“I put that you’re really stressed. That you’re, uh, having a hard time.”
I snatch the clipboard and look. He’s written “mental breakdown” in the Reason for Visit section, and under a list of psychiatric symptoms he’s checked boxes for suicidal ideation, homicidal ideation, active hallucinations, delusional thinking, disordered thoughts, agitation, and history of trauma.
“This is all wrong,” I mumble, but my hands shake too much and the clipboard falls.
“I’ll write,” Jordan says, bending to pick it up. “You tell me what to put.”
I nod.
She squints at the paper. Scrawls down the date. “What’s your middle name, Win?”
I stand and begin to pace.
Lex says, “His middle name is Winston. His first name … it’s Andrew.”
“Andrew Winston Winters,” Jordan says, and when Lex tells her I’m from Charlottesville, I know she’s put the pieces together. It’s been almost six years, but people still know my name. It’s hard to forget. When it happened, the whole thing was all over the news: television, magazines, social media, all of it, highlighted as a failure of our culture, a symptom of a larger disease. Everyone, over and over again, asking the same question, the one I’d never, ever answered: Why? Why would three children have a suicide pact?
And why would one back out and let the other two die?
Lex clears his throat. “You know, you’re going to have to call your parents.”
*
Hours later, my name gets called.
I tell the ER nurse who interviews me that I have a wolf inside of me and I can’t get him to come out. She smiles and nods and listens to my heart. Then she takes my blood and my blood pressure, makes me piss in a cup. She also gives me an ice pack for my hurt eye and has a tech sit with me. There’s more waiting. A doctor comes in next. He asks even more questions. I do my best to answer them. I try explaining about the wolf and how I don’t want to hurt anyone even though I might not be able to help it, but after a certain point, my vocal cords won’t make words.
Only howls.
I want ice for all my wounds.
The doctor’s voice turns solemn. He explains that he’s going to admit me into the hospital’s adolescent psych unit for evaluation. I nod when he asks if I understand. Then I’m allowed to say good-byes and thank-yous to Jordan and Lex. They both look exhausted, as if they wish they’d never agreed to come, and relieved that they finally get to go. They promise to call soon. And to not tell anyone at school what’s happened, to keep this all a secret, although of course that’s impossible. I’m pretty sure the hospital’s already talked to the school, and people will probably notice when I don’t show up in class for forever, since no one will tell me how long I’ll be here.
They leave.
I’m taken upstairs, where there are more doctors. They give me a shot of something. I don’t know what it is, the shot, but I do know that it’s meant to make me more tame and less likely to bite. I don’t want it, of course, but it’s not a choice.
It’s never a choice.
I bare my teeth but hold still. I watch the needle slide into my skin. I feel pain, then nothing. My limbs weaken, but when I’m finally led to my room and given a chance to lie down, my heart beats too quickly and my eyes won’t close.
I want ice for all my wounds.
From my spot by the window and through the sinking haze of my mind, I try making sense of my surroundings. There’s only one bed, so I guess I won’t have a roommate. I don’t know why that is. There were other kids out in the hall, I saw them, but I can’t speculate if my isolation is a good sign or a bad one. Whatever it is, being here, alone, is in sharp contrast with that first day at boarding school years earlier, when a fourteen-year-old Lex burst into our dorm room. He had streaks of blond in his dark hair and arms full of drum equipment. He ran his mouth from the moment he laid eyes on me, babbling on about his girl-on-girl porn collection, his death-metal tendencies. The force of his exuberance overwhelmed me, especially his insistence on discussing masturbation habits in order to avoid any awkward moments. A good idea in theory, perhaps, but personally, I thought having the conversation was far more awkward than anything else that might happen and told him so.
“I just like to put things out there,” he said happily. “I mean, we’re roommates. That’s almost like being brothers. So no secrets, okay?”
I hesitated. Everything about me was a secret. “Okay.”
He grinned. “You can tell me anything.”
It’s not long before a guy in a hospital staff uniform comes to check on me. He doesn’t knock; he just comes right in. He records my vital signs. He leans down to look at me.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I can’t move my mouth. I can’t lift my head.
“Are you having a panic attack?”
Am I?
“You’re hyperventilating,” he explains. “You need to breathe slowly.”