Drowning

Fifty Six;

One week passed. Then two, then three, four, five, six, seven and eight. I was officially in week nine of rehab.

Today was the first day I'd felt okay.

The days were all somewhat mind-numbing; wake, breakfast, free time (which I spent maintaining my fitness now that I felt well enough to), group therapy, lunch, meds, solo therapy, free time (which I spent writing letters), meds, dinner, bed. The people were okay. All in the same boat. I hated that at first, but now it was kind of nice. I'd befriended a girl named Ellie. Her boyfriend was a fan of mine. Before he killed himself. Ellie lost her mind and became an addict after that.

"Scrabble?" Ellie asks me.

We had just had breakfast, which meant that it was now our time to do as we pleased (within reason) for a while. As I say, I usually spent this time training. But today, with rain pouring endlessly outside the windows, I couldn't think of anything worse.

"I hate that game," I groan.

"Fine." Ellie sighs. "Quinn, scrabble?" she asks. Quinn was only 18. He was tall, thin and a recovering heroin addict.

"Ellie, nobody wants to play scrabble." Quinn huffs.

"I'm bored. It's raining. There's nothing to do," she says.

The living area was airy; large windows (of course double, if not triple, glazed to ensure nobody could smash the glass), large plants everywhere. It wasn't like a typical psychiatric ward. It was a rehabilitation centre. We weren't being punished, necessarily. Even though I didn't feel that way for a long time.

"Fine," I sigh. "One game."

"Yay!" Ellie squeals, setting up the board.

We played one game. But then, we played a second. I had grown fond of beating people at board games here on the occasion.

"So," Ellie says, placing another letter down onto the board, her green eyes fixated on the game. "I hear you have a weekend leave."

"I do indeed," I say, watching where she placed her letter. She added her points.

"So, why are you still here?" she asks me.

Ellie was 25, turning 26. Her boyfriend committed suicide when she was 24. Her eyes were a piercing green and her hair was naturally bright blonde. I'd be lying if I said that she wasn't pretty, because she was. But I saw her only as a friend.

"Scared," I say, adding on my points. Ellie pouts. "I win."

"Whatever," she mumbled. "Why are you scared?"

"Why are you prying?" I chuckle, looking at her.

"Because I'm nosy."

"I don't know where I'd go." I admit. "Scared to be triggered or setback."

"That's very honest of you," she says.

"Yeah, well. I'm all in tune with my feelings and shit now." I tease, though I was actually serious. The continuous therapy had been helping, though I hated to admit it.

"What about your friends, or family?" she asks.

"Cut them off before coming here." I tell her.

"You never said,"

"Didn't want to."

The rain poured loud against the glass.

"Maybe when I'm granted a weekend leave we could go somewhere together," Ellie says.

"Wouldn't you want to see your family?"

"Of course," she says. "It's just my parents. I don't think I'd be ready to see my friends yet. But you could come on a little outing with us!"