Revive Me (25 page)

“Thank you,” I said, taking another bite and groaning. “God this tastes so much better than the hospital food they’ve been feeding me.” He gave me a look. “Okay, fine, what little hospital food I’ve had.” Dawson had snuck me up food for almost every meal so I wouldn’t have to eat the freezer burned cheeseburgers and cold mashed potatoes.

“Derrick wanted to be here, but I told him he couldn’t miss school,” he informed me.

“What about my parents?” I asked. “Do they need to be there with me when I get discharged?”

He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “They were up here earlier when you were sleeping and signed your release forms because they have prior commitments.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course they do.” I was sure they had prior commitments with a bottle named Jack.

He clapped his hands together. “But, I told them I’d take great care of you.” His thin lips gave me a smile.

“You’re taking me?” I asked, shocked. I wasn’t sure how the process worked. “They’re not taking me in an ambulance or a van with padded walls or something?”

“You need to quit watching so many movies,” he said. “Yes, I’m taking you.”

I looked down in shame. I hated him seeing me like this. I’d been in love with Dawson since freshman year, even when I was with Reese, deep down I still wanted him. I fought it, but no matter what, when I went to bed at night, he was the one I thought of. So him seeing me there, in that condition, was embarrassing.

“So get dressed whenever you’re finished eating, and we’ll head out,” he added.

I finished my food knowing that security in my new place probably wasn’t going to allow Dawson to sneak me in some tacos. I pulled myself out of the uncomfortable, lumpy bed and grabbed the bag from the chair slowly. I cringed, feeling a deep pain in my wrist as I lifted it and started walking towards the bathroom to get dressed. I shook my head when Dawson asked if I needed a nurse to help me.

I grabbed the first articles of clothing I found and didn’t bother to look through the bag. I looked in the mirror before heading out, noticing how terrible I looked. I’d been allowed me to shower, but I had to leave my arm out to keep my wound dry. My hair looked like a rat’s nest. Circles gathered under my vacant eyes. My skin was moist and clammy. I felt dirty and gross. Never in my life had I felt so ugly. I was finally noticing what a mess I really was.

“Ready to go?” Dawson asked when I walked back into the room.

“They’re really going to let you take me?” I asked skeptically. “Aren’t they scared I’ll like skip town or something?”

He laughed. “Tessa, you’re not a convict on your way to prison.”

“Pretty much,” I grumbled.

“The doctors said you agreed to get help.” He wrapped his arm around my waist. “They didn’t peg you as a runner, plus I can outrun you.” He carefully grabbed my hand in his, and I didn’t miss the way his fingers brushed against my bandages. I looked up at him, and he gave me a small smile. “I’ll visit you,” he continued as we walked in to the elevator with my bag in his free hand. He dropped my hand to hit the main floor button before grabbing it again.

We stayed silent as I fidgeted nervously. He helped me into his truck before getting in and taking off down the road. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Do you know how long I’m going to be there for?” I asked, biting my fingernails nervously.

“Your parents said possibly a week or two. It depends on how well you make progress.”

“Oh.”

His palm cupped my knee. “Which I’m sure you’ll do in great time.”

“Does everyone think I’m crazy?” He shook his head. “Be honest.”

“The people that matter don’t. The ones that don’t, no one gives a shit what they say.” His hand moved to mine, and he kissed it softly. “You’ve been going through a rough time, we understand. I just wish we could’ve gotten you help before this happened. You scared the shit out of me, so no more, okay?”

“It won’t happen again.” I hoped so.

“Damn straight it won’t. You start to feel like you want to cut, call me. I’ll come over, I’ll talk to you, I’ll just sit there with you while you deal, but you call me.” I nodded in response.

We pulled up to a long, one story, brick building. It looked normal. There were no bars to block people from escaping through the windows or electric fences to shock the runners. Crazy, mental patients weren’t running around the yard or planting their faces against the windows mouthing, “Help me.” It looked like a doctor’s office or nursing home. Yeah, he was right. I’d seen
way
too many movies.

“If you need anything, anything at all, call me. I’m going to put my name on the list. I’m so proud of you for doing this,” he said, killing the ignition to his trunk and settling back against the ripped seat.

A tear trailed down my face. “Why are you proud of me? I’m a coward, a freak, and I’m headed to the nut house.”

“No, you’re not.”

More tears released. “Yes, I am. I tried to kill myself. I’m mentally fucked up, Dawson,” I said. How many times did I have to explain this to him?

“You’re not fucked up. You have some issues, and you’re getting it taken care of. If you didn’t get help, it would get worse, and then you would become mentally fucked up. It’s not unnatural for you to feel this way. You’re depressed, and we need to make you better.” Was I depressed? I’d never wanted to say that about myself. I was empty and I’d been lying to myself. I allowed myself to believe that sucking down booze and being with Reese was a good coping mechanism. I’d used them both to block out the irrational, self-destructing feelings, because you can’t feel like shit if you feel nothing.

“Depression isn’t something to be embarrassed about, you hear me?”

I scoffed. “Says the guy who’s not depressed.”

A sympathetic look crossed his face. “They’ll give you medicine to help you. It’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. It doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

“Meds?” I covered my face with my sweaty palms. “Dead God, I truly am crazy.”

“There is no difference between someone taking a pill for high blood pressure, or any other medical condition, and someone taking one for depression. No difference. Your body, or brain, isn’t producing properly, so medicine will help that.” He opened a plastic bag sitting in the middle of us and handed over my favorite candy bar. “Now eat up. I don’t think they’re going to be so lenient on me sneaking you in the good shit.”

