The Girl in the Asylum

I remember the feel of the blade cutting deep train tracks into my arms, slicing the flesh until the blood blotted out the skin. My head felt light and full of air; I thought that if I jumped up, I would continue to rise until I crashed through the ceiling and danced amongst the clouds. I remember the smell, the metallic scent of fresh blood which slowly intensified as it dripped down into the bath water, creating swirls of pink and red. I felt no pain; in fact, as I ripped apart my young body, the emotional pain which I had been harbouring for so long gradually disappeared. The rush of endorphins was unlike anything else I have since experienced, and the fact is, I still crave it.

But you had to ruin it. You ran in, alerted by the deathly silence which hung over the bathroom and took the blade away, throwing it across the room and grabbing my blood-soaked arms. The shock as your skin touched my open wounds brought me back down to earth with a bump, and the look I saw on your face made me instantly regret what I had done. I did not want to die that day. I would not be so selfish as to leave you, to let the others win. I made the decision that night to fight and you have been my anchor ever since.

I can’t blame you for trying to help. After all we had been through, battling to be together against the prejudices of our Christian families and finally moving in together, there was nothing which could have made me happier. I remember the first time I saw you. You were just leaving Costa, the steam from your drink mingling with your icy breath and gently caressing your face. You almost slipped on the frosty ground as you walked away and I jumped forwards to catch you as you lost your balance. You wore your hair long then, pulled back into a tight bun and only the lightest touch of mascara for make-up. I was a socially awkward 24 year old, barely able to make eye contact with you and surprised at myself for making such a bold move. The fact is, it was too late for me to change by the time I met you; I was determined to end it all, no matter what.

I used drugs to ward off reality, beginning by smoking cannabis a few times a day until its effect gradually wore off and I realised I needed more and more until I felt disconnected from everything. So I moved on to speed, and then crack, and eventually heroin. I know it killed you to watch me waste my life away like this, but you couldn’t understand. Wouldn’t understand. I needed to feel different, to separate myself from everyday life which both bored and depressed me. When I was high, I understood so much more- I could do anything, become anything, the sky was the limit! The only problem was, this new found knowledge often came at the expense of eating or drinking, and soon I had taken on the look of a starved woman with sunken eyes and a sunken stomach hidden behind large glasses and baggy clothes. Looking back, I know I didn’t fool you. You saw more than you let on, but I was too busy chasing after that first high to care.

In all honesty, that’s how I ended up here. I’ve been here for three years now so I guess you could say I’m never getting out. But I mean, it’s not too bad, all things considered. I get fed and watered and am allowed outside occasionally, when the weather’s good. But you don’t come anymore. You haven’t visited me for a few weeks now, and you used to come almost every day, up until I started asking you to smuggle in some drugs for me. Nothing much, I would say, just a few tabs of acid or a couple of pills. But you always refused, and the shadow of fear would begin to cloud your face again, smothering the hope which had resurfaced since I was admitted. Then the visits dropped to a few times a week, then a few times a month, and my therapy hours increased. And that leaves me here, alone, stuck in reality.

I got caught the other day trying to hide a plastic knife down my sock- I nabbed it from my lunch tray and acted desperate enough for them to believe it was a cry for attention. I got their attention all right. I was placed in isolation for a few hours with cameras watching every movement I made, swivelling to follow me as I paced around the small room. The thing is, it’s just a matter of time until I die. I like keeping them on their toes, it’s like a game to me. A few half-hearted attempts at suicide to keep them interested, the occasional bit of bad behaviour, and they feel like they’re getting somewhere when they lock me away or punish me. But I’m planning my exit, and now that you don’t visit me anymore it will be easier. Just one less reason to stay, although my mind is pretty much made up.

Every day at 8am sharp, the other inmates and I are given our meds. The person who is in charge that day always checks to make sure we swallow them before we can leave, so I swallow mine as fast as I can then head back to my bunk and settle down between my sheets, making sure to cover my head. This is my routine, and the nurses are used to it. What they don’t know is I silently vomit the pills and stuff them into tiny holes in the mattress, pushing them deep enough so that they can’t be felt during random room checks. This way, I have enough pills to take once a week or so to get a slight high.

You don’t know about this. The good thing about living in an asylum is that patients often hallucinate, and if someone starts shouting about monsters invading their rooms, then so what? It’s all part of daily life here. If my pupils are large and I’m talking nonsense, then perhaps I’m simply having an episode, nothing unusual about it. This is how I have the power over my own death; if I save up the meds for longer, I can easily overdose and enjoy the final ultimate thrill. The high of dying.

I’m writing this in the common room. I can tell the nurses are pleased that I am finally socialising as they’re leaving me alone, letting me write undisturbed to my heart’s content. Little do they know, this is my suicide note. I have saved up my meds since Christmas, which makes it one months’ worth of pills that I have stored in my mattress. Roughly thirty pills. That should be more than enough.
I remember how you saved me that night, and you have given me many more years of life, but I feel I have reached the end. I have nothing left to give.

I love you, but this is goodbye.