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I've just been purely forgotten.
Nothing is accidental though. I know the staff keep tabs on all of us—they have our schedules mastered to the very second. This is deliberate—it has to be.
They have tried to exhaust me, starve me, dish out punishments and chores… and when that hasn't worked, they have resorted to isolation.
Laughing, I lay back on my bed, staring at the pale ceiling. I should have seen this coming.
What's the best way to torture someone with mental illness? Particularly me—who, according to Dr. Smith—craves validation and attention. You take everything and everyone away from them.
I thought sleep deprivation and hunger were the cruelest forms of torture but I was wrong.
Making someone feel like they are forgotten…worth nothing… alone. Well, that's the whole underlying reason that I'm here. And they are playing that card.
Surprisingly, I don't feel panic though.
Maybe a few weeks ago I would have felt dread and fear. But knowing that there's always eyes on me, I'm not worried. Someone will notice my absence again. And they will come rescue me.
Right?
Okay—I'm not entirely convinced. But after seeing Grey last night, I know that he and Theo care enough to know when I haven't eaten. Somebody will come to my room soon…
The hours continue to tick by and I lose track of the bells. It's only when the sun starts to set outside and I hear footsteps passing by in the hallway that I realize free time must be over.
Do I get a shower tonight?
Denying someone of basic hygiene is also up there on the torture scale. I didn't get one yesterday, and there's a tiny bit of fear that perhaps no onewillcome rescue me if I smell like a landfill.
Thankfully, a guard does come to grab me for a shower, shoving me in line behind the other girls. A few give me small smiles while others ignore me completely.
We're ushered into the bathroom and I quickly make my way to a stall, desperate for hot water. Stripping out of my dirty clothes, I hiss slightly as the hot water scolds me, also reminding me of the numerous paper cuts on my fingers.
I start to scrub my hair when a guard stops in front of my stall, looking over the shoulder-height door at me.
"White—you have some belongings. Here," he grunts, shoving a plastic bag over the door.
I quickly try to cover myself with my hands, but the guard barely looks at me, walking away as the bag splashes into the water on the floor.
It takes a few seconds for me to process the interaction, before I lean down and examine the bag.
I've never been given a bag in the shower before, and as far as I know, nor have any of my shower companions.
Opening it up, I'm stunned to find there's only one item inside.
A razor.
But it's not a plastic one—it's a proper metal razor.
Confusion washes over me as the water cascades down my back, before slowly, it dawns on me.
They are giving me the tools to kill myself.
They want me to harm myself…
I don't know how to feel. For a brief second, that old desire of escape comes back—the time when I used to dream about joining Paige. I quickly push those thoughts aside.
I'm not that girl anymore. They aren't going to fuck with my head.
I realize that I've been perched down in the shower for too long, our timer about to go off so we can be taken back to our rooms. If I don't do anything, it's unlikely they will just let me take the razor back to the room. But I can't leave it here either. What if the next woman to shower finds it? I can't be responsible for that.
