What It Takes

Keira closes her bedroom door and looks down the hall. No one appears to be up. The only sounds at eleven o’clock at night are Windy, an inpatient who is nocturnal and reads out loud, and a few night nurses. She manages to squeeze past one and enter the bathroom. It’s bright and her eyes take a second to focus, but luckily it’s empty. She chooses a stall towards the end and shuts the door lightly, being careful not to make any sound that might draw attention. Technically, they’re supposed to monitor when she uses the restroom, but Keira isn’t doing anything she wouldn’t normally do.
After a few seconds of listening for footsteps in the hall, she crouches so she’s kneeling down and holds her breath. She can feel her heart beat in her chest and somehow in her brain as well. It feels as if something is lodged down her throat but her instincts tell her to keep it there. Her fingers are getting cold and she realizes her fists are clenched so tight her knuckles turn white and the veins above her hand pop out. Evil spirits are making funny sounds in her stomach and she knows it is time. Her face gets cold and warm all at once as her fingers slam down her throat, feeling the raw tissue of her mouth. She heaves a few times and only acid comes out, and then one more heave and the food escalades out. Once everything is out of her system, her stomach starts to relax and she spits out into the toilet. Then, as if that wasn’t loud enough, she slams her right fist into the wall.
She hasn’t done this in three weeks. She thought she was getting better. She doesn’t know why she did this, all she knows is that her life is supposed to be over, but for some reason she’s still here, breathing, vomiting, and feeling like shit.
Keira looks to her right and sees the sharp edge of the toilet paper holder. She rolls up her sleeve and brushes her arm against the metal edge until it burns. Then she presses her arm against it harder and scrapes quickly, painfully. There’s blood now, running down her arm like a snake. Keira grabs some toilet paper and dabs it. She holds it there until her arm stops bleeding.

(Therapists Office)

