These Demons

Chapter Sixty

As it turns out, this place is not only a lot bigger than I figured, but also has a neat structure to it and quite an impressive system and schedules, all of which I will have to be a part of if I want to stay here and not be declared completely insane and be sent off to the hospital and/ or psych ward. 

What surprises me, though, is how warm and welcoming everything is. Even though it's a therapy center and therefore technically a hospital as well, it makes more the impression of some sort of boarding school with its comforting, homey atmosphere. Everything is tidy and clean, but also colorful and inhabited, the wards seeming like people have actually arranged with the fact that they will stay here for a while and need to make themselves at home, decor and personal items turning rooms into living spaces. There are no doors the patients (clients?) cannot unlock themselves other than the ones strictly reserved for staff and therapy, nothing smells like death or disinfectant and as calm as everything is, there are people around and many of them actually talk, have something to do and/ or laugh and socialize, which somehow astonishes me. There aren't even white coats or something like that, just jeans and shirts and blouses. 

People keep their phones too, and some even have their laptops. For god's sakes, there is Wi-Fi!

Nothing and nobody seems truly crazy, sick or jailed, and that is something I did not see coming.

"I mean, there are rules," I'm being informed, "but it's more about the structure. Everyone has therapy plans, daily schedules and all that and there are clear orders when it comes to attendance, meal times, visitors and going out, but that's all in your folder," Jennifer elaborates, "and you'll be able to keep anything that's not considered dangerous for you or others."

I come to a sudden halt next to her. "And what is considered dangerous?" She shrugs and tugs on my arm to make me move further down the hallway she is familiar with. "The usual. Illegal stuff, weapons, anything to support your disorders, razors if you cut," she casually lists and then remembers, "oh, and you don't get to keep food in your room before your therapist says it's okay. They do regular checks." Again, I feel lost at that explanation. "Why the fuck would I want to keep food?"

She chuckles while taking another look at my body. "Don't ask me. I don't do that starvation crap."
In the meantime, we have reached the dining halls with every single table already having been set by kitchen staff hustling around, and I startle when I see the plates and glasses. "They have porcelain here?"

Jennifer seems puzzled. "Why the fuck wouldn't we?" And then she's the one to suddenly stop and almost drop her jaw when she puts two and two together. "Wait. You've been to a loony bin, haven't you?"

Feeling all of my muscles shrink and the grip my left hand has around my right arm (to make myself feel safer and hide my stomach) tighten, I deny it without thinking. "No, I haven't."

But it's too late to turn back, and Jennifer has already put all the pieces in their places and claps her hands together at the sudden realization. "Oh my god! How couldn't I know? You're him!" she exclaims and I take a fearful step back, almost stumbling into a chair behind me. "Him?"

"The dude from the news!" she says like it's the most normal thing to assume in the world, and I feel a sharp sting in my ribcage and relief because there are no other people in this room other than the employees who don't give a damn about anything other than their jobs. 

"I wasn't on the news," I hear myself say, remembering the newspaper headlines on my hospital bed. Did this spread farther than local scandal sheets and a trending Twitter hashtag someone texted me about? I never dared to check, did I? Should I've? Or did I forget about it? Did I know about it? Has my brain given up on me completely?