"TEARS OF DECEIT" by Sarah Ryniker

STORY LAST UPDATED ON 09/04/2003

Tears of Deceit Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Epilogue

CHAPTER EIGHT: A FRIEND

It was a few days before I really realised that I wasn't at home. When I finally "woke up", so to speak, I was confused and dazed. I was also wrapped tightly, and uncomfortably, in a straightjacket. I knew the moment that I felt and saw it around me that I had been sent to a mental clinic.
    I began screaming at the top of my lungs. For some reason it terrified me. I couldn't be crazy! I wasn't crazy! I had to get out of here. I had to convince them that I was still perfectly normal. I wanted to be safe again. I wanted Kassy to be unmarried, and following me around everywhere; I wanted my father to be protective and not going along with some plot to hide something so terrible. Was it really too much to ask for?
    It took awhile, but I finally caught the attention of two young attendants. The doctor was called and came into the completely white rooms, where the walls were padded so that I was unable to harm myself. The padded walls really gave me the chills.
    I looked up at the doctor as he came in. I was completely silent now, and I'm sure I looked completely insane. I felt as if I really was crazy, as if I could do anything at any time, and I wouldn't be able to control it. It was the oddest feeling in the world to someone who had always kept her cool and calmness about herself.
    The doctor was in his mid-forties, his pale flaxen hair slightly balding in the front. He wore thick goggle glasses, magnifying his eyes that were as black as coal. His nose was large and rather crooked, and his lips were so thin they were nearly non-existent.
    He peered back at me through his thick eyeglasses, evaluating me by just how I looked. He looked curious for a moment, and then jotted something down on the clipboard that he had brought in with him. The fact that he was wearing a white jacket over his blue shirts and black slacks made me feel cold all over. What was this place with white?
    Finally, he spoke. "So, Felicity," he began. "May I call you Felicity?"
    "It's my name, isn't it?" I wanted to rebel against the world for what had been done to me. I hated everyone. Nobody had even tried to save me. They had forgot that I had ever lived.
    "Well, you answer that. What is your name?" he asked, as he sat on a chair that he'd brought in and placed directly across from me. He wrote something else down quickly, and looked back to me, seriously waiting my answer.
    "You can't be serious," I said, actually smiling in disbelief. When I realised that he was serious, I shrugged. "My name is Felicity Catherine Lavigne."
    "So you know everything there is to know about yourself, correct?"
    I smiled at him. He had no idea whatsoever. "Yes, doctor, I know everything there is to know about myself, and wish that I didn't," I said, still smiling. "Now, I'm going to ask you a question. What is your name?"
    He laughed. "My name is Dr Philip Jay Andrews," he introduced.
    "And do you know everything there is to know about yourself?" I snapped back, mimicking his very own words.
    He smiled broadly. "You'll be better and out of here in no time," he announced, and wrote something else down. "Now, are you ready to get out of that?" He nodded towards the straightjacket.
    "Yes. I would also like to bathe. The smell of my own stench is making me sick," I declared, wrinkling my nose. I couldn't help wondering if this man could truly fix me.
    He laughed, and helped me out. Then I was led down the hall to a small room. Fortunately, because of my father being so rich, I was given a private room. It was actually cosy, and didn't look like too much like a hospital room.
    I would soon find, though, that everything in the room was made safe so that you couldn't hurt yourself. The paintings of beautiful sceneries that hung on the wall were behind thick plastic rather than glass. And the fabric of the sheets and blankets were heavy enough to keep you warm, but thin enough to tear should you attempt to hang or choke yourself to death, even the slightest pressure could rip them.
    There was a robe, nightgown and matching slippers hanging by the large, oak wood dresser that actually took up one whole wall. They were blue, which I smiled at the convenience. If only they knew my thoughts on blue. Maybe they wouldn't give me blue to sleep in and wear about.
