Her. Part 19

I looked at her, not knowing what to say. She rolled her eyes at me.

She said, "I'm going to go talk to someone."

Janine stormed to the counselor's desk, and she loudly made clear that she hadn't seen Dr. Cuvo yet. Geoffrey told her that Dr. Pelchat would see her before the day was over.

Janine questioned him, "Why? Is Dr. Cuvo not coming to see me?"

"Please go sit down and wait for Dr. Pelchat," Geoffrey pleaded with her.

Janine stared at Geoffrey. Geoffrey looked up at her from his chair. Janine asked, "Is something wrong with Dr. Cuvo?"

Ms. Mosley got up from her chair and walked over next to Geoffrey. She put her hand on Geoffrey's shoulder. He stayed quiet.

I got up from where I was sitting and went over to the desk. I was concerned and wanted to know, too.

"Is Dr. Cuvo okay?" I asked.

Geoffrey frowned at me. "Janine and Kristen, please sit down."

Ms. Mosley kept a calm demeanor, but strongly urged us to step away from the counselor's desk. She said, "If you both don't do as you are asked, you will go to your room."

Janine angrily stomped off to the Girls' Unit. I started to follow her, but Ms. Mosley called out to me. I had forgotten about my head injury. She wanted me to stay in the main room so that she could monitor my concussion.

I looked over at the table where Daniel and I had been sitting. Daniel had already disappeared to the Boys' Unit. Looking at the table, I noticed something. Just underneath it, on the floor, was a crumpled-up sheet of paper. I rushed over to the table and grabbed the paper. I smiled at my prize, and then looked around to make sure Daniel wasn't coming back for it.

Ms. Mosley whispered something to Geoffrey that made him squirm uncomfortably in his chair. When she said all that she needed to say, he nodded at her and picked up the telephone and started dialing a number. Ms. Mosley said goodbye to Geoffrey, and she left the unit. Without looking back, I ran to my room.

CHAPTER 21.

Dear Kristen, I miss you so much. Mom said that you would be home soon. I hope you feel better. What made you sick and why can't me and Nicholas come see you? Are the doctors being mean to you? Did they stick you with a needle? I hate needles. Hurry up and get better so that you can come back home.

Love, Alison She signed the letter with a heart next to her name. I was glad to know that Alison didn't know why I was in the hospital. I knew my mother wouldn't tell her. I thought that Nick might, but my mother probably told him not to tell her what happened.

I heard it in my mind so clearly: Mom may have said to Alison, "Don't worry. Your sister will be home. She's just sick. That's why she had to go to the hospital." To her friends (John's parents and Lexus' parents), she probably said, "You know Kristen, such a drama queen. She is calling out for attention, and it's a good thing she is in the hospital. Maybe it will do her some good to be locked up."

Then, of course, they would all smile, shrug it off, comfort Mom, and feel sorry for her having to deal with a "sick" child in the hospital. I dreaded the day I had to get out of the hospital. I hadn't really thought that far ahead. Who knew how long it was going to take to get better in Bent Creek? I didn't know. Dr. Cuvo didn't know. I didn't even know if Dr. Cuvo was okay. He was acting strange, and it made me feel strange.

I looked over at Janine. She was lying on her bed, reading a magazine. She seemed to be deep into what she was reading. She was a lot calmer than she'd been in the main area. I wanted to ask her what she thought may have happened to Dr. Cuvo, but I didn't want to get her upset again. At the counselor's desk, she'd seemed like she suspected something terrible. The fear and anger that had been in her voice made me wonder.

"What?" Janine asked, noticing that I was staring at her.

She smoothed out her magazine so it lay flat on the bed in front of her. As soon as she smoothed the magazine's pages out, I saw what she was interested in. She wasn't reading an article. Posing in the magazine were four super-models barely covered up in two-piece bikinis. Their faces were glamorously painted in make-up. They had perfectly tanned skin. Their bodies were perfectly thin. The bikinis were bright, provocative, and expensive. They looked like live-action Barbie dolls.

I said, "Janine, summer is almost over. Are you thinking about getting one of those swimsuits?"

Janine scoffed.

"If I could fit in one," she said.

"I'm sure they come in different sizes," I told her.

She raised her eyes slightly and said, "I don't want one unless I can look like that in it. If I looked like that, I would be perfect."

She looked almost crazed. Her eyes were sharp as she stared at the pictures. I didn't know whether I should to tell someone that she had that magazine. It couldn't be helping her. She turned the page, and there was a picture of a handsome, teen pop singer. He was very famous for his sensational dance moves and chart-topping alb.u.ms. I remembered Alison screaming over the boy when she'd seen him on television accepting a Grammy Award. Janine's attention seemed to be focused on the cute and popular star instead of the anorexic quadruplets on the previous page. I let it go, and went back to minding my own business.

