Mind Games Ch 1 Welcome to the Jungle

“I’m not eating this toasted shit!” Alyssa spat, catapulting herself up from the table and sprinting to the door. Ben stopped her just as she reached the door to open it, wrapping his arms around her concave waist and carried her back to her seat. Tears drenched her gaunt cheeks, muttering something about calories and fat content.

Alyssa’s a twenty-six-year-old woman who had a twelve-year-old body. Rumor has it that she’s been here for almost a year and has only put on ten pounds, going from eighty-five to ninety-five pounds. Personally, it’s too bad that she refuses to eat. She had long, gorgeous, naturally red hair and vibrant green eyes; she could’ve been a sexy woman with an extra thirty pounds on her.

I glared down at her neglected plate of grilled cheese and tomato soup. They were getting soaked from her salty body fluids. My stomach gurgled, and I could feel some of my own lunch wretching back up my throat.

“Just picture your life without this disease, Allie,” Ben soothed. “No more fear…seeing your family’s faces glowing with pride. I know you’re a strong person, you’ve been arguing with us for months. All you need to do is apply yourself and see yourself for who you are—a beautiful, intelligent, young lady.” He rubbed her back, extra gentle, as if he would put any more pressure on it he’d snap her in half.

To my amusement, she actually stopped sobbing this time. Ben had won his first anorexic battle! “Okay, I’ll eat the tomato soup,” she mumbled, her arms slumping with defeat. “But I’m not even touching that grilled chunk of lard!”

I felt a tug on the back of my head. I jerked up, relaxing when I found out who it was. A thin, balding man with squinty eyes grinned at me, plopping down on the empty seat next to me. It was Mike Paddoc, one of the only people I actually spoke to in here. He’s a paranoid schizophrenic-junky. Mike has told me billions of wild stories about shooting up, snorting, and smoking heroin in his grass and cigarettes (he said it was the perfect combination to cause complete tranquility). He had explained to me in great detail about his freak-outs, from trashing his apartments to literally believing his parents were Russian spies setting out a plan to “terminate” him. He even broke into their house at five in the morning to search through every nook and cranny to find their recorded documents and loaded weapons…which lead him to jail, to court, and, unfortunately for him, here.

“They’re giving me shots of Risperidal again,” he groaned, tearing his grilled cheese into tiny pieces and stirring them into his soup. “Hurts like a bitch getting stabbed in the ass twice a day… Guess that’s what I get for throwing the television at Nurse Anita.”

“I would throw a TV at her, too,” I said in mid-laughter.

Mike’s eyes widened, gulping down soup. “She wouldn’t shut up! Purple Rain was showing me a very important symbolic message about the government!” We busted out laughing.

“I’m supposed to be switching to a different therapist tomorrow… Dr. Lauterbach told me this morning during vitals,” I announced. Anxiety hit me like a suicide bomber in Iraq, fluttering from my stomach all the way to my chest. The thought of having to talk to a complete stranger about how much I’m a lunatic urks me. I was finally beginning to trust Kenneth, too, after three months of meaningless conversation about my childhood past and blah, blah, blah.

Mike’s brow furrowed. “They’re making you see a different therapist? Why? Who?”

I shrugged, staring at my untouched food that was congealing into goo. “Kenneth told Dr. Lauterbach that he thinks I need someone who can connect with me and that’s specialized in my illness. In my opinion, it’s a load of crap.”

“You didn’t say who they’re making you see.”

I forced myself to tare a bite out of my sandwich. It was cold and soggy; greasy mush. I slid my plate away. “Dawn-something-or-other. Apparently she’s new. Anyways, I’m contemplating on ditching group therapy, are you in on it?”

“Can’t,” he sighed, “Anita told me if I mess up one more time, they’re transferring me to the upper ward. And you know how strict they are on there—plus, the patients are outrageous. I wouldn’t be able to go a day without committing homicide.”

Ben stood up and shouted that lunch was over. Everyone paraded into a huge line and dumped their food into trash cans, handing the cafeteria ladies their empty trays. We all continued in a straight line, up the stairs to our assigned areas. Right on schedule.

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“My father always told me I’d be a failure,” Robert blubbered, his head collapsing into his hands. “I—I just didn’t believe that it would actually be true—“

“CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON!” Cheryl screamed at the top of her lungs. She twitched in her seat, a giant grin smeared across her face. “Crouching penis, hidden VAGINA!” She went on, giggling ferociously and clapping her hands on her knees. Nurse Anita scowled and tugged her out of the room.

