Nobodies

They check me into the psych ward. The very first thing I have to do is pat me down. The doctor has me put my hands against the wall and spread my legs. She checks me thoroughly, stopping at my pocket. “What is that?”
“My cellphone,” I reply.
“I’m going to have to take that,” she informs, holding her hand out.
I sigh as I dig it out of my pocket, placing it hesitantly into her hand. I know they’re trying to keep me safe or whatever, but honestly, it feels like they’re trying to break me down by cutting all of my contacts with the outside world.
She withdraws a large brown paper bag from her pocket, opening the bag and dropping the phone inside. She leads me to the bathroom, telling,
“I’m sorry, Gerard, but someone’s going to have to watch you change into these.” She holds up a hospital gown with white slippers with grippers on the bottom. “I can do it, but I can get a male staff member if you’d like.”
“What for?” I ask.
“It’s so you don’t hide anything to hurt yourself with,” she explains. “I’m sorry, but if your addiction has gotten so serious to the point that you’re in a psych ward, we have to do all we can to keep you safe.”
“I’d rather have a boy watch,” I decide, not wanting a girl to see me get possibly naked.
“Alright. Come with me,” she orders.
I follow her down the hall where she finds a guy dressed in all white like she is. He’s handsome, with shaggy brown hair, dark hazel eyes, and a mole on his jaw.
She tells him, “This is Gerard, Gerard, this is Sam. If you could do me a favor and watch him change?”
“Sure,” Sam replies, as if that were a totally normal question.
The doctor hands him the paper bag and my clothes. He puts a huge hand on my shoulder and guides me to the nearest bathroom, locking the door behind him.
He watches, bored, from the corner as I take off my shirt, revealing my pale and bony torso. I ask him,
“Am I allowed to keep my underwear on?”
He nods, replying, “Some patients on suicide watch aren’t even allowed that because of the elastic band, but you can.”
I undo my belt slowly, really not wanting to pull down my pants. God, if I would’ve known that a hot guy who was only like 25 was going to be watching me change, I wouldn’t have worn my pink briefs. I hesitantly lower my jeans to my ankles, kicking off my shoes and stepping out of my jeans. I put on the gown which is…. Shit….. open in the back. Fucking perfect, everyone in this hospital will get a great look at my pink underwear. I then step into the slippers, gathering my clothes and asking,
“What do I do with these?”
Sam takes them, adding them to the bag, which is now bulging due to all of my stuff being crammed inside it. “I’m going to give this to the front desk, then I’ll take you back to Dr. Hayward.”
I walk gripping the back of my gown, holding the ends so the open space is shut.
Sam smirks at me, and I feel myself go red. “You know, there’s probably at least 7 or 8 guys walking around with the backs open and their ass hanging out. Just be glad you’re not one of them.”
I appreciate Sam trying to make me feel better, but I still hold onto the back of the gown.
He drops the bag of at the front desk before taking me back to the doctor, who takes me to my room. She leaves, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor.
When I get there, I see a person with their back turned to me. They’re scratching at their bed sheets and have their head tilted up towards the window like sunflowers to light.
“Hi,” I begin.
The person turns around. I see his features, see his curly brown hair, brown eyes, and full lips. “Who are you?”
“I’m Gerard,” I answer. “I just got here, and I guess I’ll be staying with you for a while.”
“Have you been crying?” he asks.
I wipe at my eyes, feeling how inflamed they are. “Yes. That’s none of your business.”
“I’m Ray,” he finally tells me. “It’s nice to meet you.” He turns back away from me, mumbling, “It’ll be nice to have someone to help me through this.”
“So, Ray, what are you here for?” I question, hoping I don’t sound rude. Ray turns and glares at me, so I nervously add, “Y-you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
There’s a knock on the door frame (I guess in psych wards they never close the doors). The doctor is standing there. “Gerard, Ray? It’s time for group counseling.”
Ray quickly stands, hurrying out of the room. He must be one of the patients on suicide watch, because he’s not wearing any underwear beneath his gown. I follow reluctantly, just wanting to be home.
“We have a someone new joining us in therapy today,” the doctor tells the group.
No one claps or even smiles. Never in my life have I seen gloomier kids than in group therapy.
She turns to me, explaining, “I’m Dr. Hayward. Would you like to introduce yourself, and state why you’re here? Everybody else will do the same, if that makes you feel better.”
I stand, sharing, “I’m Gerard. I haven’t officially been diagnosed so….” I look down at Dr. Hayward, who smiles and nods encouragingly. “I’m here for self-harming, but I probably have a mental disorder of some sort.” I sit back down, feeling heat in my cheeks.
Ray had sat next to me, so Dr. Hayward motions for him to go.
Ray shakes his head. “No.”
“Come on, Ray,” Dr. Hayward coaxes. “See, Gerard did it. No one laughed; it’s okay.”
“They’re all going to laugh,” Ray hisses.
A blond boy with a lip ring across the circle rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.
“No one’s going to laugh at you, sweetie. We’re all here to help you,” Dr. Hayward assures.
Ray finally stands, pulling on a strand of hair as he introduces himself. “I’m Ray. I have schizophrenia.” He sits back down, almost ready to cry.
“That was good, Ray, really good,” Dr. Hayward compliments.
We go around the circle, everybody introducing themselves and basically announcing whatever mental illness they have.
When they get to the blond boy who had rolled his eyes at Ray, he reveals that his name is Bob and he has depression. I wish I had a title; if I say that I self-harm and give no reason why, they’ll all think I’m some loser trying to get attention or something.
When the session is finally over (today we talked about coping methods), I sit for a while longer, watching this cute kid named Christopher leave, watch his tight little ass bound by black boxers exit.
I then get up, heading back to my room. Ray follows me, and I just remember I didn’t close my gown as Ray asks,
“Why are you wearing girls’ underwear?”
“They’re not for girls,” I answer, shutting the gown as my face goes red.
“But they’re pink,” Ray insists. “Girls wear pink.”
I glance back at him, to see that he is looking back earnestly. He must be mentally slow or have some sort of personality trait that makes him so blunt. Not wanting to take the time to explain that boys can wear pink, too, I just sigh and lie,
“Yeah, they’re girls’ underwear.”
“Why are you wearing them?” Ray repeats.
“Can you drop it, please?” I beg, sitting on my bed and rubbing my temples.
“Yes,” Ray replies, lying down on his own bed.
God, I need to get out of here.

Notes

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