I looked beside me and saw Daniel's crumpled-up artwork. I smiled as I grabbed it, remembering our conversation. I opened the paper, and inside was a drawing of a mysterious girl. She didn't appear to be smiling. Her hair was long, and it went down her shoulders. She had a swoop bang that covered one eye. She was beautiful. She looked like she didn't smile much. She probably didn't need to. Her perfectly sculpted, heart-shaped lips made her expressions without moving. I noticed that she actually was smiling, even though her lips weren't curled up enough at the corners to show it. Her eyes gave a hint that she may have been in love.

A sick feeling came over me. It wasn't nausea. It was the sickness that came with love. When you loved someone and they didn't know that you loved them, it was sickening. Who was this girl? Whom did she love? Where was she? Maybe she was gone because she'd loved him. She'd realized that it wasn't what she thought it would be. Maybe he'd told her that he loved her, and maybe he'd let her down. I leaned back on my pillow.

Dear Kristen, Are you okay? Why did you do that? You scared me so bad. How could you do something like that? I am mad at you. Didn't we say that we would always be there for each other? Mom said that we would start over and get better as a family. Why did you mess everything up? Mom is mad. She closed your door and said that no one can go in there. I don't want you to die. There is hope for you.

Love, Nick I folded his letter in two, and closed myself up inside. The pain was deep. I couldn't do anything locked in Bent Creek. I couldn't do anything to make him understand. I didn't want him to understand. Nick was the one who'd gotten the support after Jack had been sent to prison. Everyone had said that Nick was the one who'd needed treatment because he'd been the one hurt. Alison and I hadn't been hurt. No, we hadn't been hurt at all. Everyone had listened to Nick because he'd been Jack's victim. He'd been small and helpless. He had been heard. Mom had made sure of it. Nick had received treatment. He'd gone through years of psychiatric help and support. And I had begun cutting myself. Mr. Sharp had become my only real friend. He'd showed me how to deal with the pain. I'd tried to kill myself, but I hadn't succeeded. That was what Nick couldn't understand.

I balled up his letter in anger. The feeling of sickness and death swelled back up inside of me. If my heart could just stop right now, if it could just go with the rotting feeling that I had inside, if it would just stop on my command, I would be free, I thought.

In anger, I tore the letter into pieces. I couldn't hold the rage inside of me in any longer. I bit into the shredded pieces of paper and chewed them. While chewing, I grabbed my pillow and repeatedly punched it as hard as I could.

I screamed, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

I screamed until my throat burned. Janine rushed over to my side and tried to grab my arm. I pushed her away, still screaming. She flew back and hit the wall. I wasn't aware of my own strength. I fell back on my bed and started biting the sheets, having swallowed the paper in my mouth.

Janine ran out of the room. I couldn't stop her. I was too busy trying to eat my bed sheets in a fit of rage. I tried to focus my mind, but I was too far gone. Mr. Sharp stared at me from across the room. Nodding his head and smiling, he told me to bleed. I bit hard into the sheet, and let it cut my lip. Blood pinched out. It wasn't satisfying enough, so I tried harder so that the blood would spill. My teeth ground into the sheets, and I heard myself grunting and snarling like an animal. This madness was wonderful, and it made Mr. Sharp excited.

"That's right," he said. "Do them all a favor. You're hopeless. That's why things are the way they are. It's because you are hopeless, Kristen. Hopeless."

I hadn't always been... hopeless...

Hope had risen out of my fingertips and onto the paper when I used to write. I'd loved writing poems. Dad used to be my biggest fan. He used to ask to read some of my poetry whenever I was writing and he'd knock on my bedroom door and just come in without an answer. He used to hover over me in curiosity. He used to be interested in me.

"Is my girl writing again?" he asked.

"Yes, Daddy, but it's not ready yet. You can't read it," I told him with a shy giggle.

He wouldn't let up. He kept pressing me until I gave in and read to him what I had written so far.

"Okay, fine. Are you ready?" I gave in.

"Yeah," he said with a smile. "I don't think I can wait any longer to hear what future award-winning poet, Kristen Elliott, has written."

"All right," I said. I looked into his eyes and my heart fluttered. "Happiness and Hope, by Kristen Elliott. There are no real words to describe what happens when I look into your eyes. Is it happiness? It makes hope rise. Hope that I always make you smile. Hope that your smile will never disappear. Convincing, charming, sweet, and always there for me. I hope that we will always be."

"Who was that for?" he asked.

"Dad," I said, feeling shy.

"Okay. It's beautiful," he said. He leaned in and kissed me. He walked over to the door. He winked with one last sweet smile, and he left.

There was no more hope. There were no more smiles.

I didn't think about what I was doing when I swung as hard as I could. I had to keep them away from me. The counselors were pulling on me. Three of them grabbed me off the bed and carried me from the bedroom. I continued to scream with blood dripping from my mouth. They carried me to a room and laid me down on a bed. I kicked and screamed harder when I saw that the nurse had a needle.

Geoffrey told her to stick me. He was probably angry that I had knocked his gla.s.ses off his face while I'd been having the tantrum. The nurse and another counselor locked me down in restraints. The nurse stuck the long needle in my neck and pushed all of the liquid inside that needle into my veins. It burned.