I tried to hold back my laughter, but failed miserably, getting nasty looks from everyone in the room. Damn, no one in this place has a sense of humor. No wonder everyone’s depressed.

Simmon, our ward’s group therapist, cleared his throat, breaking the dead air. “Robert, that isn’t true at all. In fact, everyone get out your notebooks. I want you to write down three things about yourself that you and others would believe make you have a purpose in life,” he pointed to the words written on the dry-eraser board. “Like your talents, your interests, and personal qualities that makes you a great person.”

Everyone opened their college-ruled notebooks, the clicking sounds of pens in unison interrupting that thin, musky aura the hospital fumed. It was strangely comforting to me, mocking a group applause.

“You have a few minutes to complete this exercise. When everyone is finished, we will go around the room and share,” Simmon instructed, taking a seat.

My heart raced. I absolutely hate sharing information such as this, especially infront of multiple people. My hands shook as I wrote:

1. Artist
2. Unique
3. I like to read?

I tried to peak at what the people sitting beside me were writing, but they were paranoid, insecure psychos (such as myself), so they were hovered over their notebooks, cupping their hands over their words. What if I sound moronic? Or if they all think I’m acting like even more of an asshole? What if they laugh at me and ridicule me for saying such idiotic words? Damn, I have to be pathetic. They all think I’m stupid, pathetic, and an asshole piece of shit. How am I supposed to sleep at night knowing that even crazies from a nut-house think I’m an idiot-jerk-loser?! Wetness tingled from my wrist. My eyes slid down, noticing a raw wound on my arm. Blood was crusted under my nails. I covered it with my hand.

“Is everyone ready to share?” Simmon asked aloud. There was an awkward silence as everybody perked up, ready to recite their self-worth. Talk about lame. Simmon scoped around the room, deciding who would be his first victim. His scrawny build, bug-eyes, and sergeant-styled hair reminded me of a ferret on crystal meth, and with that observant, almost anxious expression on his face, made it all the more comical.

I bursted out in a loud chuckle, instinctively shoving my first down my throat. It was too late. He had already pounced on his prey. “How about you, Jacob?” His eyes widened abruptly when they fell on my arm.

I pulled my hand out of my mouth and impulsively crossed my arms. My heart pounded in my ear drums, heat flushing my face as I witnessed Simmon’s expression transform from shock to empathy. I opened my mouth to try to form words, but there was no sound.

“Would you like to share?” Simmon pushed.

The air seemed thick, as though it was weighing me down, smothering me. It grew feverishly cold and suddenly I felt as though I were a fish out of water; every breath was a struggle. “I…ummm…” I heard myself grumble. My eyes stung and my vision became blurry. “I have to go…use the restroom,” I blurted out, getting the hell out of there. I could feel eyes on me from the nurses as I stumbled down the hall, weeping… I could almost make out what they were saying and the guilt from embarassment made my heart sink and body feel extra heavy. I shut myself in my room, watching the walls close in on me. The camera bore down on me, reminding me that they were always watching me… I growled at it and flipped it off.

My fingernails did my thinking for me, finally giving my stressed-out, over-encumbered brain a breath of fresh air. They dug deep into the fresh wound, shredding the flesh. Warmth pulsed through my body and I could finally breath again.

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I glanced up from my book when I heard the door creaking open. When I realized it was Simmon, I immediately slammed my book shut and tugged my sleeve over my arm (I had changed into my Sublime hoodie just for this certain occasion). He sat down, deliberately staring at me.

“What’s up?” I shot out, desperately trying to end this intense stalker-stare.

He turned away from me. A sigh of relief escaped my lungs. His eyes searched the cover of my book. “’Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’,” he read aloud, his mouth forming into a smirk. “Johnny Depp did a great job in this film.”

“The book’s light-years better. Hollywood always cuts out everything and creates random twists whenever they base their movies off of literature,” I argued, getting intrigued. “I mean, look at what they did to poor Anne Rice’s ‘Queen of the Damned’. Seeing that in the theater was a waste of money.”

Simmon grinned, baring goofy buck-teeth. He really does look like a tweaked-out rodent. He plopped the book back on the bed and went back with that stare, his gigantic brown eyes glistening with uncomforting confrontation. “I noticed your arm during group.”

