Part 1

 "Come on, Scarlet, just one more stick, and you've got this finished." Before one of the evening nurses came barging into my room to let us know that dinner had arrived, the popsicle house was almost complete. It was Thursday, which usually meant it was either soup or chicken for dinner, accompanied by those dreadful dinner rolls and undercooked corn on the cob. I can't be too upset about it. We are getting fed, at least in this hellhole. It felt wrong to scarf down the chicken, but I skipped lunch because I wasn't in the mood for grilled cheese. Which is quite rare because I love grilled cheese. I finished the plate, left it on the table outside my room, and headed for the bathroom. There's no door, so I can't slam it shut from frustration and sadness, so I just have to endure the everlasting anxiety and despair like the rest of us who are forced to be here. 

I turned on the faucet, immediately splashed my face with the cool water, and looked at myself in the mirror. It seems like yesterday I was running around the open fields of Tennessee, enjoying the sun shining down on me and hearing the animals in the woods. Now I just hear the yelling and screams from my other roommates, who are telling the guards that they wish they had just killed themselves rather than escaping in their presence. I don't blame them one bit for that conclusion, because I do wish I had sliced a little deeper. I turn off the faucet and the light in the bathroom and head towards my bed. Seeing the unfinished popsicle house makes me hate myself even more because it's one more thing to add to the unfinished collection of my life. 

I turn on my nightlight and crawl into bed. The thing with these sheets is that there are far too many tiny holes in them—just enough airflow—so you can't suffocate yourself in your sleep at night. I close my eyes and drift off to imagination land and think about other places I wish I could visit and see new people, animals, and all the food you could eat. Maybe this time it'll be a trip to Japan, but knowing my luck, it'll be another Utah dream or, worse, Michigan. A loud bang immediately woke me, startling me to the point of jolting out of bed and ending up on the floor. I never noticed how crumbly the ceilings were until I actually looked at them long enough. 

 They remind me a lot of little, tiny iridescent beads or stars in the night sky. I wobbled to stand up, considering I was woken up very abruptly, and put my slippers on to walk over to the door and gently open it to see what the fuss was all about.  Apparently, one of my roommates got a hold of one of the guard's guns and ended up shooting themselves in the chest because they didn't realize the safety was off, and are now being rushed to the hospital. Lucky duck, being able to leave this place because I'm pretty sure she knew what she was doing, going after the gun like that. It took some serious guts, and now hers are all over the hallway, three doors down. 

 I hear nurses crying, and the guard who had his gun taken is now being questioned by the police. Asking if he had any part in this and asking why he didn't try harder to get the gun away from her. "I swear, officer, I had no idea she was going to do something like that. She just came out of her room, was very sneaky, got the gun from my holster, and then shot herself right in front of me. I had no time to react at all." The cop gave the guard a confused look, like he wasn't buying the story, but he closed the notebook he was holding and told him to take the rest of the day off and come back tomorrow. I felt a rush of anxiety sweep over me. I never really got over what happened to me when I was 11 years old. The sound of the shotgun and the screams of Anna still haunt me in my sleep, so the loud bang startled me more than anything. You see, Anna was my best friend, and she was foolish one night and was playing around with her father's shotgun. One thing led to another, and the next minute, there was a pool of blood and loud screams filling the room from both of us. It was a tragic loss, and I was still blamed even though I never touched the gun. Anna's mother went mute for years after that happened and only spoke when she was around her brother. Her father was never really around because he traveled for work, which I suppose was his way of dealing with the loss of his only daughter. Anna's death was something I never really got over; remembering the night before everything happened is such a blur to me, but all I remember is that there was laughter and music from playing with her brother's Hot Wheels and army men, acting out scenes from movies. Something I'll always cherish as I grow older. 

I wipe the tears that trickled down my cheeks from the past coming to haunt my present. I swear, if I could, I’d erase those memories from my mind once and for all so I can be normal and not get bent out of shape over the fact that shotgun sounds make me go into a panic state, and my body starts to tremble from anxiety. I close the door behind me slowly, making my way back to my bed. I stop at the tiny bookshelf I have in my room, and I grab a word search off the bottom shelf. After an incident where too many patients got "papercuts," we weren't allowed actual books to read to pass our time. They considered stuff like that to be a waste of time, when in my reality, it was the exact opposite. I love to read, and it makes me go into a different dimension, so to speak. It makes me forget life and envision a new world and new people around me, but it's all in my head, which is what they are afraid of. I heard a few nurses talking the other day, and they were discussing that they were thinking about getting rid of arts and crafts as well, which makes no sense. If I could, I would write a strongly worded letter to the owner of a dump like this in the first place. Taking away arts and crafts would be the dumbest thing they could do in a place that completely isolates you enough as it is. I don’t understand the superiority complex of some establishments when it comes to places that are supposed to be for the health and safety of people like this. But that’s my reality. It’s not pretty, and it’s not the most glorious chapter of my life, but this is only the beginning. Many more horror stories are going to unfold as the story goes on. If you made it this far, I congratulate you. I seriously hope you are ready for more things to be explained and described in ways that you wouldn’t wish on your enemy. As I settle into the corner of my small, dimly lit room, the faint hum of the hospital’s ventilation system becomes a lullaby and a warning all at once