Pretty Girl

One week had passed since Teddy left me at the double doors. I've never been so lonely despite all the people with similar problems and doctors that surround me. Not even the monsters inside my head aren't there to keep me company.

I just walk the halls going to and from group sessions, meals in the cafeteria, and back to the small room I share with a girl who goes by the Batty. I assumed it was a nickname given to her because of how bat shit crazy she is. She tells me that instead of trying to suppress the voices and the taunting, that I should make friends with them, because after all, they won't leave you like everyone else.

Once a nurse determined that I was well adjusted, I was allowed to have my first session with the psychologist. I've been to a psychologist before, they all have prescribed me medication for anything I complained or ached about without really caring why I needed it. I had a feeling though, that this psychologist was going to be a lot different. I would actually have to talk, face everything that is wrong with me.

I sit in a plush chair, my knees brought up to my chin and my fingers trace the patterns on my booties. Doctor Coleman sits across of me in another chair with his eyes glued to the multiple papers inside a manila folder; my file.

"So, Claire," he begins by removing his reading glasses. "How do you think we should tackle this?"

"Tackle what?"

"The Demons as you call them. How should we approach getting rid of them?"

"They like my head too much to leave. I've tried every drug in the book, and it only dulls their screams."

"Have you tried talking about what may cause them?"

"No. What do you think caused them?" I ask.

"What do you think?"

I shrug my shoulder and pull my legs even closer into my chest. "I don't know. Maybe because my father died in a car crash when I was six and that fucked my mom up, made her into some sort of alcoholic that lets guys do whatever they want to her. Sam tried to kill herself; Emma has no idea how to show any ounce of empathy at all. But my sisters both have great thing going for them, even if they don't know it. Sam is so smart and Emma can play any instrument that she touches. But I'm not good at anything. I can't even get an eating disorder right."

Doctor Coleman furrows his eyebrows and purses his lips then looks down at my file again, furiously flipping through papers. I obviously can't even get a therapy session right. I watch him get up and round his desk to pick up the phone and dial a series of numbers.

"Hi Rita, is everything correct in Claire Patrick's file? Yes, some of the things seem to be incorrect. No that's fine I'll call her myself."

Doctor Coleman finally looked up at me. "I just to make another quick phone call, you can go back to your room and I'll come retrieve you when I'm finished."

I nod, getting up and exiting his office silently. I start to take the stairs all the way to my room on the third floor. When I got there I was startled by a girl sitting on Batty's bed. She looked way too young to be a patient here, but she had the same matching bracelet as I did.

"Where's Batty?" I question, taking a seat on my own bed.

The small girl shrugged her shoulders. "I'm new here; they just told me that this would be my room."

"You look too young to be here," I tell her.

"I'm twelve."

My eyes go wide and she looks at me as if she did something wrong. "Why are you in here?"

"I'm bulimic. You?"

"Anorexic," I say in a small voice.

"Yeah, I tried that for a while but it wasn't working."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, my parents started to suspect that I was anorexic so I had to go see a doctor. I told them I was better and started eating but after meals I would just go to the bathroom and throw it all up."

"Why?" I can't help to ask.

"Probably the same reason as you, you aren't good enough, people make fun of you, so you'll do anything short of killing yourself to change."

Tears slipped out of my eyes. This girl was just a bit younger than Emma. I couldn't imagine Emma being here, talking about having an eating disorder so casually because she has been bullied. I couldn't be in there with her, and I didn't have anything else to say so I left to venture up and down the halls once again.

An hour later Doctor Coleman finds me in the recreation room with a worried expression plastered to his face. This concerned me, normally doctors aren't supposed to reveal their feelings, especially negative ones.

I follow him back to his office and sit in the same chair that I had been sitting in earlier today. Doctor Coleman sits across from me again, leaning his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together and bringing his hands up to his mouth.

After a moment of deep breaths Doctor Coleman finally looks at me. "Claire, you told me your father died in a car crash."

"Yeah, he was drinking and driving and ran into a parked car or something stationary. I used to be so mad at my mom when she would drink because that's what killed my dad essentially. But now I can't blame her, I find comfort at the bottom of a bottle too."

"Your father didn't die in a car crash," he says slowly, not venturing his eyes from mine.

"What? Yes he did."

Doctor Coleman shakes his head. "I'm sorry; but your mother lied to you. Your father committed suicide."

It felt like the walls crashed around me, burying me in its ruble. "I don't believe you."

"I have his death certificate here," he pulls an official piece of paper out of my folder.

I hold it in my hands, staring down at the copy, tears well up in my eyes, making it hard to read, but it' there. Cause of death was ruled a suicide. A simple shot to the head is what ended his life, not a car crash.

"No, no, no," I repeat over and over again as I try to catch my breath. "I want Teddy. I want Teddy! I want him now!" I scream out balling up the piece of paper and throwing it at Doctor Coleman.

Doctors and nurses came in, they must have been on standby because they were restraining me and hulling me off to the hospital wing before I could do much more.

The one thing I was so sure about my father was his death, but that was a lie. Nothing made sense now; my own mom had lied to me about something so significant. It made me think what else she has lied about.