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The sound inside the room-my breath on the tile, the whistling blood in my ears, and temples, my horrible heartbeat-if only I could stop all of it. Find a way to press that button to halt the automatic breath, or mute my heart.
It took some time, but I managed to taper my breathing to a shallow pull. When it still bothered me, I reached slowly up for a towel hanging on the rack. The motion brought my migraine to a new level, but once I got the terrycloth under me to muffle the reverb of my breath on the tile, I could concentrate on the hum of the music coming through the door.
I let the tears seep out. It hurt to cry so I couldn't actually throw a fit like the pain demanded, but letting the saltwater drip down relieved some pressure. I just had to tell myself that I was not hearing anything. No one can hear tears.
After some time, maybe a month or only a few minutes, I managed to bury myself in the haze of music enough to relax.
I imagined I was inside my closet back at the Fosters trailer. I was listening to my music and curling into a ball. My arms tightened around my raised knees. I hugged them to me, forcing myself to get smaller and smaller. I tucked in and shrank. I got so tiny, that the pain couldn't find me, and slipped into fitful sleep.
40
-Angel
Mister Brandon is leaning in and mumbling.
While he blathers, I am wishing, for the millionth time, that an artery had burst-a peaceful and massive brain hemorrhage-and I never would have woken up that night.
But then, I note the smooth of his murmuring and know that my lawyer's actually trying to get my attention. He's probably been trying for a while because he tempers his tone when he's frustrated. The more upset he looks, the more relaxed he sounds and right now he sounds like he's fighting sleep.
I should probably care about what he's saying, but I just don't. My eyes are blinded to the room I'm in: as if my mind is still there on that dark bathroom floor and my body is miles away, stretched beyond the abyss of time and space. I am here and there. Divided and singular. Two different entities: a bird and the wind-soaring together, yet remaining separate. The memory is a whirlwind breaking across my feathers, making me falter, making me remember that I never had wings. I was never free.
My fall concluded with an earth-shattering smack. I'm already dead, skimming over my autopsy photos, scanning the wounded memories from that box inside my head.
Cobwebbed. Dusty. Though the blood is still fresh.
Blinking, I force myself to focus on the table in front of me. I have been completely lost inside the past and realize that I'm not sure which parts I have shared and which I've kept to myself.
On the opposite side of the table are two empty chairs. The small lights on the cameras that have been steadily glowing through every session are now black. A hand belonging to my lawyer snaps the small button on the base of the microphone that sits in front of me, shutting it off.
His overcoat is shiny charcoal gray and noisy. The material has a large weave to it, reminding me of the hospital gown, the fabric scrapes together as he turns to me. "Miss Patel."
I keep my eyes on my left hand, forcing my fingers to relax, though I feel like punching something. "Yes."
"I'd like to talk about how you're feeling."
I shake my head, letting my overlong hair fall forward and block my peripheral vision.
"I'm fine, Mister Brandon-" I hate his name. I knew a kid in fourth grade named Brandon. I think he might have been nice, but having a lawyer with that name ruins the vague taste of the memory-turns it bitter. "I'm splendid, actually. Just trying to talk about the most painful night of my life."
"Miss Patel, I think you've misunderstood the purpose of these interviews. It is not, and I repeat, not to relive the events of the night that led you here. The purpose is to allow you space to reflect on your actions, which help us determine the proper course and security level for further treatment. While doing so, you may recall the finer details of that time, but this session is not for that purpose."
There are parts of that night I don't remember and if I have any say, I never will. But I'm not telling him that. "I can remember simple instructions. I'm not incompetent."
His shoulders seem to relax. "Whether you believe me or not, whether you like me or not, I'd like you to remember that I am here to help you, Miss Patel. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask and I will do my best to satisfy your request."
I'm not falling into that trap. The last six years has taught me this: nothing is free. And the only one that can help me is me.
"I've been thinking about what I saw when I woke up."
His face softens. "Have you recalled anything new?"
I shake my head.
"Well, don't strain yourself. We're all aware of your diagnoses and want to make this process as simple, as relaxing as possible."
I drop my eyes back to my useless hands. I don't even know what that fucking word means-relaxing.
While I stare at the slightly frayed material on the cuff of my short sleeve jumpsuit, the door opens and the slapping sound of feet hit the worn floor in time. I keep quiet while the two agents of the court reenter to talk with my lawyer. Funny thing is I didn't even notice they were gone. When each side of the table seems satisfied with whatever the hell details they're trying work out, I am prompted to delve back into that night.
