This is my entry for the 2024 Writerâs Jam! Been looking forward to this, and super excited to post it. Word Count: 3112
The prompt I chose was glass⊠youâll see why at the ending :3.
I went a bit purposefully edgy, this story deals with messed up things⊠first off, it's set in a psych ward. Since itâs a first-person perspective of someone in a psych ward... don't take anything written seriously, or to heart. If you find yourself going 'so real' to things the mc says... maybe reevaluate your opinions and mental state.
Content Warning:
all the good shit⊠Mental health, Hospitalisation, mental illness, suicide, prejudice against mental health, Violence, a little bit of misandry and references to sexual assault and drug abuse.
This is a little rushed, but otherwise... enjoy the read I guess?
Blood Red Pilled
â„
The night nurse knocks on my door, opening it without warning shouting âChecks.â Itâs annoying how they choose to shine a flashlight in my face when had just fallen asleep. And itâs extremely annoying how obnoxious they try to be. Like, I can understand they're doing fucking checks on me it's not rocket science, they don't need to yell it at the top of their lungs.
I tried to shun the light from my eyes, but my vision was still blurry and taking a second to recover from the nurse's assault of LED lights. âOh, sorry, did I wake you?â She decided to whisper now.
Can you try not to shine the fucking light on me? âItâs all good.â Iâm sure you can tell Iâm still breathing without it. Bitch.
Â
âSorry, again.â I want to roll my eyes. But good behaviour and pretending Iâm better means Iâll be out of here quicker. Going back to a life without the nurses breathing down my throat and having the freedom to walk out into the world.
Being here really makes me regret trying to kill myself⊠or just⊠failing at it. Next time, if there is one, I'll make sure I do it right.
â„
I woke up pretty groggy the next morning, that's what high doses of melatonin does to someone. Apparently there was a new girl admitted here, I tried to figure out who she was from the list of names, but I really didnât remember whoâs who, most of them didnât leave much of an impression, I just remembered them as âguy with dreadsâ or âchick with the lip ringâ. There were some standouts like the schizo begging the nurse for their bi-hourly Valium dose, their name was like Chrissy or something. Then there was creepy old Joe who isnât actually that old. He's twenty-something, so old for a teenage ward. He hogs the TV and watches way too much anime, and everyone is way too weirded out by his pickle-rick pyjamas and incel stench to put up a fight.
As I said, most patients are one note, they tend to fall into two categories. Traumatised or troubled, and itâs pretty gendered. The girls tend to be admitted because theyâre traumatised and canât cope, and the guys are just fucked in the head, and probably will go on to kill someone. I donât really know how to word this without seeming like a sexist, Iâm not some feminazi who thinks all men are creepy weirdos... just the ones in mental hospitals.
Iâm not sure whether to blame it on toxic masculinity or the high suicide rate on how small the number of chill dudes is in here. I guess itâs because men donât usually ask for help until they end up dead or in a place like this, so their issues have a little more time to marinate. Women are just as likely to attempt suicide, but the men follow through. Ergo the guys in here are fucking weird, not in here because they tried offing themselves, more because they fall into the category of âdanger to othersâ⊠compared to the girls who would be perfectly normal people if they werenât molested.
I picked at my plate, I fucking hate the food here. They donât even have regular milk for my cereal itâs only that shitty long-life stuff. To my surprise... the new girl sat right across from me, saving me the trouble of finding out who she was. She wore a pink baby tee and a baggy pair of grey tracksuits, a cute little fit that accentuated her slender waist.
âWhat are you in here for?â She asked me.
Thatâs usually the icebreaker, before the 'What's your name?' or 'What movies do you like' you're hit with the âWhat landed you in a mental hospital?â Honestly, half of it you can tell just by looking at someone. Personally, I don't see the point in asking, because I'm usually correct. Context clues tell me this girlâs fairly normal, she proudly wears short sleeves and seems to be taking decent care of herself. Her long blonde hair falls down her back, silky straight and probably soft to the touch, she obviously showers. My guess, is she's a voluntary patient, short stay, and wonât be a repeat visitor.
