren't here to trap and confine you. You will have a nice room and just one roommate with whom you will share a bathroom. The gardens and outdoor activities are always open unless they prove to be too much for a patient. There is a large rec room where you will hopefully, fingers crossed hehe, spend most of your time. We don't like people to be cooped up in their rooms.” She smiled and wagged a finger at Sam as she said this last part. Ugh gag me. 

“OK then! Jonathan let’s take Sam to his room and let his parents say goodbye as he gets unpacked.” 

There was very few words spoken. Long hugs, silent tears, and a hushed whisper of I love you. They truly believe this is for the best don't they? Well Sam knew he was going to fight this. He would lie and cheat and steal. Tell them what they want to hear and get the hell out of here. He would not relinquish control over himself so easily. End of part I.

Author's Note

Be as honest and straight with me as you can. I won't be offended if you want to tell me it sucks