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Limp cries echo in my empty chamber as my heart beats in my hollow chest.
The song is over and nothing remains but ash.
52
-Angel
Canyon View is a big facility, but my wing-the one for criminals-is small and plain. I'm inside a ten by twelve foot room at the end of a long, pale green hallway, restrained to my bed just like I was those first few months after my initial placement here. Staring at the wide strap over my wrist, I get an odd feeling like returning home and it makes me want to claw my eyes out.
Why does it take so freaking long to starve to death?
My efforts feel useless, like I'm stretching out towards the only hand that offers to pull me away from my ledge. And falling short.
I have not missed the rigidity and uniform routine that infects every inch of this place. I wasn't watched so closely at the regular prison. My food was delivered to my cell and I could choose what not to eat, more or less. What I was doing the three weeks I was away will not work here. They monitor everything that goes in and out of our bodies because they slip sedatives into the food.
My nose itches. I have to turn my head to one side and rub it against the thread of my pillow to scratch.
"I'm not leaving." Avery promises from the corner, her arms set defiantly at her sides.
I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling and tell myself that I am alone-over and over, desperate to believe.
She's been on a tear the last few days, hoping to make me start eating. I keep drinking and taking my pills and playing the part, but the weight loss is seriously noticeable.
In the quiet intervals between Avery's ranting, I notice the sounds here are nothing like the other prison. There are no inmates grumbling or whooping over a fight. Just us loons, stuck in our medically induced haze, trying to scratch our noses without using our hands.
It is a terrible, painful truth-one I cannot entirely put to rest as I try to ignore her. We live inside the same body, operate within the same skin. There is no place she has been that I have not because she is part of me. We occupy different rooms in the same brain and that makes us one entity; the before and the after. Different parts of the same play. Opposing sides of a seriously fucked up coin.
Because of her, my life is never going to get better.
I've spent these last six years trying to pretend there is some sort of future in my past, when I know I can't live there.
Thinking about my room; the plain walls, my single-size bed, and one bland chair, and the unwanted guest, I know I can't continue to live here, either.
I have no say in my treatment, no control over what's put into my body. I can voice my opinion, but that will only get me a needle in the arm, or another physician or nurse or orderly in my face telling me what's good for me. Nobody really gives a shit. They only care about sticking to the course of treatment.
Drugs. Pills. Injections. Liquid opiates. Doped up food. Carefully monitored therapy in any and all forms. Meditation. Relaxation techniques.
Bullshit.
Incarceration.
Why can't they just put me out of my misery? I mean, they're giving me all of these things; these pills, treatments, this therapeutic methodology. For what? What is the purpose?
No matter where I might go in life-which is nowhere-I am never going to get away from who I am. So what is the point? Lobotomize me. Put me out of my misery.
They do it for dogs. Why can't they do it for me?
I wish I could just wake up one day and have Avery be gone. I think then, I could keep going. If I knew she would never hurt anybody again, then I could do the time.
But she's so fucking selfish. She knows I need to let go. Why won't she let me?
I've been thinking lately, that if I can find the point where our lives joined, the place where her mind meets mine, I bet I could cut her out. Like the buds of a branch growing from the trunk of a tree, I could snip her off.
"If I can find that," I whisper into the dark of my room, then I can find where we split. The doctor will help me fix it. I can glue myself back together. Like a broken jar.
Six years ago, while I was waiting to be sentenced, I'd hoped they'd give me ten life times. No amount of time seemed like enough. Not for what I let happen. But even so, I never looked beyond twenty-one years. That's how old Jake was, and some part of me assumed that once I hit that benchmark, I would do something-an elusive something-to end my life, too. That seemed fair. But honestly, it is an unfathomable amount of time. I'm only six years in and I can't . . . I can't take any more.
"I'm never going to leave. I'm always going to be here." Avery promises, tapping her forehead like she has heard my thoughts. "You can't get rid of me. Not with meds or therapy. I'm here to stay, Princess. I'm waiting, ready to live your life better than you ever could."
