It’s probably just from the lack of sleep and stress. There’s nothing here to distract me either; I’m focusing too much on it. The squeezing sensation and irregular, weak beats are okay. I’m sure it’s fine. Why didn’t I take my medicine?
Panic attacks are not uncommon and I sure as hell have a reason to dissolve into one. Seth was shot and I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. That’s my first thought. My first reason. As if being charged with the murder of a cop isn’t reason enough.
I would give anything for Bethany to be here right now. I could tell her everything and she’d make sure that Seth was all right and he knew. My one phone call went to her voicemail though. It’s ludicrous that every situation keeps getting worse and worse.
A whimper leaves me, a pathetic sound as I hunch over, pressing against my chest even harder when the next pain hits.
I tell myself it’s fine again and open my eyes to see a stainless steel toilet with no lid across the small cell from me. That’s the only other object in this room. A metal bench and a toilet. Simple enough I suppose. At least it’s not cold in here. There’s a man at the end of the hall, so at least one other person is around and the lights are dim, probably because it’s early morning or very late at night. I don’t know either way, because there’s no clock and the man doesn’t speak.
I thought he’d gone for the longest time until I heard that horribly loud beep that goes off before the heavy doors open. He came from nowhere, his boots shuffling across the cement to open the doors, tell someone something lowly, I couldn’t hear a thing, and then they shut again. He walked back to his post and silently stayed there.
The dark blues of his uniform complement his brown skin and light blue eyes. He must be mixed race, with one parent white and one black maybe, to have features like that. Cleanly shaved, he’s handsome because of the sharpness of his masculine jaw. Any other day, I’d smile at him, make small talk. But the attractive police officer is not my friend. Not in the least.
He’s the only company I have. I could tell him about being on the verge of a panic attack but the idea of him ignoring me, or not doing anything at all hurts more, making my heart thump wildly in protest. I’m not a criminal, yet I’m here. In a fucking holding cell.
The jail cells are nicer. I’ve been back here more than a few times for patients. I’ve hated that oppressive beep of the locked doors since the first time they made me shudder. I hate the sound even more now.
The jail is not unfamiliar with psychiatric patients. Oftentimes, a mental illness goes unidentified until a patient has done something worthy of being locked up. Behind bars they can’t hide their symptoms and it’s so much easier to see and identify.
So I’ve been here before, accompanying a doctor to diagnose or treat someone. It was never a good feeling. The sound of the doors opening and closing gave me nightmares the first time I came here.
I thought it was because of my family history, my father being a drug dealer and all, that I had such an aversion to jails. That’s ridiculous though, no one likes a jail. No one likes the reason a jail needs to exist and they certainly don’t want to be inside of one.
Sure as hell not behind these bars. Not alone in this cell, apart from the silent guard who I can’t even see because he stands at the far end, tucked away.
The last patient I saw here died in her cell. She wasn’t in the holding area; she’d been in jail a while for assault, I think. The cells are past this hall and through two sets of doors. I remember it well. She didn’t tell anyone she was seeing things. She didn’t tell them about the voices. It took another inmate being scared shitless for the guards to be informed.
The voices in my patient’s head told her to hurt herself, which they’d done before. She told me about them in therapy. She went from thinking the pills caused the voices, to knowing she needed the pills to shut them out.
Maybe she was lonely in that cell. Maybe that’s why she didn’t say anything.
Either way, when I got to her cell, we were all too late. I can still see her wide eyes, staring blankly ahead when the orderly rolled her over. Death has a certain look to it. It stains your memory and waits there, refusing to leave you be.
“I’m on medication,” I say, finally giving in to the sudden fear and the nurse in me, calling out to the man I know is here even if he’s silent and out of view. I have to shake away the memory of that woman. I don’t remember her name and somehow that makes me feel even worse. “I think I need my medication,” I call out. My words run ragged as the pain gets worse.
I can’t die in here from a heart condition because of my pride or shame. I can’t die in here at all. I need to know Seth’s all right.
Just breathe. Everything’s all right. He’ll be all right.
The hall is quiet behind the bars and I haven’t seen a soul in a few hours, I think. So when the guard doesn’t respond right away, I start thinking he’s actually left this time. I have no idea how much time has passed. I couldn’t sleep, not even with the blanket they left in here. I can’t do anything but blink away horrible visions, go over every regret, and notice how erratic my heart is right now.
“Please!” I cry out and I’m immediately met with the sound of a heavy door creaking open and even heavier boots smacking against the cement.
The guard. I finally catch sight of his badge and it says Walters. He’s accompanied by another man who looks like he’s in his fifties and is a little too round to work in the field. He stops behind the bars, so I can’t see his name tag. Walters is quick to speak into a walkie-talkie on his sleeve while the other man stares at me. His wide eyes are the same shade of brown as his khaki pants. “Miss?” he questions. “Did you say medication?”
His brow is pinched and concern is etched there. It’s only then that I realize I haven’t stopped rocking and my hand is a fist around the fabric at the front of my shirt.
“What’s going on?” I recognize Walsh’s voice along with the door beeping and opening again. The pain is unforgiving as I catch sight of Walters’s back as he speaks to Walsh. Again, the other man just stares at me, maybe bewildered, maybe wondering if I’m acting.
A cold sweat breaks out along my skin and my head feels faint.
“Walsh.” His name comes out stronger than I thought I could say it. I force myself to let go of my shirt and stare down the long hall until the officer finally looks at me. The gaze from Walters burns into me. He never takes his eyes off me. Even when he gives a command to the unnamed guard who then departs, Walters’s steely blues stay pinned on me.
“Are you going to let me go?” I manage to squeeze out the question the moment Walsh comes over to me. “I need to get out of here.”
The pain in my chest spreads and it feels like it’s in my throat, hollowing it out but also burrowing inside of it. I can’t describe it. I’ve never felt this before. My hand drops as I sway forward slightly, closing my eyes and focusing.
“I need to get out of here,” I say again, louder and with enough forlorn sincerity to make sure Walsh both heard me and knows something’s wrong.
“That isn’t going to happen,” Walsh says and he sounds resigned to the fact. “The state is pressing charges.”