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“Milk and sugar?” I ask Polly as I fix her a nice cup of tea. She doesn’t answer so I leave it black and turn my attention to my own cup. A dainty addition to my China tea set, white with small pink flowers curling around the rim and a delicate handle. The type you can only use with your pinkie flicked outwards. That’s the law. My jagged fingernails scrape on the miniature milk jug, I wince, then shudder.
They wouldn’t irritate you if you’d just bite them short,a voice rolls around the back of my mind. Twitching my head violently to shake the voice out, I opt for singing a teatime song, instead of tumbling down the rabbit hole of proper etiquette.
How doth the little cup of tea
Improve my shifting temperament
And ease the waters of my insanity
With every drop of peppermint!
Tipping the teapot up,I continue to hum whilst Polly watches me work. Her painted eyes stare lifelessly, the condescending smirk stretching across her plastic face not wavering as we enjoy our morning together. Beyond the barred window, the sun is steadily travelling towards midday, but it’s always 6pm somewhere. The perfect time for tea. Adding three cubes of sugar to my cup, the weight of Polly’s red, wool hair proves too much, tilting her head to the side as the echo of a patronizing mutter reaches me.
“Did you have something to say there, Polly?” I dip my voice dangerously low, sending a tremor of warning through the air. Dropping my spoon against the fragile saucer with an ear-slitting clatter, a few sensible residents dive behind the sofas. Polly, though, that judgey bitch doesn’t back down. A solid minute rolls by as our staring contest stretches on, until my lids burn and I have to snap them shut.
“That’s it!” I scream, throwing her tea in her face. Not mine obviously because I’m not wasting a damn good tea on a whore like her. She’s always doing this, every time I find my Zen and get most of the rec room to myself. As if I can’t drown out the voices in my head long enough for a single tea party, my only companion needs to be on my back too.
“Ineedthree fucking cubes of sugar to keep me sweet enough. I should be judgingyou, Miss Black-English-Breakfast-on-a-Sunday-Morn. Do you know who drinks black tea on a Sunday? Satan, you Devil worshiping bitch!” I narrow my eyes at Crazy Kurt kneeling by the window, gripping his rosary between his hands and muttering about redemption. I don’t waste my time on such things, not after what I’ve seen and done. This time, I throw the whole tea pot at Polly and she flies from her extra-cushion I’d propped her up on. Regret giving her that extra comfort now, don’t I?
Holding my own cup at a safe height, I throw my arm across the table’s surface and the tea set I spent months unclogging shower drains for, smashes to the floor. The shattering ricochets through my tea-loving heart but there’s no time to dwell on sentimentality now. The tablecloth goes next, fluttering over the smashed remains to hide them from view. Much better.
Flashing above the single entrance and accompanied by an alarm, a red light calls for the Bastards-in-Blue, as I like to call them. The door bursts open and I sit still, my chest heaving on ragged breaths. Today is not the day to find myself in isolation, stuck with nothing but my own thoughts. Tomorrow is free on my schedule though. Uniformed figures loom over the threshold, hitting me hard with a warning glare to calm the fuck down. Raising a steady hand, I take a refreshing sip of my sweet tea and sag my posture.
“I’m fine. It’s all good,” I lie. Nothing has been fine since I was a little girl. Since I was swallowed by a world of fantasy and the wonders of my wildest dreams. Since I returned to a life of mockery and distain I seem destined to rot in.
Scowling at the mess Polly has made of my carefully orchestrated tea party, I see regret swirling in the gloopy paint-filled tears that trail down her face.
“Oh, don’t start crying. You know how I get,” I roll my eyes and reach for her. Trying to wipe away the tears with the hem of my light blue dress, I manage to smudge it more until she’s unrecognizable. Red and black coats her face in a spiralizing pattern, like a black hole imbedded in the melted plastic. An attendant steps forward, hand braced on his baton as he anticipates my next flip out but I don’t react. In fact, I prefer Polly this way.
“Time for your meds, Mal,” a cheery voice breaks through the tension. Pushing her way through the crowded doorway, Nurse Suzie smiles her rose lips at me. Curtseying in her black pencil skirt and flat canvas shoes, I take one of the white pots from the tray in her hands. She winks at me as if we’re best friends, and since she’s one of the only people in this place I haven’t attempted to kill at least once, I suppose she is. Swallowing the pills, I finish my tea before it goes cold. Another luxury I had to earn via manual labor - hot water.
