Mind Games Ch 4 Metal Detector

The steam fogged my eyes, my hands rubbing the bar of soap and lathering suds all over my bare skin. Scorching hot water stung my wounded arm; a deep moan of content escaped my throat. Showers were never this relaxing until I got locked up here. I plopped out, toweling myself dry as I eyed the mirror.

I looked a wreck. My skin was ghostly pale, my scars easily noticeable; dull pink lines across my arm. Grey, sad eyes sunk into my skull, cheek bones prominent and pale lips drawn. I had lost so much weight that almost every one of my ribs were visible, pelvis bones begging to break free from the tight skin that trapped it. I began to wonder what Alyssa looked like underneath those baggy sweaters and jeans, finding myself wincing. I was beginning to look gradually like her as the days drug on. I forced myself to look away from the dark-haired skeleton I’ve become, pulling on baggy jeans and a t-shirt.

I found myself drifting into the Game Room, flopping onto the couch next to Rosemary, a woman around sixty years old that never spoke, whom always stared off into space. Her silver, frizzy hair was so long it reached to her lower back, eyes a vivid hazel. She would’ve been appealing to the eye if she had emotion and color to her face other than that blank stare.

I watched Beauty and the Beast dance gaily on the television, my eyes wandering to the telephone every few seconds. My body broke out in tremors again. They switched me to eighty milligrams of Geodon, an anti-psychotic that made me shake and want to sleep for years. I complained to Anita, but she said that those were common side-effects and that they will eventually subside once my body was used to it.

“Woo-hoo!” Someone shouted from the game-board table. “I finally won! Boo-yah, bitches!” My eyes lept away from the phone to see a middle-aged man jumping up and down with excitement.

“Idiots,” I over-heard Rosemary whisper.

Shock over-came me as I turned to glare at her. “You do talk, don’t you?” I wondered aloud. There was no answer as her face went from irritation back to dull. She nodded off, staring at the TV.

I got up and sat at the desk with the phone. Maybe I should try again… I shook my head and walked back to the couch, surprised to find a skinny woman with short purple hair and piercings in her nose and eyebrow smiling back at me. I ignored her, sitting on the couch next to it and watching Beauty and the Beast again. The town was singing a hater-laced song as they tried to break the doors to the Beast’s mansion.

“What’s up, the name’s Liz,” the girl with the purple hair sounded, catapulting out of the couch and landing next to me. She smiled at me again, a ring shining from her lower lip. I studied her lanky body clothed in black tights, black knee-high combat boots, and purple tank-top. I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra because tiny nipples stuck out from her skin-tight shirt.

I blinked. “Uh…hi. I’m Jake.”

“How long have you been locked up?” she asked urgently, her feline eyes sweeping my body.

“Three, going on four months,” I grumbled. “Are you new? Never seen you around here before…”

She grinned, baring a false set of fangs she probably got done by a dentist. She must have been one of those rich girls who was fascinated with sharing the same bed with Marilyn Manson. “Yes. Sociopath, been locked up all over the country in jail and also in these lovely torture chambers,” she said matter-of-factly. “What label have they placed you under?”

“I’d rather not share my psycho-information with total strangers, thank you,” I spat, gritting my teeth. Her high energy was over-powering, leaving me with a migraine.

“Oh,” she blurted, “okay…” It was quiet for a while, until her voice interrupted the Beast transforming back into a prince. “So, how’d you get in here? Must have been pretty bad if they’ve had you for four months.”

“More like three months and two weeks. And I went crazy, obviously,” I growled, eyes still on the television. I wish she’d just leave me the heck alone.

“I beat the shit out of the police man and cussed out everyone in the prison cell. Threatened that I’d kill myself if they wouldn’t let me out.” She snickered, “I smoked a cig on the way here, put it out on my arm. The fuzz told me that if I kept it up, I’ll be in the nut house for the rest of my life. I told him I’d rather be in a psych ward than in a cage with shitty food.” She thrusted her arm in front of my face, forcing all of the attention on her. Her arm looked almost like a copy of mine, scars on top of scars, criss-crossing each to mock a crucifix. Pink ovals bumped up on others, most likely from cigarettes. “So, how old are you? I’m twenty-one, going to be twenty-two in December.”

