Recovery with Hearts and Wrists Intact

The sirens may have stopped sounding, but I can still hear them clear as ever in my memory. I can still feel the warm blood from Ryan spill over my hands as I held him while he died. I still remember the crying and screaming of the students who were gathered around on the quad that day. And I especially still remember the chaos and torture that followed all of those events in the next few weeks. I remember the dreadfully long flight to Maine and the equally long wait for a rental car just so we could drive from Portland to Ashland, home of the Trinity Mental Recovery Center.

This brings me to today; my orientation day and the first step to a “healthy and safe recovery.” I don’t want to recover though. Judging from what I’ve seen in the countless pamphlets my mother’s left around for me to peruse through about this hellhole, all they preach is forgetting the past and moving forward. I don’t want to forget. If recovering means forgetting, you can count me the fuck out.

I look up from my iPod and watch the trees of the wilderness around us pass as we rush up the empty, winding roads slowly approaching TMRC. It’s raining and all I can think is that I hope it’s not rainy everyday here. I already miss the sun and heat from back in Las Vegas.

It’s only been a month since my entire life changed. You’d think my parents would want to give me a bit more time to try and recover on my own, rather than ship me off to some secluded asylum. Okay, maybe asylum was a bit harsh, but I knew enough from the pamphlets to know that there were mentally disturbed people here. Nothing like having your parents drop you off on the opposite side of the country with a bunch of lunatics.

I sigh and let my head smack into the window as I watch the rain slide down the glass, two of them racing towards the bottom. I make a mental bet that the one on the left will reach the bottom first and have to withhold a small cheer when it does.

“Brendon,” my dad’s voice sounds out over the song I’m listening to and draws my attention away from the racing rain drops. I snap my attention to his eyes in the rearview mirror, pausing my iPod. “We’re almost there. Just remember to stay on your best behavior while you’re here.”

I resist rolling my eyes and give him a quick nod before restarting the music and turning my attention back to the window. Best behavior. What did he think I was going to do? Follow in Ryan’s footsteps and kill everyone here? I cringe a little at the thought. I hate that everyone thinks I was part of the planning when Ryan decided to shoot everyone. I mean, I was in a way, but not really. I never wanted anyone to die or get hurt. I never wanted things to get that bad.

The police and courts had proven I was innocent and was just stuck in the middle of everything because of Ryan. Jon and Spencer had been sure to tell the cops that I had tried to stop Ryan, and that I was even on the list. I had even handed over the list willingly, just wanting it out of my possession, as well as telling them where I believed the bodies were. I told them all about Frank and how Ryan had plotted with him more than with me.

Frank was cleared apparently on all counts, with the exception to housing an exotic pet without a permit. He’d had permits for the guns, and no one could prove he was the one who helped Ryan dispose of the bodies or that he’d had given Ryan the guns willingly. The courts just proved to believe Ryan stole the guns and had disposed of the bodies by himself. I knew the truth, but I wasn’t going to risk my entire life by blaming Frank. It wasn’t like he was the one who had pulled the trigger and shot everyone.

I closed my eyes against the dreary background as we drove closer and closer what was going to be my home for the next several months. My parents hadn’t even let me wait until graduation to leave. What bullshit.

“But they have a wonderful GED program that you can take, Brendon,” my mother had explained when I had first expressed my outrage at the thought of leaving several months prior to graduation. “It’ll be better for you in the long run.”

What she meant was it’d be better for everyone else at Woodland High School. It was better for them to not have to graduate with a kid who had been linked to the largest mass shooting in about 10 years in Nevada, and probably most of the US. It was easier for them to shove it under the rug and forget about it without the alleged accomplice in attendance. I hadn’t even done anything, but whatever made them sleep better at night I guess.

I feel the car start to slow down and reluctantly open my eyes as I watch us turn down a long and winding drive the leads up to what reminds me of those creepy asylums they always have in the cliché, b-list movies on the SyFy channel. We stop at a gate about 300 yards from the building and a portly looking guard with an umbrella and clipboard steps out of a small stand and approaches our car. My dad and mom exchange a glance before my father decides he should probably roll down his window.

“Name?” The man barks out roughly to my father, peering past him and locking his eyes on me. He seems to appraise me and I can detect the hint of boredom behind his glare. He’s probably looking for hints of insanity that he probably sees much more than he’d like to. I glare back defiantly and fold my arms across my chest. I don’t like people assuming that I’m insane and that’s why I’m being shipped off. All I did was get caught in a bad situation. It wasn’t even my fault.

“Urie,” my father replies, trying to keep his voice calm as he notices the man staring me down through the window. The man snaps his gaze from mine and I watch him scan over the clipboard. He locates our name quickly and steps back into the booth before hitting a button that causes the gates to open with a metallic grating noise.

Rolling up his window, my dad pulls forward up the rest of the drive until we arrive in front of a white, cracking staircase that leads up to what I’m assuming to be the front door. My father, mother, and I all exit the car into the drizzling rain just as a woman dressed in a black skirt and jacket opens the door and extends an umbrella before shuffling down the staircase to our car.

