Scotland Johnson • Fiction
The linoleum floors were impossible to get used to. After 4 days of walking across those cold slippery tiles in nothing but socks you think your feet would acclimate, but they don’t. The floor stays cold, you stay cold.
Mesa Valley wasn’t the worst place a a suicidal kid of 16 could be. The 24 hour supervision was helpful in the whole don’t kill yourself process. The food wasn’t entirely inedible, especially if you drenched whatever was on the menu in hot sauce. Plain bean and nothing burritos, grilled cheese sandwiches cooked in oil instead of butter (to account for the kids with allergies), and whole grain wheat noodles. Physical education was mandatory daily and as long as you weren’t opposing Sandra, a 17 year old with severe anger issues, dodge ball could be entertaining. But the most redeeming part of Mesa Valley was Dr. Leopold.
The resident psychiatrist, Dr. Leopold, had a scruff that seemed to almost reach his eyebrows, or maybe eyebrow, there wasn’t a clear divide to them. Covered in gray hair and constantly shining his yellow teeth, Dr. L was my saving grace. Everyday at 9 a.m. I’d explain the continuation of my depression to the Doc and he’d write a new prescription to numb the pain. His presence was comforting in the consistency of our interactions.
The ambulance drive over to Mesa Valley was my first dalliance with this specific brand of numbness. The type of numb that came in a little orange bottle. The first thing I registered wasn’t anything to do with my head but it was the simple realization that my wrists were no longer burning. Then a wave of nothingness hit my brain and it felt better than any high I had ever had before. The memories of what had transpired hours prior to the red and blue flashing lights were synchronizing with the seizing lights. Henderson’s face, faded to black, my mothers face with tears running across her cheeks, faded to black, and then the deed itself.
I was slipping in and out of reality due to being high off my ass from all the medication when I began my trek to the visitors room. Visitor hours were observed Monday through Thursday. It was Wednesday and my dearest parents had already made their practically mandatory visit on Monday. They got it out of the way quickly to ensure a less stress inducing week. My folks’ visit was short, to the point, and almost robotic.
“How are you holding up?” “Do you feel like you’re getting any better?” and the only question I couldn’t answer with any certainty: “When are you getting out?”
My father should have been an uncle. He would have made a great uncle. He was a blast on weekends, holidays, and anytime it suited his schedule. My impromptu “vacation”, as he put it, did not fall under these categories and therefore was seen as a waste of time, a big waste of money, and an ode to my dramatic nature. My mother I lost sympathy for with each passing year. A fool who loved too much was something I could feel in my bones. I felt it was something she gave to me before I was brought into this world. Her bird-like quality to parrot everything my father said was revolting. They both believed in picking yourself up by your bootstraps.
After my visit with the doctor I was told I needed to come to the visitors room once again. To the cold, pasty yellow room that was reminiscent of an interrogation set up. I couldn’t be sure who was making an appearance in this fever dream today, but I highly doubted that I’d see my parents walk through the door. Perhaps one of my siblings made their way down here, but again they had lives and things that needed to get done in the real world.
The door swung open and hit the dinghy yellow wall with a bang. I was in shock, but my face didn’t move, no expression of joy or confusion. I was unable to muster the strength to emote. It was Henderson who stood in the doorway. A smile plastered from ear to ear. He was radiant. No matter how bad the situation, he always managed to still be annoyingly hot.
Henderson was my on and off again boyfriend. We met at the height of my flirtation with alcoholism. He liked that I seemed like a wild child, a free spirit, but in reality I was just looking for an out. With my baseline knowledge of philosophy and rock music I impressed him enough for an infatuation to take hold. This was the end, and even through my own drug induced haze I could feel it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to put on the performance he expected from me. The one filled with nihilistic humor and heavy eye makeup. The illusion I had spent almost a year crafting for his viewing pleasure was about to be shattered.
The thud of his footsteps drawing nearer hit my ears at nausea inducing frequency.
Henderson was adorned in his signature leather jacket, a ripped band tee, and black skinny jeans with messily embroidered, “fuck the system”, “dick”, and “milf lover <3” strewn about. As he drew nearer the smile on his face faltered. Taking in my matted hair, dark circles, and the giant fire engine red t-shirt I’d been stuck wearing for the last three days, splattered with toothpaste stains and stray hairs, must have been a startling sight. When he finally reached me he threw out his arms and tried to descend upon me, but a startling “Hey!” Stopped him mid movement. “No touching the patients,” an orderly with bright red hair and a pimply complexion squeaked out.
Henderson scoffed, and with an exaggerated eye roll, sauntered over to the chair across from me. “Jesus, a guy can’t even hug his girl in this place. What are you, some sorta criminal?” Henderson was chuckling at his own feeble attempt at humor and went on.
“It’s been too long, babe I swear to god this band shit is gonna fucking kill me. I am the only one with any sense of rhythm and without you there everyone’s a goddamn bore.”
He was speaking quickly like he was afraid he wouldn’t have enough time during the duration of his visit to explain fully how inconvenient his life has been. I forced out a small chuckle trying to present some sort of normalcy, and cautiously began to speak
“H, I- I thought we weren’t gonna call each other that anymore. But, I am sorry about the band. I’ve missed you.” I was barely able to speak above a whisper. The way Henderson was darting his eyes away from me made me feel disgusting like somehow in four days I’d transformed into something so revolting he couldn’t even look my way.
“ Come on, we’re always dating even when we’re not. Everyone knows you’re my girl. Anyway, how long do you think this whole thing is gonna take?” He made a broad gesture with his hands as he asked the question. “Because like… well the thing is, you kinda did say you’d make the merch for our next gig, which is happening this weekend. And I would ask Kacey to do it, but he’s just not as talented as you babe.” His words didn’t necessarily shock me, but they did pierce something in me. They wormed their way through the cloud of medication and suddenly I could feel, and what I felt was fucking hilarity.
I began to laugh so goddamn hard my stomach started to hurt. I put my head between my knees to try and stifle the loud noises emanating from my mouth, but it was no use. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. It felt like I stayed down there for years cackling at the sorry excuse for a man that sat in front of me. Eventually I began to quiet down and straighten out my spine. As my eyes lifted upwards I saw Hendersons face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look baffled, but there he was in shock, confused, and it might have been the first time since I met him that I thought he looked bad.
“I tried to kill myself you fucking asshole. Eat shit and die.” I said looking straight into his muddy gray eyes. And with that I stood up from my chair and walked to the orderly to inform him I wanted to go back to my room. He gave me a nod and opened the door.
My feet were still cold as I made my way towards my room. My t-shirt still smelled like BO and a hint of hot sauce. My hair was still clumped together, but I was satisfied in the knowledge that I was right. When I first arrived at Mesa Valley I saw a therapist who only asked me two questions. “Did you try to kill yourself because your boyfriend broke up with you?” and “Are you sure it wasn’t because your boyfriend broke up with you?” I know I was right in my answers because the only time I felt like I didn’t want to die since I had arrived at this shithole was when I cursed out Henderson. Once I reached my room I crawled onto my plastic mattress that was barren, I had yet to earn my sheet, blanket, and pillow privileges. I lay facing upwards at the beige popcorn ceiling clinging to the memory of what had just transpired. I may be a depressed piece of shit but I am my own depressed piece of shit. I have my own struggles that don’t belong to anyone else. I’m feeling more hopeful than I had since I first stepped foot on these linoleum floors.
Leonardo Magazine 