âYou arenât triggered by scars or anything?â I responded to her earlier question... I kind of wanted to test her.
âNo.â She shook her head.
I lifted up the bandage on my wrist, being sure to aim it away from the nurse's field of vision. I showed her the healing gash I made earlier that week, it protrudes lightly, still red but looks a little better than it did a few days ago. Itâs crazy how the body heals, even though I did it to myself. âThis is what landed me in here.â
She winced a little, âOh shit⊠thatâs looks deep.â She didn't freak out too much, I guess she passed.
âDidnât matter, bleeding out isnât all that effective if you live in a two-bedroom apartment with your clingy mom.â I recounted, pushing it a little further. ââSage, I need to shower! I have a dateâ and then she started screaming and calling an ambulance.â Joking about my suicide attempt would surely scare ninety per cent of people off... I guess new girl over here was one of the ten.
âWas she mad you ruined her date?â The girl rested her head in her hand.
âOh yeah, she was so mad.â Kind of weird she took my story so⊠blankly. Usually, someone responds with an âIâm sorryâ or âI hope youâre okâ, Iâm kind of glad that I donât have to deal with the usual bullshit from her. âSo~ what are you in for?â
âSo, I went to this bridge and was planning on jumping off, but some guy saw me and full-on bear hugged me then took me to emergency.â She said in a way that comes off a little too... casual. As if she were telling me the latest celebrity gossip from a tabloid.
Yeah, she fit my assumption to a T⊠Not a real attempt. âWhyâd you do it.â
âItâs dumb⊠but I found out my boyfriend, ex now, cheated on me.â She sighed, âFelt like the end of the world in that moment⊠well I was drunk.â
âHow long were you together?â I asked, pretending to be interested
âThree years.â She sighed again.
âYeah, I get it then.â I pretended to understand, honestly, I thought her reason was dumb. No guy is good enough to end your life over, even a long-term lover. But she was cool, I liked her vibe. âWhatâs your name by the way?â
âJenny.â She smiled at me.
âSage, nice to meet you,â I said.
â„
Jenny and I became quick friends. She was funny, and she didnât react badly to the crazy shit Iâd say⊠there was something a little off about her. For one I could tell she was fake, she easily switched personalities. She went from wild party girl to the girl next door. Still, she was tolerable compared to the others here.
âSo, Sage⊠Howâve you been⊠itâs been a week, how are you finding the unit?â My designated case manager⊠which is just a fancy word for therapist⊠asks me with a clipboard in her hand. Her nametag says Smith, which is a basic ass last name. I wonder if her first name makes up for the lameness.
âEh,â I shrugged as I leaned back further into the beanbag. âIâm a little bored, Joe keeps hogging the TV and since Iâm still on⊠probation or whatever you call it, Iâm not allowed to use any of the other rooms.â âIâm stuck with colouring in and talking shit.â
âYou could try going to the activities, you still need to be supervised.â Smith chuckled. âWell, Iâve noticed an improvement⊠If you keep it up, you should be home in just another two weeks.â She scribbles on that goddamn clipboard.
Two weeks! Just one day in this fucking place was like a month. I feel like I've aged thirty years just from a week of being... Iâm gonna be in my seventies by the time Iâm out!
âOh god!â I groaned in frustration. âBut thatâs so long!â
âYeah, sweetie, thatâs the minimum you have to stay⊠but itâs not all bad!â She sets down the clipboard, obviously not at an angle where I can see the little notes that sheâs been taking on me. âIâve seen you made a friend.â
âJennyâs ok, but Iâm just so bored.â I throw my head back, âMum never visits, too busy. You still arenât letting me use the gym or the art room. The food is dogshit, and each fucking day drags on and on.â I look back up at her, âWhat happens if I say I wanna leave, arenât I technically voluntary?â
âYou could leave, we arenât holding you hostage.â She tapped that stupid clipboard with her pen, God, her mannerisms irritated me. âAt the moment Iâm not comfortable discharging you⊠we want you to go home with a healthy mind and coping strategies⊠donât you?â
âBut I feel better now.â I crossed my arms.