“Hello,” she says in a forced tone, despite the cheerful smile plastered across her face. “I’m Dr. Carla Illich. Welcome to the Trinity Mental Recovery Center. You must be Brendon.”

She directs her eyes to me and I notice how cat-like she seems. She gives me a small appraisal, much like the one the guard had given me through the car window and I resist glaring back at her. I really hope this isn’t how all the people here are going to treat me. I hate being looked at as if people want to dissect me or something.

“Yes, this is Brendon,” my mom supplies, giving me a glare when I neglect to answer Dr. Illich. “He’s a tad shy.”

I have to choke back a laugh at that one. I’m far from shy; I just hate talking to people who think I’m crazy. I could already tell this was going to be a long road to recovery. Dr. Illich gives me another sickly sweet smile and I can’t help but think that she and I are definitely not going to be friends while I’m here. There’s just something about her that rubs me wrong and I don’t like it one bit.

“Well, pleasure to meet you Brendon. Group session is just about to start, how about we take you there and you can jump right in? You aren’t in mandatory uniform right now, but I suppose we can make an exception so we can get you started on your path to recovery sooner.” Without waiting for a response, she turns and skitters back up the steps, leaving me and my parents to trudge along behind her.

Great. Just great. I didn’t know we have to wear fucking uniforms here. What the fuck is that about? Are the uniforms supposed to help us recover faster or something? I’m here all of five minutes and I already want to leave. This is going to be hell. And what the fuck is a group session? Do we seriously have to do group therapy? I have to talk about my issues in front of fucking everyone? Fan-fucking-tastic.

We follow Dr. Illich through the heavy, oak door at the top of the stairs into a small entrance hall. There are three doors leading off this room; one to each side and one directly opposite of us. I spot a desk near the door to the left where a man in blue scrubs looks up and nods at the doctor before buzzing open the door cross from us.

Dr. Illich leads us across the room and through the metal doors, which opens up into what reminds me too much of a hospital. Actually, it reminds exactly of a hospital. I shoot a glare at my oblivious parents as we wander down the hall in Dr. Illich’s wake. They’re actually putting me in a god damned mental hospital. Oh for fuck sake, I’m not crazy. I don’t belong in a mental hospital. This is fucking ridiculous.

She leads us down the hall, weaving us left and right before we finally arrive to a door that bears a plaque identifying it as Group Room #4. Dr. Illich pushes open the door and my eyes fall over the group of 6 people who I assume to be my age, and an official looking man with a beard, who I assume to be some sort of psychologist or therapist or something.

“I hate to interrupt, Dr. Grady, but Brendon’s arrived and I was wondering if he could sit in for group today while I give his parents the tour.”

I can hear the sickly smile again in her voice and am glad it’s not directed at me again. The man who I take to be Dr. Grady, smiles over at me quickly before giving Dr. Illich a nod.

“Of course, that won’t be a problem at all! Come on in Brendon; let me get you a chair.” His voice is a lot more effeminate than I was expecting and sort of startles me into paralysis. I was expecting a bark or more gravelly voice at least.

My mom places her hand on my shoulder, letting her talon like nails sink into the tender skin there and gives me a small shove.

“Go!” She hisses out, too quiet for anyone else to hear. I sigh and finally will myself to step forward and sink into the metal chair Dr. Grady conjured up from the corner of the room.

I hear the door behind me creak as it opens again and I snap my head towards it just in time to see my parents and Dr. Illich disappearing through it. I let out another sigh and turn around to find everyone, including Dr. Grady, have their eyes trained on me. They’re studying me just like the guard and Dr. Illich did and it makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“Well, Brendon,” Dr. Grady says, crossing his legs and leaning his clipboard on them as he looks at me over his glasses. “We were just about to start our weekly group therapy session. Since you’re new, why about we start with you? How about you tell us why you’re here?” He gives me a smile and I resist sticking my tongue out at him like a four year old. Instead I stare down at my knees and pick at a loose thread hoping if I ignore him, he’ll turn his attention to someone else.

“Brendon?” He prompts, and I let out a sigh turning my attention to a spot on the wall behind his head and shrugging my shoulders.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

I shake my head, keeping my focus on that stupid spot on the unpleasant grey wall.

“Maybe he’s retarded,” a boy from across the circle says to me and I restrain from jumping out of my seat to punch him in the face.

“Shush, Brian,” Dr. Grady says softly before redirecting his attention to me again. “Oh, Brendon, I’m sure you know why you’re here.” He’s got that stupid fucking smile plastered on his face and I feel the anger in me bubble up.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I grit out through my teeth. “I do know why I’m here.” Dr. Grady is smiling even wider as he cocks his head to the side.

“Good,” he says. “And why is that, Brendon?”

"Because my fucking boyfriend killed half my fucking high school."