I chuckled lightly, unwrapped the candy bar, and ate it hurriedly.

They wouldn’t let Dawson past the front desk, giving me an even bigger desire to flee. The thought of going through this alone terrified me. I had courage with Dawson by my side, handing over candy bars, and giving me words of encouragement, but alone? That was a different story.

“I’ll find out when I can visit, and I’ll be here at the first opportunity,” he told me. He strapped my bag over my shoulder, pulled me forward, and kissed me on the cheek. “You’ll be fine.”

I nodded, unable to hold back the tears as reality sunk in. I was getting institutionalized. Sure, it was temporary, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was a lunatic. A year ago, I would’ve laughed in someone’s face if they told me this was going to happen. It’s crazy how your entire world can fall apart when you lose someone you love. Everything you believed about yourself, all of the strengths you thought you had, is truly tested.

I waved goodbye to him as a short, plump woman wearing a long skirt and jacket waited on me with a clipboard in her hand. I followed her thought a set of double doors, pulling my bag tightly into my stomach, and trying my hardest to shut-up the devil telling me to make a run for it. She stopped at a closed door, and I followed her inside. The room was small with only a computer sitting on a short desk and a chair sitting next to it. Other than that, the room was empty. No bright paintings hung along the walls, no tiny dog statues on the desk, just that.

She grabbed my bag from me and threw it onto the desk. The sound of the zipper being pulled down vibrated through the quiet room. “Do you have any sharp items in here, pills, drugs or anything of that nature?” she asked.

I shook my head, playing with the ends of my hair, and shuffling my feet against the tiled floor. “No, not that I know of. I didn’t pack it.”

She shuffled through the bag, taking smaller ones out, opening them up, and checking the pockets to make sure I wasn’t trying to smuggle anything in.

“Have a seat,” she said, and I slowly fell down into the open chair. “How are you feeling at the moment?”

“Uh, okay.” I was actually terrified.

“Do you feel like harming yourself or anybody else?”

I shook my head, biting hard against my lip nervously. “Good. It’s standard procedure to ask all of these questions,” she explained, going through her list of the rest of the “standard” questions.

“All right, come with me.” I followed the woman, who told me her name was Wanda during my interrogation, down a long hallway. My eyes flew in every direction, taking in the people talking at tables, watching TV, or reading in what she’d called the rec room. Everything seemed sane so far. She turned around the corner and stopped in front of an open door with the number 23 on it. “This is you.”

My feet felt heavy as I walked into the middle of the room. It was definitely different than what I’d imagined. The walls were white, but no padding. There were no restraints on the two, twin-size beds, or tools to perform a lobotomy. Everything looked, well, normal.

I examined the beds. The one closest to the door had a white blanket spread across it with a single pillow. My gaze moved to the one by the window. A bright pink comforter was laid out with a stuffed unicorn propped up against the pillow. Unless that was how they welcomed new patients, I had a feeling I was going to have a roommate. And that wasn’t a good feeling.

I gulped, and set my bag down onto the white bed.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Wanda said. I turned around, forgetting she was even there, and nodded as she disappeared.

I unzipped my bag and began dragging clothes out. Dawson had done a pretty decent job. He’d packed comfortable clothes like he’d said. I found myself grinning and running my hands over the soft fabric of the oversized sweatshirt with “Thomas” scrawled on the back and his football number stitched in underneath it. He’d been telling me for years he wanted it back, but I’d lied and told him I lost it. He probably wouldn’t have taken it from me anyways. He’d thrown a few books and magazines in there. I started putting things away when I noticed something drop onto the floor. I slowly bent down, and picked up a folded paper with my name written across it before opening it up.

Tessa,

I hope they don’t confiscate this letter before you get the chance to read it. If it did get confiscated and you’re the person who took it, it would be pretty shitty to not let her read it. Just saying.

I know I told you I’d always be here for you. I want you to know I mean every word of that. Every single word. You’re not going through this alone and there’s nothing, nothing you could ever do that would make you lose me. Nothing. You’re not crazy. You’re Tessa, who’s dealing with some shit so she can go back to the amazing person she is.

You’re my forever. You’re my always. The sadness you’re feeling, it’s temporary. I’ll help you feel whole again. I promise.

I love you.

Dawson.

I re-read the letter. Then re-read it again. And again. Tears laced my eyes. I hurt him. I didn’t miss the bruises still lingering on his face when he’d visited me, they were fading, but they were still there. I didn’t bring them up because I was terrified he’d remember all the pain I’d caused him and give up on me. He’d realize I wasn’t worth the hassle. I’d chosen Reese, turned my back on him, and then watched him get jumped because he stuck up for me. So I stayed silent, in fear of losing him again.

I swiped the tears off my face before folding the letter back up with jittery hands. I picked up a hard pillow and slid the letter underneath it, silently praying they wouldn’t find it. I wasn’t sure if having letters was against the rules or not. I must’ve tuned out Wanda during that part.

“Hey there,” a wispy voice called out. I turned around to face a girl staring at me. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a large, side-braid. Her tall stature was covered with a black, velour sweat outfit. She was gorgeous, even with a make-up free face; you could tell she was attractive. Her lips were full and profound, almost looking artificial, but not too dramatic. The girl looked like a model. What the hell was she doing here?

“Looks like we’re going to be roomies. Please tell me you’re not a kleptomaniac?” she asked, kicking a leg out and eyeing me.

“No,” I drew out, watching her walk around me, and fall down onto the other bed.