I screamed out to them hoa.r.s.ely that I hated them and that I needed to die. My throat burned. I felt myself start to move in slow motion. My mouth slowed down. Screaming became hard to do, so I stopped. Exhausted tears fell out of my eyes. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the bright lights and the dizziness that came over me. My mind stopped racing. Thoughts slowed down. Warmness came over me.

I heard them talking over me. I couldn't move. I couldn't open my eyelids to see them. The lids felt too heavy.

"She will be okay. Give her a few hours," I heard the nurse say. "Are you all right, Geoffrey?"

The door shut.

"No," I tried to scream out. It was just a whisper.

I heard my heart pounding in my brain. It was loud, and it made my head hurt. I knew this was prison. I knew it. Where was Dr. Cuvo? He'd said that I could tell him if something terrible happened. Something terrible was happening. I tried one last time to yell out, but my mouth wouldn't open. My teeth weighed down my jaws. I felt a loss of control over my body. Every part of me was too heavy to move. Even my brain felt weighed down. Exhausted and without hope, I decided to give up. I took a deep breath and let go.

PART 2.

The Mirror.

By Kristen Elliott.

The mirror.

Made of shattered gla.s.s and full of veins Disfiguring her maimed beautiful image.

Inside and out.

A reflection bears the burden Of who she is.

What she has become And what will forever be.

One side Her-self.

The other side just.

Her.

CHAPTER 22.

When you are heavily sedated, it is almost like being awake, but you are so deep in sleep that you don't even realize it. When I slept, I often dreamed. As I laid in the BCR, I had very vivid dreams of the past that felt real.

John and I used to sit together after school and read our poetry to each other. I was just a freshman, and he was a junior. He played on the basketball team, swam for the swim team, made Honor Roll Society, and was in our high school's writing club. He was a celebrity in my eyes, and he had many admirers at our school. They were mostly girls. What kind of interest did he have in a loser like me? I wondered every time a pretty girl walked by and smiled, but he looked right through her and continued to talk to me and show me attention.

John's smile reminded me of my dad's. John's father was my dad's brother, after all. Did that make us cousins? Well, technically John had no blood relation to me. John's father and my dad weren't really close to each other, as most siblings were. Our families were acquainted, and we lived close by, no matter what. In spite of it all, I still could not force myself look at John as a relative. I liked him too much. I loved him less like a relative, and more like what I wanted him to be: a boyfriend.

My dreams carried me into a deep sleep filled with vivid images and heavy thoughts of sadness and nothing. Suppressed feelings arose in my dreams to haunt me, turning these dreams into the most awful, realistic nightmares. Mr. Sharp always found a way to work himself into my thoughts while I slept. His voice seemed louder in my dreams than it did when I was awake.

"How many times have you been kissed, Kristen?" he taunted me. "Come on, and tell me how many. Have you ever been kissed?"

I told Mr. Sharp, "He might kiss me. He might, if I look at him in the way those girls do when they want boys to kiss them. He'll know, and he'll want to." Mr. Sharp cut me deep with a knife, so that I wouldn't feel the pain of what I knew would never be.

"John will never do that," Mr. Sharp said as my blood dripped down my arms. "John won't kiss you because he does not love you that way. No one can ever love you like that."

I wanted to wake from this dream. I didn't want to be pulled back into the past. I didn't want to see John smiling as he looked at my writings and read them aloud. This ent.i.ty pulled me in. I was fourteen years old again, sitting in the room where the writing club met after school. John and I were the only ones in the room. I wasn't in the writing club. I just wanted to let him read some of my writings, and I wanted to read some of his. I was sincerely interested in his writing as well as spending more time with him. It was nice to know that John was interested in my work. He was interested in something about me. That fact was hard to believe at first, but when he and I sat in the room together, just the two of us, and he smiled at me with genuine affection, I could not deny it. The feeling of being close to him was how I imagined being in love felt. I was nervous, but I was calm and excited all at the same time. This dream felt as real as when it had actually happened.

The day was warm, and the sun was out in a partly cloudy sky. I felt my skin tingling like it always did when John smiled at me. He looked beautiful as he parted his lips slightly, smiled, and started to pa.s.s the sheet of notebook paper back to me that contained a piece of my soul in the form of words. He held the paper out to me and softly said, "Kristen." It was just simply, "Kristen." The sound of my name from his lips and the way he said it made me blush.

"What do you think?" I asked nervously.

"I think that you should join our writing club," he admitted.

As I reached out to grab my paper from his hand, I shook my head and said, "No, thanks. That's okay."

His smile disappeared, and what looked like disappointment took its place. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper back towards him.

"Oh, you're scared," he said.

"Scared of what? I'm not scared," I defended.

A grin appeared on his face.

He said, "Yes, you are. You're safe in this little world you've created for yourself. You write your poems and you keep them on a shelf. I'm the first person you've let actually read something because you're afraid of letting your work out for other people to see and criticize."

"I'm scared? What about you? You haven't put any writings of yours in my hands yet. I've already shared three of my poems with you, John."