A Sociopath Is Better Than No Path

The laundry room was painted white walls, where the blood stained towels came to play; the never ended loads of material (cotton mostly it seemed) had been being shoveled into the machine for the last ten minutes, unaware as to why they were there.

I had been the celebrated patient among the gurneys for the last few hours, every fifteen minutes my whereabouts were checked to ensure that I had not gotten up and wandered off, which, characteristically, was something I was accustomed too. The nurses that chatted animatedly bleed through the paper thin walls, and I could over hear then discussing a new treatment in a more restrictive part of the facility.

Slowly, I got up, physically responding to my distress, and stalked my way over to the door, peaking my head out and around the frame.

"Ernie?" I said, quietly., hoping he would hear me. When his calm face turned up to the soundof his name, his face melted into a warm smile and ushered my being to sit beside him.

"What is it dear?" he asked, calmly. My eyes searched his face for the answer that could not be produced by my lips. Ernie was not as new to the floors as some of the other nursing clintele; he had been here longer than I have, his previous job working at another facility for the criminaly inasane; he claimed to prefer the one with the personality disordered adults instead. Sometimes people are too easy to read. Today, like almost any other day he was stalking the floors, he sported his NYFD hat, the one with the blue material and yellow stitched letters. His less than perfect spot of idle hair covered to his pleasure.

I didn't know how to answer his question; I knew something was the matter, but whar could that possibly be in the indigo sea that has swamped my brain?

"Do you think they're move me?" I suddenly asked, the question pouring out of me like vomit.

"Knowing you," he started. "Probably not," he added with a slight smirk, the only sign of personality he had left. He was flipping through paperwork, documenting charts of patient information while he spoke to me.

"It's their protocol to take you down here, and do an evaluation after what you did," he finally added, as if he feared saying it would cause something to erupt from inside of me.

"Oh," I quietly huffed out, trying to avoid looking into his eyes. I knew what he was saying and it made sense to me. This had been the third time this week I had been sent down to this particualr floor to be evaluated after refusing to attend therapy that the faciliity so thoughtfyllu provided.

"Do you think we'll be back up to the wing soon?" I asked quickly.
"Soon, yes," he answered, his words floating over me like a balloon.
"Why didn't you want to go?" he asked, only because it was part of his job.
"I didn't see a point," I lied back nonchalantly.
"There's always a reason to go to your therapy; its only going to make you that much healthier and that much closer to discharge," Ernie said.
"I have been here four years, Ernie, any amount of therapy I do won't change that," I spat back.
Thoughtfully plucked out of my senior year in high school, I was thrown down into a metal chair, forced to talk about whatever problems I had been avoiding so carefully for the last...who knows how long.
How are you feeling, Jadelyn? They would ask, pitying me. I would lie, spit, or flat out ignore them. When they saw past that, they threw me into a room, where I found that the white painted walls eventually cracked if you punch them hard enough. I have been thrown into that chair of pure manipulation more times than I've slept in the god awful piece of furniture the hospital deemed a bed. Sometimes, they would even try to talk to me while I was lying on it, uncomfortable and mushy in places, and I considered why the bed was like that rather then listening to the rambling of the psychiatrist that should not even be considered human.

I always hated when they used my full name, it was only suppose to pass my grandmothers lips like that; as if saying my full name made the question that much more real.

"Maybe talking will be your ticket out?" Ernie said, I could almost detect a tone of sarcasm within his voice. The only ticket out I have will be one that involves a line down my wrist; I will die in this place before they release me.

Notes