âFor now.â Smith drones, âBut what about later? We first need to work through what led you here.â She sits up, âWalk me through what happened that night, what you were feeling.â
I sighed⊠again.
â„
âItâs so fucking bullshit. I saw some writing in the bathroom, someone wrote in permanent marker âThereâs no such thing as voluntary admissionâ, it is so fucking accurate.â I ranted to Jenny over our microwaved meatloaf dinner⊠which of course⊠I couldnât stomach.
Jenny agreed, nodding her head as she sipped loudly on a Juicebox. âWell, whatâre you going to do, you canât exactly run off.â
âI mean she did say, âweâre not holding you hostageâ, not much they can do. I can easily climb the fence when no oneâs looking and scoot right off.â
âLetâs do it then.â Jenny jumped out of her chair. She left her tray on the table for one of the nurses to clean up.
âWait⊠Youâre coming?â I asked⊠honestly, I still perceived Jenny as a bit of a goody two shoes, despite the earlier mentioned split personality. Breaking out of a psych ward is the fucking furthest thing from what I expected from her, that was more my speed.
âYeah!â She beamed, âI was planning on running off anyway⊠never wanted to stay here.â
I grinned, before picking up on the inconsistency. âWait⊠I thought you said you were voluntary.â How she told the story was... after being put on psychiatric hold she was given a choice to go home or come here.
âNo such thing as voluntary.â She cheekily stuck her tongue out. And that was good enough for me... at the time.
â„
There was a sweet spot right outside of the girlâs rooms. A chair and table in a secluded little outdoor garden. A little like something youâd see in an impressionist painting, all bright and pretty. The best thing about it, no nurses. The wooden picket fence is pretty high, like seven feet, but some height and splinters never stopped anyone before... better than barbed wire and guard dogs.
          Â
We used the chairs to get a bit of leeway, from there it was pretty easy to get over and jump down. Once we were out we ran, trying to get some distance before someone came looking. It was such a rush, I grabbed Jennyâs hand as we laughed and sprinted off⊠It was the same feeling that playing sonic games gave me as a kid. Such a rush! I like to think we ran a few kilometres, we managed to get to a junction, where we ditched our hospital bands, ripping up the Tyvek paper binding them to us.
          Â
âAnything you wanna do now?â Jenny asked me.
          Â
âUm⊠not really⊠did you have something in mind?â I asked⊠I couldâve gone for a meal or something. I hadnât eaten anything real since I was put in there.
âYeah⊠letâs get this bus here.â She walked off pointing at where she wanted me to go. âI know a cool place.â
â„
When Jenny said; âCool place.â I didnât expect her to lead me here. It was a secluded, shady little area near a creek, with drainage pipes around in case of flooding. It was industrial with remnants of once being completely natural. Unique native plants mixed with the noise of a freeway above us, it was like yin and yang. The place was decorated with little spots developed by the homeless as their makeshift homes, made up of abandoned shopping carts and dirty mattresses. There was also trash everywhere, from cans of Coke to used needles.
Usually, Iâd never come to a place like this at night. Jenny picked up an old glass bottle and threw it against the concrete wall. âThis is where I go when I wanna blow off some steam⊠like those places where people break shit with a hammer. Except for free, because why the fuck should anyone have to pay for that?â She picked up another and passed it to me. "When my parents are pissing me off, or when everything gets too much."