    I wasn't able to take a shower in the room. They refused to put bathrooms inside of the rooms because there could be a possibility that people could still commit or attempt suicide, or just be like me and want to inflict pain on their selves. I would learn later that they considered people like me "cutters". I was into self-mutilation so that I wouldn't do what I wanted to the people who actually hurt me.
    Father had brought all of my clothes, even things I didn't wear anymore. All of it had been hung up or put into the dresser. I looked through everything, and found the most simple, comfortable thing to wear that I owned. Not that I would be overly comfortable, my most comfortable outfit was a cream-coloured pantsuit. I didn't own any "laid back" clothing, such as jeans and sweats.
    I hated showering at this dreadful place the moment I stepped into the showering room. There were shower stalls with only a thin, flimsy curtain to cover up what you were washing. And a nurse sat in there, making sure nothing bad happened. I felt embarrassed immediately, and tried my best to cover it up. I stripped down to nothing, faking confidence in myself.
    The rather large nurse on duty that afternoon, or whatever time of day it was when I woke, was a rather large, plump lady. I felt her eyes looking me up and down with an annoyance. When I turned to look at her, though, she turned quickly, ignoring me and pretending to read.
    I didn't know why she seemed jealous. I was a late bloomer, and even when I had "bloomed" I hadn't gained much. My breasts were small, only about the size of small apples. I had narrow hips, hardly enough to carry the baby that I had. I had gained some hips, and my breasts had enlarged due to the pregnancy, but I knew that as soon as I dried up my breasts would be back to normal. I didn't know about my hips, though.
    I hated that part of my life. I was reminded every day of the little baby that I only saw for a split-second before signing him away. He had been tiny, but beautiful, and healthy. I wondered if I would ever see him again.
    The milk that had been meant for him would often leak, and I would cry because I hadn't been able to give it to him. I knew that I was going through what any mother did that had given her child up for adoption. But added to it was guilt. I shouldn't have wanted a baby that belonged to a man that had abused, raped and nearly killed me.
    The baby was one of the first things Dr Andrews and I talked about. I saw him every single day the first week, and then once a week after that. At first, I was a little scared to tell him what went on, but I knew that I had to. And he said that was progress enough.
    "You've already passed the part about admitting that you need help, Felicity. Now all you have to do is get there," he told me the day after I had come back to the world. It turned out that I had been in that straightjacket, staring at the walls, for three days before coming out of it.
    "Well, I don't want to be crazy or depressed. I just want to be back to normal. And normal isn't something that I appreciated very much before now," I said, my head down.
    "Now, Felicity, something that we need to talk about is the baby that you gave up for adoption. Although, for someone as young as you are that's a good decision, but young mothers that give up their children have different ways of dealing. Is that what the case is here?" he began, getting ready to write something down, whether it was my reaction or my words, I didn't know.
    "It has something to do with it, yes. But that isn't all of it. A lot of things added up to this." It seemed as if I wanted nothing more than to get this off of my chest. Just saying those words began to take the weight that was on my chest, crushing my lungs and keeping me from breathing, really living.
    When he said nothing, I decided to tell him some of the things from my past. "My mother died when I was only a couple months old. I don't have any memory of her, and I've always hated her for leaving."
    "Why do you feel that way?" he asked, his eyebrows rose in question. The way he asked it made it seem as if it was something that happened often with his patients.
    "Because! She left me the responsibility of taking care of my older sister Kassy, who has a mental illness that makes her act as a child. If my mother hadn't died, none of this would have ever happened!" I cried out, wanting to scream at somebody for it. I didn't have the shrine room here.
    "Do you ever feel guilty for being angry at your mother for leaving?" He chewed on the tip of his pen as he awaited my answer, an annoying habit of his I would come to hate with a passion.
    I shook my head. "I don't know. Sometimes I do, because I am old enough to understand that she had no control over it. But then, the child in me feels no guilt. It only feels anger."
    He asked me a few more questions about my feelings about Mother, and the relationship I had with my father. I was relieved when the session ended. It was too much to go through everything in my life in forty-five minutes. I hadn't really, of course, but it had felt like it.
