Written by Aspen Pleasant
I’m bored of staring at the same scene through my tiny window, hardly able to see past the metal bars blocking my view. Time ticks by like one of the ants outside, crawling across the pavement, struggling to carry crumbs of bread. They remind me of myself, struggling to carry my weight from place to place, always wishing I could sit down and never get back up. I watch the clock, always watching the clock, waiting for the death of the night. I’m free in my dreams. Other than the clock, there’s nothing but a toilet double-teaming as a sink across from a shin-length metal bed. The government-issued Mary Higgins Clark book is tossed onto a lonely pillow.
Wild how “hood” books are banned, but true crime isn’t. In this cinder-block dumpster, somewhere in middle-of-nowhere Texas, some guy in a nice suit decided it’s healthier to spend hours on end living through the eyes of serial killers than to read about urban america. The murderers on my cell block are soaking up fresh ideas while the rest of us are restricted from books we actually relate to.
Frenetic energy builds, needing a keyhole to escape through, but nobody comes. Nobody comes until right when I’m about to burst from the arterial tension. With a jangle of too many keys, my door squeaks open, revealing a guard. Grimacing like a kid eating a sour grape, a middle-aged Hispanic woman wheels over an industrial-yellow bucket of mop water. Plastic taps my kneecaps, sloshing bubbly dirt-filled water onto the cool concrete floor.
Unlike the Pine-Sol soaked vinyl of my mom’s apartment, these floors never look clean. Pink paint flakes peel to reveal a dark gray underside. With every stroke of the mop, more paint pops free. The cell becomes grayer with every cleaning. After wetting each inch, I offer the broom handle to Ms. Martinez like a gift. She scowls, snatching it from my hand. She’s as greedy of a kid as my perfect, tattletale brother. The bloodied prick of a splinter lodges into my pinky, and I slide it deeper with my thumb, coping with the memory of him.
“Emily, it’s med call. Let’s go.” Ms. Martinez holds the door open, walking behind me. It’s for her safety, she says. All the guards say that. That’s why they carry that pepper spray, too. For their safety. Last in the line of teenage girls, the exit door emits an angry buzz, then unlocks. I watch my feet, careful not to make eye contact with any of the juvenile correctional officers. Ms. Martinez stays behind us while Mrs. Hard Ass Houston’s black boots squeak all the way to the front, dark eyes landing on the tops of our heads, counting to make sure none of us had gone missing in the past few minutes.
“Alright ladies!” Ms. Houston’s voice is much louder than it needs to be for us to hear her. Extra Hard Ass Houston today. Better be careful.
Our rubber sandals slap against the linoleum floor and I watch the wall, staying within six inches of it—as is required. We approach what looks like the spaceship command center in Star Wars, surrounded by glass thicker than my index finger. Guards stare at cameras from behind the glass, hunched in front of computer screens with the slouch I had when I’d fall asleep in class.
We’re led to a curved desk adjacent to the spaceship. It’s those desks nurse’s sit at in hospitals. This is no hospital. But as if it were, I’ve become accustomed to the crew of underqualified nurses, diligently dispersing the meds. I hate them. Every single one of them. They could stand up for me, but not a single one has the spine to. Did they not take an oath to protect their patients? Those little pills in their palms threaten me with death, yet they pass them out like candy. The wobbly chin of the main culprit bobbles when she turns to whisper to the person she’s training, eyeing me as I approach the front of the line.
When she holds out my colorful anti-psychotics, my stomach churns. Every cell in my body screams: it’s poison! No matter what they do to you, don’t break. Like the cavemen from social studies, I don’t eat poison. I contemplate the pills she holds out to me, studying them like an underwhelming science project. Like a baking soda volcano, an explosion is imminent. The meds try to contain my secrets but are failing miserably. It’s time for each secret within me to be released.
“I’m not taking those.” I cross my arms, pale and scarred under the angry fluorescent lights. The nurse bares her teeth like a rabid dog, fangs dripping with blood as she gestures for the guards to take back the others. Ms. Houston stays behind to monitor me. Monster Martinez strips me of my audience.
“The pills aren’t an option. Take them or die.” My eyes narrow at her, daring her to attack. The eyes of the angry animal in her redden at the edges, fueling my growing rage. No matter what I do, I die, so I might as well be killed on my terms.
“I can’t take those. I’m allergic. Look at my skin, it’s decomposing.” I expose the rotting skin beneath the collar of my shirt. She narrows her eyes at me, then slams her palms on the table with a slap that reverberates through the room.
“You’re not allergic.” Her voice is a guttural growl.
I cross my arms, preparing for a death that doesn’t come.
Her fangs crawl back into her gums and her eyes return to a normal, boring blue.
“You can take her back,” she says, signaling to Ms. Houston, who grunts as she peels herself off the wall. Like a hug from my mother, her thick fingers grip my upper arm.
“It’s shower time,” she grumbles, walking me back to the pod. Her words find their way to my stomach, watering the seeds of dread that have been growing there. My battle with the court-ordered chemical cocktail is far from over. The judge doesn’t like it when I refuse my meds.
The past few times I’ve gone to court he’s said so. For that reason alone I haven’t been released yet. He slams his gavel, lecturing me for daring to defy his court order. He’s promoted himself to my doctor, psychiatrist, and parent, coercing me with the deprivation of room confinement until I comply. My lawyer says nothing. If she’s doing anything behind the scenes,
I’m not privy to it.
After I’m showered, dried off with the one towel I’m allowed, I hardly feel clean. How could I? We’re only allowed five-minute showers, scrubbing with chalky bars of soap that can’t clean our hair. Not all have the privilege of cash for shampoo—provided by parents who care. Fabric from my baggy, blue jumpsuit sticks to the undried water on my thighs, irritating the red itch blooming there. Is it true that I’m the only one who sees it? Or is it just that no one cares?
Ms. April is on shift, long blonde hair tumbling down her back, blue eyes revealing an innocence unbecoming of a place like this. Somehow, they haven’t dulled. Her heart hasn’t hardened. Some would see her as weak, but I find it refreshing. Even attractive. She slips into my cell, turning off her body camera so central can’t hear our conversation. My blood pumps faster, nerves firing on overdrive. She sits on the edge of my bed, smiling white—matching mine. Unlike the other guards, she’s nice to me. Probably because she’s closest to our age. She even gives me some of her outside food when she can, slipping it into my locker when no one is looking.
“How’s your rash?” she asks, lifting up the wool blanket to analyze beneath my shirt. From the top of her sock she reveals a tube of ointment, squishing the last remnants onto her finger. When she applies it to my shoulders, her skin is soft as silk. It cools the burn like an icepack on an injured knee. Instant relief. “That should help. Just keep refusing your meds, and it’ll get better in no time.”
Warmth starts in my chest, extending to my limbs. Who knew I’d find my first love in a place like this. She’s in love with me, too. When I get off my meds, she says she knows how to take care of my schizophrenia through natural means. We’ll run away, and she’ll take care of me. It’ll be just us, together forever. I’ve decided.
.
Aspen Pleasant is a writer currently living in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and a current MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Spalding University. He primarily writes adult literary fiction but explores many genres. After all, there are so many words to type and such little time. For him, writing is a form of resistance in a sometimes dark world and a way to spread awareness and hope.