I scoffed and threw one. ââŠWhat steam?â
âWhat do you mean?â She questioned, I could hear a little bit of a tone in her voice. Like a kind of âwatch it.â
I doubled down, âBoth your parents are around, youâre at a private school and your older brothers are at a fucking ivy.â I threw a can, â
âBeing cheated on fucking hurt.â
Oh boo-hoo. âYou so didn't need to be there.â
âExcuse me?â
âWhat⊠you kind of pretend to be fucked up⊠your story sounds a little made up, to be honest,â I muttered, not wanting to stand by my words in case she lost it. âI mean, youâve been pretty inconsistent with it.â
âThe fuck do you mean by that?â Ok, now she was really getting angry. She threw another glass, except now it was just straight on the ground. I flinched... I was scared, but not enough to stop pushing her buttons.
âNews flash... people donât fucking kill themselves because their boyfriend cheated on them. Thatâs something abusers use to keep their victims with them⊠âno donât go or else Iâll⊠I donât know⊠just die.â'' I let my pent-up rage out, trust me Iâm so fucking familiar with the guilt trip tactic. Iâve both used it and been a victim to it, and Jennyâs just been screaming âoh woe is me.â She's so obvious with it. "I don't even need to ask what really happened."
âAt least I had a reason.â The way her voice was void of any kind of emotion, just pure nothingness.
âYeah! I have an actual reason to be fucked up. My brain is wired differently⊠youâre normal. You arenât even traumatised or anything, youâre one of those people who just likes doing crazy shit and uses âmental illnessâ as an excuse for it.â I spat, getting all in her face, âYouâre a fucking loser. No wonder your boyfriend lefââ
Jenny screamed at the top of her lungs and ran into me⊠I expected her to push me or something, for us to break out in a physical fight, I was ready for that. I would have bodied her, sheâs thin as fuck, and I could easily snap her in half⊠Before I knew it a piece of broken glass, sharp like a knife was jammed right into my gut. She had hidden it in her hand, holding it behind her back for who knows how long. I froze, screaming in pain even though I knew no one could hear me. She went on to stab me three times, once in my neck and twice in my stomach. Take my word for it, they were fucking brutal spots. I didnât even have a second to process as I fell to the ground, banging my head on the hard dirt and feeling my brain wobble inside my skull. She stood over me, her pink baby tee top stained with my blood.
It was pathetic how I didnât even land my own hits. I went down without a fight⊠not like I could do anything, if I moved, Iâd bleed out faster. Instead, I just lay there, looking into Jennyâs frenzied eyes as she panted with a wicked smirk on her smug fucking face.
          Â
Yeah so⊠turns out Jenny wasnât admitted to the psych ward for trying to jump off a bridge because her boyfriend cheated. It was because she was fucking bloodthirsty and tried to kill him⊠I probably judged her too much just from her looks, thatâs on me for thinking everyone is as shallow as I am. You donât really know whatâs going on inside peopleâs heads, I was wrong⊠she wasnât some wannabe crazy chick emulating Effy from skins purely from gifs on Tumblr. Jenny has the makings of a serial killer in the leagues of Bundy and DahmerâŠ. Thatâs if she doesnât instantly get caught for offing me. She lied so easily like it was a sport, she manipulated her image, her entire demeanour making me think she was completely harmless. The perfect kind of killer; a baby-faced baby tee wearing killer. What a waste of murderous talentâŠ
You may be wondering how I know all of this, I think the answers kind of come to you when you die.
The thing about dying is⊠itâs just really depressing. Like Iâm actually dying, no return. Itâs not peaceful or scary, itâs anticlimactic, and itâs disappointing. Itâs like my mind is both being clouded and cleared. The feeling is kind of like doing drugs but to a humanly impossible point. Itâs a familiar feeling, but Iâve never gotten this far before, no one ever gets this far and returns from it. I hate it though⊠because thereâs nothing I can do about it. At least when I tried killing myself, I had control over where, how and why, I felt at least a little bit satisfied with the conclusion. I donât have any control over this⊠now Iâm just plagued by the âwhat ifs.â I wonder if I wouldâve felt better by the end of my stay, I wonder if I eventually would have gotten better and lived as a functioning member of society⊠I wonder if I couldâve been a better person⊠or happy.
Maybe not all the answers come to you when you die.