“Why don’t you head back to your room and fix yourself up? You have visitors waiting in reception,” Nurse Suzie winks again before sauntering away to deliver meds to the others who are hiding behind sofas and under tables. Only Crazy Kurt is brave enough to remain out in the open when I’m present, but he’s also stupid enough to believe any god will forgive the basement of dead prostitutes they found him sticking his dick into.
“Visitors?” I perk up and then scowl. “Lawyers, you mean.” Fucking leachy assholes. The attorneys assigned to my case are determined to rehabilitate me, or at least convince a judge it is possible. I’ve made it more than clear I have no intentions of leaving this hospital but as long as my so-called family keep throwing money their way, they’re relentless.
The attendant in the doorway, the same one who enjoys some electric baton play, jerks his head as if I don’t have a choice. His harsh face would be rather handsome if it weren’t for the thick scar sliced from his temple to cheek. Not the sexy kind of scar either - the bubbling kind of raw, pink flesh that hinders his left eye from opening properly. I should probably feel bad about that, but like I said - he enjoys using his electric baton far too much and even I have my limits. No means no, motherfucker.
Gripping Polly to my chest, I barge past him and the others hovering around, their observant eyes watching me too closely. Breaking into a bare-footed skip, I travel back to my room with my blonde mane of hair bouncing behind me. My room is all the way down the hall, the last one in the corner. It puts me at an equal distance from the rec room to the mess hall with the shower block just beyond. It’s a long way to pad when naked and dripping wet but means I can get a snack on the way past. Everyone here has seen me in my birthday suit, yet there’s not a single one of them I’d falter on stabbing in the eyes with a plastic fork if I catch them doing so.
Entering my room, I take intense pleasure in slamming the door shut like a moody child. I prop Polly on the end of my bed, if the skinny excuse of a mattress laid with itchy sheets can be called that. Beds may only be shelves for the body in shut down mode but waking with prickly hives everywhere takes the fun out of drifting between worlds behind the safety of my eyelids.
Peering in the polycarbonatemirror above my tiny sink, I wash my hands and wipe them over my face. My blue eyes appear hollow and shrouded in black circles, my skin rough from the cardboard version of a hand towel hanging on the rail. I pick up the large paddle hairbrush that had to be custom ordered for my mass of knots, and then chuck it down again. I like the wavy afro that seems to keep others at bay, and also graces my butt with a comforting caress. It’s not like I have much else that is purely mine.
The blue dress clinging to my chest is stained with the inky blotches of Polly’s face so I reach for a replica, fresh and folded on my bedside table. Standard issue at Charmsfield Institute.
Changing into the clean dress, smoothing down the miniscule blue checked pattern, I pinch it at the back to accentuate my curves. If I stand at a certain angle and squish my tits together with my elbows, I could pass for a Victoria Secret model. Too bad when I release the paper-like fabric, it springs back like a shapeless potato sack. Fuck it, this is as good as it gets.
Looks pretty good to me, the voice comes again and I roll my eyes. In the reflection of the mirror, a curved, toothy smile hangs over my shoulder, twisting in circles. I wave it away, cursing beneath my breath that there’s nothing ‘pretty good’ about me. I’m fucking stunning and completely unhinged. It’s my niche.
The smile lowers, disappearing beneath my bed and I follow it. Dropping onto my front, I watch it fade into the darkness over a bulky, rectangular shadow. It’ll remain there, protecting my most valuable belonging. A secret I can’t reveal, a possession I can’t let be confiscated. Not if I want to return to Wonderland one day.
Dusting myself off and leaving my room, the attendant with the scar sticks close to my side. I don’t bother with names when too many quit within days of starting, but I call this prick the Terminator because he just won’t fuck off. He fancies himself as the future warden, controlling my fate with the swing of his baton but everyone has a boss. And I refuse to let him be mine.
Taking the lead, I force him to follow me through the resident hallways. All the bedrooms are identical, which is bullshit because I’ve definitely earned a premium membership by now and should be upgraded to a private penthouse suite. The doors are supposed to remain open during daylight hours, thanks to trialing a new ‘open door policy’ with a formal lock-in after eight, but I suspiciously find my door locked more often than not. I would have preferred it today so I didn’t have to sit though lawyer spiel. Talk about suicidal.
Creating a rectangle, Charmsfield Institute comprises of three levels. Ground floor is for the eyes of visitors and flashy politicians that come to gush over the advancement in their criminal rehabilitation facility. I’ve seen camera crews pull up the tarmac driveaway, scoping the manicured gardens surrounding the property until catching a glimpse of my bare chest pressed against the glass of my bedroom window. They quickly disperse then.