I went stiff as a board, my arms coiling around my waist to the point of suffocation. I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fu—

Warm arms came around me, the world abruptly going still. Was I rocking back and forth? “Let me see,” his matronly voice muttered softly, his eyes fixated on my arm.

I took a deep breath and unwraveled my arms. Simmon dominated the scene, delicately rolling up the sleeve to bare my thoughtless, painless sin. It was raw as a fresh slab of steak. Deep as a hollow cave. Crimson water still oozed out, staining sickly pale skin. In my own sick, twisted mind, this was a work of fine art…oil paints on home-made canvas. I felt myself smile and I wouldn’t dare look into those judging eyes.

“What medication does Dr. Lauterbach have you on?” Simmon finally asked, making my vision of blissful self-destruction evaporate back up into my subconscious.

I tugged my sleeve down. “Abilify and Klonopin.”

“I think I might have a word with him—“

“Hey, I’m fine, okay?” I barked. “I’m not hallucinating anymore. Obviously they’re having some effect.”

Simmon blinked. Worry bore in his obnoxious slab of skin you’d call a face, making me want to scream. He stood up. “From the looks of your arm, I’d have to disagree.” He grabbed my hand and forced me onto my feet. “I’m taking you to see Linda.”

We ventured down the halls, patients staring in curiosity, nurses frowning down upon me. The anxiety was building up again and I felt as though I was going to vomit. Finally we came across the door, that obnoxious magenta sign screaming VITALS. We waited outside. Through the walls I could hear Alyssa fighting with Linda about how she made her get weighed backwards.

“I don’t understand how this supposedly helps me! All it does is make me even more obsessed that you people are getting me fat!”

“You’re five foot nine, Allie. You’re fifty pounds underweight. Now go to your therapy appointment.”

The door flew open, a skeleton stomping out. “Fine!” she whimpered, shoving me into the wall. “BITCH!”

Simmon and I waltzed in to see a stressed out Linda. Her usually neat and prim short brunette hair frizzed out, mocking Albert Einstein’s wacky hair style, and her eyes reflected irritation. I had to laugh. Linda Fergus, a nurse who had to be (at the least) forty pounds overweight, has to feel insulted every day battling with an anorexic whom believes she’s the hugest blimp on the face of the earth.

“Hey Simmon,” she muttered. She nodded to me, “Jake.”

“There’s an incident that occurred.” Simmon pulled up my sleeve.

She let out a breath of shock. “My gosh, Jake…” Her tone of voice shook my insides, the nausea gurgling in my intestines.

“Could you dress and bandage this?” He asked, leaning on the door frame. “Also clip and file his nails down?”

“Of course,” Linda assured, gesturing me to take a seat on the metal stool next to the hospital-like bed. I fell into the seat and watched as Simmon disappeared down the ward and into the nurse’s medication unit. He was probably going to talk to Dr. Lauterbach.

“So, what happened?”

My eyes rolled down to look at my arm. I watched as she pulled it out in front of her, examining the wound as she squirted anti-bacterial cream on it. The coolness on the burning pulp made me flinch. “Did something happen?” She smoothed the cream onto it, making my muscles loosen from its clench.

My thoughts dispersed as I watched her pull out gauze from her pocket. She wraveled it round and round my wrist, the pressure numbing it once again. I studied the floor, mesmerized by the tan and white tile.

“You know, there is beauty in life,” she mentioned, turning around to search through her cabinets. Finally, she pulled out a silver pair of nail clippers. Gently, she began clipping the blood-crusted weapons, dropping them into her hand and pausing to twirl around and toss them into the trashcan. “Have you ever thought about keeping a journal? It could help you vent these emotions… I mean, you don’t even have to write in it—I’ve heard the rumor around here that you’re a phenomenal artist.”

“I haven’t drawn since November of last year,” I growled.

She shrugged, finishing up my thumb and moving to the other hand. “It doesn’t matter how long its been since you’ve drawn. It only matters if you stop altogether, catch my drift?”

Shut the fuck up you dumb bitch. You barely even know me. I watched as she filed my nails all the way down. “Okay, you’re all done up!”

I hopped up, the woman smiling dumbly at me. I started down the hall, hearing her words vaguely as she called out: “You just need to take it easy. I know it’s hard, feeling the way you do now, but just remember that things will eventually get better again.”

Ha. Tell that to my record stealthily filed away in Dr. Lauterbach’s office. You have no idea.