Page 13 of Heart Sick

“Youneed it,” he stresses, not appreciating my aloof behavior. “You’re in here just for observation. And when you’re no longer a threat to yourself—”

“How long?” His pep talk isn’t wanted. I just want to know when I can get out of this—when I look at the bars on the window—I realize this isn’t a hospital, it’s a prison.

“There isn’t a timeframe for emotional healing.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, cut the bullshit. When can I leave?”

“That remains to be determined.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

A frustrated sigh leaves him. “It means that when we believe you are no longer a threat to yourself.”

This is some horseshit. “I want to speak to my lawyer. I do not agree to be in here. This is a violation of my civil rights!”

“We weren’t the ones who had you committed.”

I know who did and never have I felt more betrayed in my life than I do now.

“Joy was only trying to help.”

“Oh, Misha, shut up.”

The doctor pauses from writing something down. “Do you hear voices often, Ms. Huxley?”

“It’s Luna,” I correct again through clenched teeth.

“Misha was your son?”

“Ismy son,” I amend with venom.

He writes something else down, peering at me with a pursed mouth. “Is he talking to you right now?”

“No, but you are, and I wish you’d stop. Suicide doesn’t seem like such a bad thing now because it would mean I wouldn’t have to listen to you!”

I have no idea where this anger has come from, but it does feel good, just as it did when I envisioned using Trista’s head as a bowling ball.

A husky chuckle sounds just outside my door, inciting an unexpected riot within. I tilt my head to the left to look around the doctor as he is blocking the doorway, but I can’t see anything. I wish that I did because I want to see who the owner of that gravelly laugh is.

“We will administer a light sedative to help you relax. It’ll help you sleep.”

“Are you serious?” I taunt with a smirk. “You shouldn’t have pumped my stomach if you wanted me to sleep. Seems like a waste.”

“Ms. Huxley, making jokes about your attempted suicide concerns me.”

“Well, your shoes concern me.”

“My shoes?” he asks, puzzled as he peers down at the brown leather monstrosities on his feet. “What about my shoes?”

“They’re ugly, and offer no arch support. That probably explains why you hobbled in here. You should look at getting orthotics. Or at the very least, better shoes.”

He looks at me with nothing but confusion. But is quick to compose himself. “I will see to your medication.”

I would wave him goodbye, but seeing as I’m restrained, I smile—it’s sickly sweet. The doctor is in a hurry to leave. I do, however, notice he seems to exit with a little more grace this time.

A laugh erupts from me because if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. And I have done enough of that.

I peruse my bleak surroundings—it’s everything you’d expect from a psych ward. I can’t believe I’m in here.

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