This is my entry for the 2024 Writer’s Jam! Been looking forward to this, and super excited to post it. Word Count: 3112

The prompt I chose was glass… you’ll 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 it’s 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

❥

The night nurse knocks on my door, opening it without warning shouting “Checks.” It’s annoying how they choose to shine a flashlight in my face when had just fallen asleep. And it’s 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. “Oh, sorry, did I wake you?” She decided to whisper now.

Can you try not to shine the fucking light on me? “It’s all good.” I’m sure you can tell I’m still breathing without it. Bitch.

“Sorry, again.” I want to roll my eyes. But good behaviour and pretending I’m better means I’ll 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.

❥

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 didn’t remember who’s who, most of them didn’t leave much of an impression, I just remembered them as ‘guy with dreads’ or ‘chick with the lip ring’. 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 isn’t 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 it’s pretty gendered. The girls tend to be admitted because they’re traumatised and can’t cope, and the guys are just fucked in the head, and probably will go on to kill someone. I don’t really know how to word this without seeming like a sexist, I’m not some feminazi who thinks all men are creepy weirdos... just the ones in mental hospitals.

I’m 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 it’s because men don’t 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 ‘danger to others’… compared to the girls who would be perfectly normal people if they weren’t molested.

I picked at my plate, I fucking hate the food here. They don’t even have regular milk for my cereal it’s 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.

“What are you in here for?” She asked me.

That’s usually the icebreaker, before the 'What's your name?' or 'What movies do you like' you're hit with the ‘What landed you in a mental hospital?’ 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 girl’s 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 won’t be a repeat visitor.

“You aren’t triggered by scars or anything?” I responded to her earlier question... I kind of wanted to test her.

“No.” 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. It’s crazy how the body heals, even though I did it to myself. “This is what landed me in here.”

She winced a little, “Oh shit… that’s looks deep.” She didn't freak out too much, I guess she passed.

“Didn’t matter, bleeding out isn’t all that effective if you live in a two-bedroom apartment with your clingy mom.” I recounted, pushing it a little further. “’Sage, I need to shower! I have a date’ and then she started screaming and calling an ambulance.” 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.

“Was she mad you ruined her date?” The girl rested her head in her hand.

“Oh yeah, she was so mad.” Kind of weird she took my story so… blankly. Usually, someone responds with an ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I hope you’re ok’, I’m kind of glad that I don’t have to deal with the usual bullshit from her. “So~ what are you in for?”

“So, 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.” 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. “Why’d you do it.”

“It’s dumb… but I found out my boyfriend, ex now, cheated on me.” She sighed, “Felt like the end of the world in that moment… well I was drunk.”

“How long were you together?” I asked, pretending to be interested

“Three years.” She sighed again.

“Yeah, I get it then.” 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. “What’s your name by the way?”

“Jenny.” She smiled at me.

“Sage, nice to meet you,” I said.

❥

Jenny and I became quick friends. She was funny, and she didn’t react badly to the crazy shit I’d 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.

“So, Sage… How’ve you been… it’s been a week, how are you finding the unit?” 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.

“Eh,” I shrugged as I leaned back further into the beanbag. “I’m a little bored, Joe keeps hogging the TV and since I’m still on… probation or whatever you call it, I’m not allowed to use any of the other rooms.” “I’m stuck with colouring in and talking shit.”

“You could try going to the activities, you still need to be supervised.” Smith chuckled. “Well, I’ve noticed an improvement… If you keep it up, you should be home in just another two weeks.” 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... I’m gonna be in my seventies by the time I’m out!

“Oh god!” I groaned in frustration. “But that’s so long!”

“Yeah, sweetie, that’s the minimum you have to stay… but it’s not all bad!” She sets down the clipboard, obviously not at an angle where I can see the little notes that she’s been taking on me. “I’ve seen you made a friend.”

“Jenny’s ok, but I’m just so bored.” I throw my head back, “Mum never visits, too busy. You still aren’t letting me use the gym or the art room. The food is dogshit, and each fucking day drags on and on.” I look back up at her, “What happens if I say I wanna leave, aren’t I technically voluntary?”

“You could leave, we aren’t holding you hostage.” She tapped that stupid clipboard with her pen, God, her mannerisms irritated me. “At the moment I’m not comfortable discharging you… we want you to go home with a healthy mind and coping strategies… don’t you?”

“But I feel better now.” I crossed my arms.

