Forever
She woke up in a sterile room. The walls were a light beige, but there was no art work on them. A table and two chairs were sandwiched between half closets on the wall across from her. She sat up and noticed on this wall were two single beds, laid so their sides were bolted to the walls.
She let out a breath of despair as she realized the rest of the furniture was probably bolted down too. A glance up at the domed light fixture there was no way to reach without a ladder, and the absence of a window in the room confirmed her thoughts. She was in a psychiatric ward.
There was a knock on the door, and a nurse with a clipboard. Her husband, no… her Ex-Husband had found the residence in disarray, and her half in-half out of the shower. Unconscious and unresponsive. It was his final good deed, he had said, he was done with the drama. He would make sure the treatment was paid for, every last cent. The divorce papers would be signed. Then he wanted to hear no more.
She would be given three days to adjust to her surroundings. To learn when and where everything is. To understand the rules and regulations. There were community bathrooms, separated by the sexes. Just as there were two wings on the floor, separated by the sexes. There were two other wings, one was for occupational therapy, the other for recuperative and recreational therapy. In the center was the nurses station, medicine dispensary, and general clinic in case of emergency. There were padded cells, “Quiet Rooms”, in the basement area next to the morgue. They would strap you down and take you through the service elevator. The nurse said it’s because the morgue has it’s own power grid and generator, in case the power goes out. No one has to worry about a mentally unstable person escaping, or a family member decomposing.
She didn’t have a roommate yet, she was alone with her thoughts after curfew. There was maybe fifteen to twenty patients on the ward and twice as many staff. There were spots to be alone in, but there was no spot the camera didn’t reach. Even the restrooms and showers had an ever watchful eye.
She was a little angry, a little resentful, but not surprised by her new predicament. She chose to not speak about it, or about anything that might hinder her release. She decided she would silently do her time, listen to her counselors, and fulfill whatever tasks they asked her to perform. Jump through the hoops like a trained animal and earn her keys to freedom.
She observed the rituals of the “Med Line”, and scuffled down the cafeteria line in silence avoiding eye contact with the workers. She learned that you can shower in privacy if you go in the daytime hours when other people were in sessions.
She also met Mary.
Mary smoked to end her long life, and had no desire to leave the comforting safe walls of the ward. Mary could tell you every un-designated smoking area without a camera, and every safe space to talk without being heard. Mary had been in here for twelve months, substance abuse her file says. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Mary’s voice was old and scratchy, it matched the lines and creases in her face. “Then you get used to it, and you’re afraid to leave.”
She would never ‘Get used to it’, she would never fear ‘leaving this place’. This was just a jail for her, punishment for not succeeding in her plans. Punishment for destroying his things, punishment for not being perfect. This place was to teach her how to be perfect. How to be a good Wife, a good human, a good excuse to clear his conscience of anything wrong he’s done.