Unhinged

1

Maurya

TO QUOTE MY THERAPIST, I WAS A TROUBLED YOUNG GIRL. Actually, no. My therapist actually described me as a severely troubled young girl, and strongly recommended I be institutionalized for my and my family's safety. This recommendation came from a shaking 59-year-old woman, who had been a therapist for 30 years and mine for approximately 3 days. She'd said this with her thin frame shaking, her wiry fingers on the door frame before she ran out.

I'd spent the bulk of my life behind soft white doors that locked from the outside, padded rooms, group therapy, and other 'troubled girls'. It's no wonder then, that my name means bitter. I grin at my doctor and push out my chest. I've been warned against tying up my uniform into a crop top, but none of the doctors seem to care enough to scold, me, not anymore. I've been to 4 units. E00, for the youngest. E1 for 10-15-year-olds. E2 for 15-18-year-olds. And finally F0 for adults. After 15 years in an institution, she was finally 21. Which meant...

"We're recommending you for release," My doctor looked up from his clipboard, glancing at my cleavage and then back down. I thank God for double d's it's really the most useful thing He's given me.

The sterile scent of antiseptic and bleach fills my nose. I wonder if it'll stick to my skin. Has it crawled under my epidermis and tunneled its way to my dermis where it'll sit for the rest of my life radiating out the scent of Clorox?

I cross my legs primly, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

"We've contacted your father," Dr. Hodge informs me, "He'll come to pick you up at 3 pm after group. Do you have any questions or concerns?"

I think he has some—concerns that are. But he doesn't say it. His hand has a slight tremor, that you can barely see unless he's holding a pen like he is now. Checking off boxes.

Am I ready to be released into the wild? Am I...rehabilitated? Have I changed? I'm kinda wondering the same things. Am I any different? Have I changed? Did they fix me? Does the gaping wound in the slush I call a brain has a pretty pink bandage with Barbie on it? I'd like to be optimistic.

I'd like to give a resounding yes! Of course! I am fully fixed and functional, a normal member of society.

"No," I smile softly. "No questions."

And that's enough for Dr. Hodge. He was never much interested in anything about this conversation, save, of course, my tits. When I see my father next, I think I'm going to stick a fork in him.

I haven't decided which part but I'm favoring the eye. And a normal, functioning member of society wouldn't be thinking that, and if they were it would be with horror.

But I'm not bothered in the least. In fact, I find myself aglow with joy at the thought of the sickly squish of his moist eyeball against the metal prongs of a fork. A hot one, so I get a sizzle as a background track of his screams, while the water in his eyes boils over.

Now...this is why I'm having serious doubts about my place in polite society. I don't think I'm normal.

I don't think I care.

And what a shame. If I had any, that's what I'd say. What a shame. But people have been standing outside of a barely shut door watching me shit since I was 6 years old so I'm fresh out of shame.

The day blurs by. The time ticks by so slowly, the minutes feel like hours. It ticks into a melody.

I will never...
Free you.

It echoes in my ears, as I attempt to keep myself from scratching at my skin. In order to pass the time I subvert back to my fantasy of what I'm going to do with my father. A new patient is describing in detail why broccoli is not as important as people say and not eating is better, but I'm thinking of how to cook an eyeball.

I'm not much into cannibalism and I'm even less into cooking, I mean all I've had at my disposal is a plastic spork for 16 years. It's really the desecration I crave. It'd be better to take one. Cook in front of him. Cram it down his throat until he chokes on it.

"Maurya. Your father's done signing your discharge papers."

And just like that, I'm a free woman. For the first time since I was 6 years old, I am free. My father stands at the door, his haggard frame shaking. He looks over my frame and grunts. I don't say a word.

One thing my therapist always said was I needed to come to terms with my rage.

I agreed, for the sake of my release. But the truth is I've come to terms with my rage. And I like it...I like it just the way it is. The drive in my father's broke-down '92 Chevy is quiet except for the rattling of the engine and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. We say nothing and there's nothing to say.

The scruff around his face does wonders to hide the gauntness of him.

He taps his hand on the steering well and clucks awkwardly as if he wants to fill the silence.

"So..."

"Shut the fuck up," I murmur, and stare out the window.

He nods and goes silent. The scenery blurs by through the dirty window, my breath fogging up the glass. Just a few miles down the road is my childhood him. It wasn't far, only a 20-minute drive. It's a tense ride.

He pulls up to the house. I saunter in, opening the door. He bumbles behind me, muttering. The house smells of stale alcohol and despair. So far from the clinical smell, I'm used to, it's the exact opposite.

I go into the kitchen, noting the unkempt, dingy kitchen. That doesn't matter though, I came here for one thing.

My father sits in the dingy chair I left 15 years ago, as I emerge from the kitchen. He looks up at me, with sunken eyes, and stared at the knife in my hand, resigned.

I smile. "Father."

He grunts. "So it's come to this. I thought they would've drugged you so bad you would've forgotten our little pact."

He didn't think. He wished. Begged I'm sure. But no...no amount of drugs could ever flush the need for blood from my system.

When I was 6 years old, I promised my father I would murder him. He told me if I stayed in the hospital until I was grown, he'd let me kill him without a fight.

The time has come. I smile and put the knife against my tongue and grin.

"Are you afraid?" I whisper.

He scoffs and swigs his beer. I wonder once more if I'm emanating that sickly clean scent of bleach. I hope so.

Because I intend to be covered in blood.