My eyes fixated on the fresh oval in the center of her wrist. It was a crusted red and purple. She liked to pick her’s, too. I looked at my own arm. “Twenty-seven; twenty-eight in February. Why are you asking me so many questions?”

She shrugged, crossing her arms. “You seemed like someone who had enough logic to talk to. A lot of people in here are depressives and catatonics; boring and avoids conversation at all cost.”

“You seem to know your psychology,” I commented, watching the credits.

“Well, doesn’t take much when you’ve been in and out of therapy and psychiatrist appointments and mental-health facilities for six and a half years.”

She finally grasped my interest. “You’ve been doing this since you were fifteen?”

She tucked her bang behind her ear, showing off ten piercings jabbed in it. “Yep…ever since I dropped out of school and tried to run away from home. My parents refused emancipation. Pissed me the fuck off. So they locked me up in a psych ward when they found me, two months later, with twenty-five piercings and three new tattoos,” she grimaced, biting her nails. “That’s when they diagnosed me and drugged me up like I belonged in a zoo.”

My arm began to itch, forcing me to pick at it. My finger-tips rubbed on it. Damn. Forgot they clipped my nails. Liz moved in nosily, giggling. “You do it, too, huh?” she asked between chuckles. “Get caught?”

This urked me, so I immediately stood up. That’s when a nurse announced it was board-game time. Liz pounced, slapping my ass and skipping over to the table. What the fuck?

We ended up playing this dumb picture game. I decided to walk out during the middle of it, back into my room. I was suddenly motivated to read that book Dawn gave me. It all had words high-lighted; depressive, manic, mixed episodes, hallucinations, catatonia, insomnia… In a weird way, this all made me feel comforted. At least now I had somewhat of an idea to the root of most of my problems.

***********************************

“So when I throw this ball, tell me your biggest fear and toss it to someone else to share,” Simmon announced, a tennis ball in hand. He tossed it to Mike.

“Being stuck in here for another six months,” he yelled sarcastically, handing it to me. We both laughed for a few minutes, Simmon looking at us like we were two elephants fucking.

“I don’t fear anything!” I hollered in a deep, mocking voice, still laughing. I chucked it at Cheryl, the yellow ball bouncing off her head and flying back at me. I caught it, my laughter getting so hard it was going mute.

“Jake, take this seriously,” Simmon yelled over our laughter. “Now apologize to Cheryl and tell us what you’re really afraid of.”

I rolled my eyes. “I feel like I’m in grade school again,” I muttered under my breath. I turned to Cheryl, who was laughing with us. “I’m sorry, dude. Even though you think it’s funny, too,” I peaked over at Simmon. “And I’m afraid I’m going to leave here even more crazy than when I was admitted.” I threw the ball back at Cheryl.

“I’m afraid of TITS!” she shrieked, making us laugh all over again. She served it like it was a volley ball, over to our depressed Robert, who had to jump out of his seat to catch it.

“Not be accepted,” he announced, tears beginning to fall (right on schedule). Alyssa caught the ball, a smirk on her face.

“I’m pretty sure everyone in this God damn hospital knows my phobia by now—“

“I don’t,” Liz interrupted, playing along.

“Well,” she said, her skull swiveling over to look at her. “I’m scared of gaining weight and becoming a fat slob.” She tossed the ball to Liz.

“I don’t think you’d allow yourself to get that way,” Liz drug on. “Anyways, I don’t feel fear, remember, Simmon? Is that your name?”

“Yes, Elizabeth,” he groaned. His expression read exhaustion. He must really hate his job. “And you don’t have any fears?”

She tossed the ball to Rosemary, who said nothing and tossed it to another psycho. He complained about porcelain dolls and Q-tips and threw it over to the last victim, Henry, whom didn’t even react to a ball zipping past his face.

“Rabbits.” He got up and grabbed the ball off of the floor and shuffled over to Simmon, dropping it into his hand. He slid back to his seat.

“This is so stupid,” Mike whispered, laughing again.

Simmon began explaining that fear was an illusion, a false reality. It made me wonder…what if all this crazy talk was a false reality? What if this supposed reality that we live in wasn’t even real? Maybe this society, this media that we live off of, was a bunch of made-up bullshit so we could conform to something. So many questions, so little answers.