Part 3

 Suddenly, I hear a faint noise outside my door again—this time, more deliberate, like someone trying to listen or communicate. My heart races. I freeze, trying to listen carefully. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or maybe it’s someone else trying to avoid detection. I feel like I need to do something, but I also know that panicking won’t help. If I make a fuss or try to sneak out, I could get caught or worse. I stay still, clutching the edge of the bed, and wait. Whatever is happening, I realize I have to be cautious. I can’t trust that everything will be okay, and I definitely can’t trust what’s happening around me right now. I think about the things I’ve learned from living here—about keeping quiet, about blending in, about waiting for the right moment. I remind myself that I’ve gotten through tough days before, and I’ll get through this one too. I just need to stay calm and stay alert. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I do know I have to be ready for whatever it is. 

The next morning, I wake up to the usual harsh fluorescent lights and the faint sounds of staff moving through the halls. I lie still, trying to process everything from the night before. Quietly, I listen for any signs of trouble, but everything feels oddly subdued. No alarms, no shouting—just the normal hum of the hospital. A few minutes later, a nurse comes into the room, her face tight and serious. She’s not the usual kind, more hurried and tense. “Scarlet,” she says softly but with authority, “you need to come with me. There’s been an incident.” My stomach sinks. I get up slowly, trying to keep calm. I follow her down the hall, past the other rooms, where I see a few staff members gathered outside the nurse’s station, whispering quietly. At the end of the hall, we reach the common area, which is usually used for meals or activities. Today, it looks different—stretcher beds pushed aside, and a couple of nurses standing around with solemn expressions. Then I see him—another patient, a guy named Marco. He’s sitting on a cot, bandages wrapped around his arm, looking exhausted and a little dazed. His eyes meet mine briefly, filled with regret and pain. The nurse gestures for me to sit nearby. Her voice is low, but I catch the words—“Attempted self-harm,” she says quietly. “He tried to make a weapon out of a spork. We think he was trying to hurt himself.” I stare at Marco, feeling a lump form in my throat. I’ve seen people hurt themselves here before, but this feels different—more desperate, more serious. The staff had found him early enough to stop him from doing real damage, but the damage to his psyche is clear. “They said he was trying to make a knife out of the spork,” the nurse continues, her voice steady but strained. “He got pretty badly cut on his hand when it snapped. It’s not the first time someone’s tried something like this, but it’s the first time it’s ended like this. We’re taking extra precautions now.” I nod slowly, feeling a strange mix of anger and sadness. It’s hard to understand what drives someone to do this, especially here, where everything feels so fragile. I think about how desperate people must be to try and hurt themselves, to find an escape, even if it’s just for a moment. The nurse looks at me carefully. “You’re not the only one feeling on edge right now. We’re doing our best to keep everyone safe, but you have to stay vigilant, okay? If you see or hear anything unusual, tell someone immediately.”

I nod again, voice barely above a whisper. It’s a lot to take in. Seeing Marco like that, so vulnerable and broken, hits close to home. I realize that whatever’s going on—whether it’s the tension from last night, the staff’s strange behavior, or my own fears—things are only going to get more complicated. As I sit there, watching the others, I can’t help but feel a growing sense of unease. Something isn’t right here. And I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse before it gets better. I watch Marco sitting there, his face pale but quiet, and I can’t help but think how close he came to something much worse. The staff found him early enough—before he could do real damage. Honestly, I’m amazed he managed to get the spork into his room without anyone noticing. It’s like he was lucky, or maybe just quick.  I sit back, feeling a strange surge of envy. I wish I could do the same—find a way to sneak something in, something that could help me feel a little more in control. I’ve been here so long, and I’ve learned how to be invisible when I need to be. I’ve hidden small things in places they wouldn’t think to look—things that bring me a moment of peace or distraction. But it’s risky. I know that better than anyone. 

Sometimes I think about what I’d do if I could get hold of something sharp—anything, really—that could give me even a slight sense of power or escape. But I’m too scared, too cautious. I’ve seen what happens when people get caught trying to hide things. The punishments are worse than the injuries they’re trying to inflict on themselves. I’m painfully aware of how fragile that balance is. I find myself wishing I could be more like Marco—resourceful, brave, willing to try anything just to feel a little less trapped. But I also know that’s dangerous. I’ve seen others try, and I’ve seen what happens afterward. The staff here are always watching, always waiting. And if I got caught sneaking something, it wouldn’t end well. Not for me. I look down at my hands, feeling the weight of regret and helplessness pressing down again. I wish I had an easier way, something I could do without risking everything. But right now, all I can do is sit quietly and hope that I’m not the next person they notice trying to push their luck. The truth is, I feel so powerless. Watching Marco, I realize how close I’ve come to risking it all just for a little bit of control—and how lucky he was to get away with it this time. Because the next time, I don’t know if luck will be on my side.