The curtains are drawn as evening closes in on them. Keira sits on a sky blue sofa with not a trace of lint or discoloration; instead, it stands in perfect harmony with the rest of the furniture in the room. The white curtains take their final bow as the windows close and the breeze settles among the air. Almost everything takes on the color of spring, with blue couches, white tables, and brightly colored pictures hanging neatly on the walls. The only thing that looks unbefitting is Keira.
She sits with her legs curled up on the couch, back leaning against the soft cushions, and head resting on her palm. Her dark, uncut hair is falling in her face, and her cloths are two sizes too big. She sits there tracing words with her fingers. She looks bored, as if she’s seen this TV show before and there’s nothing else to do but watch. What she’s looking at is Dr. Roberts, her therapist at this recovery center. He’s her favorite adult she’s met here, but for the life of her-which isn’t much-she doesn’t understand what he’s doing here.
He’s one of those older men, white-haired and aging respectively, who have all the wisdom of their grandfather’s. Ask him a question and he’ll think about, truly think about it, and give you a detailed answer. Keira was sure he must have had a great life, full of love, kindness, and everything a normal man would receive, so why the hell is he here? Why would he want to help people who try to kill themselves? He doesn’t even look like he’s ever heard the word suicide.
“Keira,” as his deep voice bellows her name she can’t help but think he sounds like an old man, withering with age, yet strong with experience. She can’t understand his strength with these types of things. Sure he must have been through a war or two, but war was different. In war, the enemy isn’t you. In war, if you kill your enemy you save yourself. In her life, if you kill the enemy you kill yourself.
“How are you feeling today?” his simply question offers no interest for her.
She shrugs, “Fine, I guess.”
“How’s your wrist? Does it hurt?”
Her mouth twitches a little. Of course she shouldn’t have been so stupid in the bathroom a couple days ago, how could she believe they wouldn’t notice? There are no secrets here. Keira bites her lip and answers him: “No, it’s better now.”
“Good. So, why don’t I ask some questions, the usual, okay?”
She nods reluctantly.
“I would like to know more about who you are.” He pauses.
She nods again, wondering what he’s getting at.
“I know your life, I know your credentials, but I don’t know your side of the story. It’s been more than two months since your first day in the recovery center, after your overdose. Are you happy you were rescued? If Derington hadn’t called 911 you’d be dead right now. Are you happy you’re alive now?”
This isn’t exactly the kind of question she expected to answer.
“Don’t think about it just give me a straight answer.”
“No,” she admits.
“No,” he repeats softly, thinking to himself. “Then you really wanted to kill yourself…” this sounds more like a pondering thought rather than a question for her. She wonders what he’s thinking. “Why would you want to kill yourself? Your emotions are obviously still there. What happened?”
She blinks.
“Was it your family?”
She will say nothing. Family’s perfect, always has been. Perfection’s not real, you say, Mr. Roberts? Try telling that to her family.
“Was it a friend?”
She’s sure he’s referring to Jordan, who died before her overdose. Still, she doesn’t answer.
“A boy, perhaps, a boyfriend?” now he’s becoming more certain about this one as Keira’s lips twitch again.
No, don’t…do…anything. She can’t let herself breath. If she breaths, he knows he is right. Damn, he knows. If he knows then Dillion’s going to jail.
“It’s a boyfriend,” his lips turn up at the edges, but turn down again to ask another question. “Your mother told me your old boyfriend Dillion moved back into your neighborhood. Were you dating Dillion when you overdosed?”
She shakes her head slowly. Her fingers are getting clammy. She isn’t sure when the session is over, but she’s certain it isn’t in two minutes. She’ll explode before then if she doesn’t come up with something good to tell this persistent old man.
“Keira,” his head turns in puzzlement, “You can tell me what’s been bothering you. Let me help.”
His words send a tingle down her spine. Jordan said almost the exact same thing. Jordan…Jordan is dead. He can’t come back…her eyes glow at the idea forming in her brain. When she looks up, she feigns relief with grief. “It’s Jordan.”
Dr. Roberts tries to hide his relief and pounces at the door she opened. “Jordan? Your friend who passed away a few months ago? Tell me about him.” His sincere voice reminds Keira of her grandfather.
She must choose her words carefully if this plan should work. “He was always jealous,” she begins, looking at the floor to avoid his eyes, “of Dillion. When Dillion left me…well…I couldn’t get over his absence. Eventually Jordan got sick of me always talking about Dillion, so Jordan grew angry.”
“Did he take out his anger on you?” his voice is soft but persistent.
Keira pauses while she gathers her thoughts. If she is to be believed, then she has to make this convincing, but not too complicated that she herself forgets the story. She decides to flip some things. “He did,” her voice is barely above a whisper.
Dr. Roberts leans further in his chair, his face growing more curious by each word she spoke, yet he starts to back off and puts his hands together calmly. “Tell me what he was like when he was angry.”
She looks at her own hands and opens and closes her mouth before starting, “He…drank.”
“Did he include you in his drinking habits?”
“Not really,” she spoke slowly, carefully, “But we went to parties, and that’s where he drank.”
“Would you say he got drunk a lot?”
She nods.
“And how was he when he was drunk? Was he loud, forceful, verbal…?” he probes around for the right word.
“Yes,” she agrees with them all.
“Was he like this with you at these parties?”
“Yes,” she repeats.
Dr. Roberts takes a moment to study her reactions to all his new material, and seems quite pleased. Then he gets more serious and leans forward again. “Did he ever hurt you, either mentally or physically, while he was drunk?” he makes sure to speak kindly.
Keira tries to take a breath in but it just goes straight through her lungs. She needs to continue, to give him a little more information, just enough to reach a breakthrough, just enough to prove to them she has a chance at recovering and getting out.
“Yes.”
“Mentally?”
She squeezes her fingers together, but doesn’t move her head.
“Physically?”
She nods.
“Did he rape you, Keira?”
She doesn’t move. Every limb in her tiny body hangs on that one word, that one four letter word. Her stomach feels sick, like she’s digested some kind of poison. She’s aware of Dr. Roberts’ stare as he leans to far forward in his seat that she wonders if she needs to be ready to catch him. She’s suddenly aware of the racing beat of her heart, and she hopes it doesn’t show in her face.
“Keira,” he says her name like he’s speaking to a newborn baby, “Did Jordan rape you?”
“Yes.”