Beauty in the Ashes

There was nothing here that was me. The room was a blank slate. No pictures. No rugs. No TV.

It was

empty.

Kind of like me.

I sighed heavily and let out a snarl. I’d only been there—I looked around for a clock but found none—I’d guess thirty minutes, an hour at most.

And this was going to be where I lived until the doctors believed I was stable.

Fuck.

At this point I’d never be stable. This white box was going to drive me mad.

There was a window though, and it looked out onto a grassy picnic area where the inmates could hang out and eat. Yes, inmates, because that’s essentially what we were. I didn’t know who’d want to utilize it now though. It was winter. Who wanted to sit outside in freezing temperatures? Not me, that was for sure.

I lay back on the bed and stared up at the plain ceiling. I tried to conjure of shapes in the swirls of paint, but came up empty.

The door to my room opened and I sat up.

The prison guard—I was totally sticking with the whole prison comparisons—smiled and said, “Group therapy in five minutes. Someone will be by to get you.”

Before I could answer she closed and locked the door—from the outside—once more.

I found it laughable that they locked us in our rooms. I guess they found that they had to, but still. Who was I a threat to? That question was probably better left unanswered.

While I waited for the person responsible for taking me to group therapy—and really, therapy? I didn’t need therapy—I counted the seconds in my head.

Five minutes on the dot the door was unlocked. It was a man this time.

“Caelan Gregory?” He asked.

I huffed as I came to my feet. “The one and only. Who the fuck else would be locked in this room?”

“I hate firstdayers,” the man grumbled.

Great, he had a fucking nickname for it.

“So,” I said as he led me down the clean white hallway, “are you my guide dog or something?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re all the same when you get here.”

I laughed at that. “Trust me, there’s no one else like me.”

“Well,” he shrugged and opened a door, “you’re about to find out that there are a lot of people just like you.”

“I doubt that,” I grumbled as I followed him inside.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to one of the chairs set up in a round circle. They were blue and plastic—the only spot of color in the—of course—white room. I had never hated white as much as I did right now. Normally, I loved it. Especially when it was a canvas I looked at and there was the promise of endless ideas.

The man took the seat at the head of the group.

Was he a patient here too? If he was, why the fuck had he gotten me from my room? This was fucking weird.

“As you all know,” he motioned to the other guys, and a few women too, in the chairs around me, “I’m Alex.” Looking straight at me, because as luck would have it I was blessed with the seat directly in front of him. “I’m the therapist here.” Staring me down, he continued, “You will have a group therapy session twice a week and three one on one sessions with me a week. Saturday and Sunday are your free days.” Ha! Free days! Wasn’t that a bunch of bullshit! I was locked in a fucking room! “You do not have to participate in the group today. Think of this as a warm up. You will, however, be expected to participate the next time. No excuses.”

Fuck, this guy was a hard ass. He wasn’t going to cut me, or anyone, any slack.