“For now.” Smith drones, “But what about later? We first need to work through what led you here.” She sits up, “Walk me through what happened that night, what you were feeling.”

I sighed… again.

❥

“It’s so fucking bullshit. I saw some writing in the bathroom, someone wrote in permanent marker ‘There’s no such thing as voluntary admission’, it is so fucking accurate.” I ranted to Jenny over our microwaved meatloaf dinner… which of course… I couldn’t stomach.

Jenny agreed, nodding her head as she sipped loudly on a Juicebox. “Well, what’re you going to do, you can’t exactly run off.”

“I mean she did say, ‘we’re not holding you hostage’, not much they can do. I can easily climb the fence when no one’s looking and scoot right off.”

“Let’s do it then.” Jenny jumped out of her chair. She left her tray on the table for one of the nurses to clean up.

“Wait… You’re coming?” 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.

“Yeah!” She beamed, “I was planning on running off anyway… never wanted to stay here.”

I grinned, before picking up on the inconsistency. “Wait… I thought you said you were voluntary.” How she told the story was... after being put on psychiatric hold she was given a choice to go home or come here.

“No such thing as voluntary.” She cheekily stuck her tongue out. And that was good enough for me... at the time.

❥

There was a sweet spot right outside of the girl’s rooms. A chair and table in a secluded little outdoor garden. A little like something you’d 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.

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 Jenny’s 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.

“Anything you wanna do now?” Jenny asked me.

“Um… not really… did you have something in mind?” I asked… I could’ve gone for a meal or something. I hadn’t eaten anything real since I was put in there.

“Yeah… let’s get this bus here.” She walked off pointing at where she wanted me to go. “I know a cool place.”

❥

When Jenny said; “Cool place.” I didn’t 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, I’d never come to a place like this at night. Jenny picked up an old glass bottle and threw it against the concrete wall. “This 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?” 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. “…What steam?”

“What do you mean?” She questioned, I could hear a little bit of a tone in her voice. Like a kind of ‘watch it.’

I doubled down, “Both your parents are around, you’re at a private school and your older brothers are at a fucking ivy.” I threw a can, “

“Being cheated on fucking hurt.”

Oh boo-hoo. “You so didn't need to be there.”

“Excuse me?”

“What… you kind of pretend to be fucked up… your story sounds a little made up, to be honest,” I muttered, not wanting to stand by my words in case she lost it. “I mean, you’ve been pretty inconsistent with it.”

“The fuck do you mean by that?” 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.

“News flash... people don’t fucking kill themselves because their boyfriend cheated on them. That’s something abusers use to keep their victims with them… ‘no don’t go or else I’ll… I don’t know… just die.’'' I let my pent-up rage out, trust me I’m so fucking familiar with the guilt trip tactic. I’ve both used it and been a victim to it, and Jenny’s just been screaming ‘oh woe is me.’ She's so obvious with it. "I don't even need to ask what really happened."

“At least I had a reason.” The way her voice was void of any kind of emotion, just pure nothingness.

“Yeah! I have an actual reason to be fucked up. My brain is wired differently… you’re normal. You aren’t even traumatised or anything, you’re one of those people who just likes doing crazy shit and uses ‘mental illness’ as an excuse for it.” I spat, getting all in her face, “You’re a fucking loser. No wonder your boyfriend lef–“

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, she’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t even land my own hits. I went down without a fight… not like I could do anything, if I moved, I’d bleed out faster. Instead, I just lay there, looking into Jenny’s frenzied eyes as she panted with a wicked smirk on her smug fucking face.

Yeah so… turns out Jenny wasn’t 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, that’s on me for thinking everyone is as shallow as I am. You don’t really know what’s going on inside people’s heads, I was wrong… she wasn’t 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 Dahmer…. That’s if she doesn’t 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 talent…

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… it’s just really depressing. Like I’m actually dying, no return. It’s not peaceful or scary, it’s anticlimactic, and it’s disappointing. It’s like my mind is both being clouded and cleared. The feeling is kind of like doing drugs but to a humanly impossible point. It’s a familiar feeling, but I’ve never gotten this far before, no one ever gets this far and returns from it. I hate it though… because there’s 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 don’t have any control over this… now I’m just plagued by the ‘what ifs.’ I wonder if I would’ve 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 could’ve been a better person… or happy.

Maybe not all the answers come to you when you die.