I suck in a deep breath.
I wait for the noise to disappear.
When it does I breathe a sigh of relief.
After combing through the rest of the A’s and through all of the B’s, I see my file. It is thick, three inches wide to be exact. I remove the file from the drawer then close it. Taking a few steps backward, I set the file on the floor and remove the lamp from the desk. I set the lamp on the floor next to the chair with wheels. After that, I sit down Indian style, and turn on the lamp. I know having any kind of light on here is risky, but I want to dive into my file without having to wait until morning.
I’m anxious.
Impatient.
And way too curious.
Just to be on the safe side, I slide the lamp underneath Dr. Swell’s desk then stand to see if that dims the light at all. It does a little bit. I walk around to the front of then take a few steps toward the door. There’s a soft glow and I think while it is still too noticeable, I have some time to read parts of my file before the night-shift orderly takes another walk down the corridor.
Then I start thinking about Dr. Swell. I start thinking about my missing file and if she’ll realize that it’s missing. I rack my brain, thinking about our sessions and how often she pulls my file out. It’s not very often. She usually comes in, strolls around her desk, and sits down without even going to the cabinet. But then I have to consider that she might read it and add to it after our session ends.
I weigh the pros and cons. If she notices that it’s missing, the worst thing they’ll do is strip-search my room, drug me, and then put me in solitary confinement. The thought of this doesn’t bother me at all. I’m practically in solitary anyway and they’ve been drugging me for years. The only pro is that Dr. Swell thinks I’m completely crazy and not just a little bit crazy. Me, for the most part I think I’m both. I have my moments.
Sometimes I wonder if I’d be different if I lived outside of this place.
At Oak Hill, there are walls that bind me.
Voices that haunt me.
People that taunt me.
Sometimes I wonder if I’d know what it’s like to laugh at a joke or if I’d be able to believe in hope again. For the longest time, I’ve felt like every ounce of hope I’ve ever had has been lost. I remember someone once mentioning that I have or had a daughter and I wonder too if I would have been a good mother. I wonder if I was a good wife to Dr. Watson.
I know those things won’t be listed in my medical file, but maybe Dr. Watson’s notes are piled in here as well.
It’s that thought that pushes me forward.
So, I walk around the desk, plop down on the floor, open the manila folder, and start reading.
Chapter Twenty
~Before~
I wake up screaming.
My eyes fly open and I blink several times as they adjust to the bright light shining into them. Sitting up, I glance around the room and observe my surroundings.
There are machines to my left.
Wires fastened to my chest.
The walls are white.
The floor too.
My bed has shiny, metal rails.
A hospital.
I’m in the hospital.
I try to move to the side but the second I do, a gut-wrenching pain rips through my abdomen and I find myself crying out and gasping for air. I hug my stomach, convinced that that might help ease the pain, but it doesn’t. Instead, it makes it worse.