When nothing came, I closed my eyes, hating myself. You’re a monster, Beau Oliver.
“If I remove these, you have to promise to be cooperative.” Dr. Viola hesitated at my restraints.
“I will,” I said. It must’ve been hours since the last time I’d woken up because it was dark outside. What the hell kind of shit did they have me on that would make me sleep like that?
Dr. Viola studied me for a second and then removed the restraints first from my feet, then moved up to my hands. I sat up and stretched, feeling much better already. A nurse stood silently at the foot of my bed, watching.
“Your sister bought you clothes if you’d rather change out of that.” I glanced down at the white shirt and pants and groaned. Yeah. I seemed like the textbook case of crazy.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Dr. Viola handed me a pair of jeans and a Henley. “Go to the bathroom and leave the door open. I’ll be here waiting for you.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I can’t even take a piss alone?”
He shook his head at me. “No. Not yet.”
What the hell did he think I was going to do in there? I sighed, not caring enough to argue, and went into the adjoining restroom. I changed, leaving my jeans unbuttoned since it was impossible to do the simplest things with a broken right hand, and I sure as hell wasn’t asking the doctor to button them. I splashed water on my face, which was also difficult to do with one hand. I sighed. This fucking sucks. Why had I been such a moron to break my hand? Lifting my gaze to the mirror, I noticed I had bruising on my face, and my short beard had grown out. I needed to trim that up before l looked like a lumberjack.
“Can I get a razor?” I poked my head out of the bathroom to see Dr. Viola standing there watching me.
“No, sorry. You can have it once you are discharged.”
What? I couldn’t have a damn razor to shave? What the hell was their issue?
All of a sudden, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My eyes widened as my reflection came into view in the small mirror over the sink. Fucking hell. I’d tried to kill myself. I knew it just like I knew my name was Beau Anderson. I couldn’t remember how or why, but I knew it with every fiber of my being.
What had April seen? A cold dread settled in my stomach at the thought. I needed to remember, and now.
“I tried to kill myself, didn’t I?” I stepped out of the bathroom feeling much more like myself in my regular clothes. My hands shook while I waited for the confirmation. I’d never tried to commit suicide before. What did that mean for me? I was worsening. I was my father. She’d been right all along.
Dr. Viola lifted his eyebrow and indicated for me to sit in the plush chair in the corner of the room. I did, and he sat across from me in a matching chair. How cute, you get locked up in a mental ward and get cushy chairs to talk to your psych in. The nurse exited the room at Dr. Viola’s indication. I guess he’d decided I wasn’t that dangerous after all. Just to myself, seemingly. “Why do you think that?”
“Just put some things together. Why I was bound to my bed and then why you wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom by myself or have a razor. You think I’m a threat to myself.”
He tapped his pen against his pad of paper. “You don’t remember why you’re here?”
“I have a few memories. I know I was with my girlfriend and a foster child. We had gone to a small amusement park and rode on go-karts. After that, everything gets fuzzy.” I realized I was talking a whole hell of a lot, way more than I ever would on a regular day.
They must have me on some good shit.
“What meds am I on?”
Dr. Viola paused and opened his chart. “We have you on a combination of quite a few things, Beau. We had you on a heavy dose of sedatives to let your brain and body rest. We have you on several anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. We will adjust and change as needed while you’re here and after.”
I nodded. What could I say to that? I hated every pill that had to work to keep my head straight, but learned long ago they were necessary evils.
“You have a history of this sort of thing, right?”
“What does ‘this sort of thing’ mean? I don’t remember what happened.”
“I got notes from your regular psychiatrist today. You’ve had episodes similar to these your entire life, right? Onset was about eight years old? She sent me your formal diagnosis.”
My ‘formal diagnosis.’ I hated those fucking words. The words that told everyone I was nothing but a fuck up of epic proportions. If he knew so much about me, why was he asking? “Yes. Though I usually remember them, like I’m floating above myself while it happens.”