    Every day that I saw the doctor became more and more emotionally draining. I would often wind up back in my bedroom, sleeping. I was really hiding from everything that I'd just revealed about myself. I hated sharing secrets and telling people about myself. Not even Eddie knew some of the things that I felt, and he certainly had no idea about the shrine room.
    But after the first week, I was forced to stay out of my bedroom. They would lock it after I left it, so that I wasn't allowed access unless I had a good enough reason. Dr Andrews didn't want me locking myself up and staying depressed. I may not feel like hurting myself, but I was most certainly depressed. He insisted that I needed to "mingle" with other people.
    So to the arts and crafts room I was sent. When I first walked in, I was very nervous. I hadn't really been in a public setting for a long time. I wasn't used to so many people, especially ones with mental illnesses, though Dr Andrews assured me that the only people allowed in the arts and crafts room were people stable enough to be out with others, but not stable enough to be on their own just yet.
    Nurse Mallory Johansen, a woman in her late fifties who had been working there since she was only twenty, took me over to the young, rather good-looking art teacher. "Joseph, this is Felicity Lavigne. Can you please show her about the room and maybe introduce her to a few people?" Then I heard her whisper, "she's a cutter."
    I felt embarrassed. I didn't want to be labelled. But I suppose that it was my fault that I was being labelled such a thing. If I hadn't gone and blown things off the deep end, I wouldn't be there, and I wouldn't be labelled a "cutter".
    "Hello, Felicity," the young teacher I now knew only as Joseph greeted, with a smile so beautiful even angels would be jealous. "May I call you Felicity?"
    "Yes, of course," I said. "I'm not very creative," I suddenly admitted, looking about the room. "I couldn't draw a straight line even if I had a straight edge to do it with."
    He laughed. "Not everyone has to be creative in drawing. They can paint, write, even sing if they want to. Anything that is creative they can do in this room. It helps the doctors get to know how they're feeling more," he explained. "No matter who you are, you have some creative flair, and that is what shows the person within you more than the words you speak."
    "Write? I like to write." I hadn't written anything, not even in my personal journal, in a long time. I had almost forgot that I liked to do it.
    "Well, let me show you to the table over here." I followed quickly. As soon as I sat down, I began writing. So many ideas were bubbling up from deep within me. By the time dinnertime had come along, I had written sixteen different poems.
    I didn't even realise that it was time to go to the cafeteria, a privilege given to me by Dr Andrews because he considered me to be stable enough. Joseph - which was what everyone called him - had to come get me. He tapped on my shoulder, and I jumped, not expecting someone to break me from the spell that I'd woven upon myself. "It's dinnertime. I'm sorry I frightened you," he apologised, smiling. I think it was his smile more than anything that made me attracted to him. I didn't like being attracted to anyone, and couldn't wait to escape from him.
    "It's quite alright. I was just lost in writing. I'd better get down there." I began to leave, leaving my poems on the table.
    "What do you want me to do with these? Anything particular?" he asked, holding up the papers I'd written on. His eyes widened. "Boy, you do like to write, don't you?"
    "Yes, I do. It's always been my way to get rid of my problems," I said. "Um, you can do whatever needs to be done with those. They mean nothing to me once the words are free."
    I walked out of the room, and hurried down to the cafeteria. The cafeteria was only open for patients' dinners for a half-hour. I was already ten minutes late, and if I didn't hurry down there I wouldn't get to eat. And if I didn't eat, even once, then my cafeteria privileges would be taken away from me. I couldn't miss a meal.
    I often ate alone, always lost in my thoughts. I wasn't a very social person, and never had been. I explained that to Dr Andrews, who simply suggested that I try harder to become one. "Getting involved with people and having friends isn't a bad thing, Felicity. It helps you on the road to recovery," he insisted.
    "I hope that doesn't mean that if I don't make any friends here I won't be released," I said, almost positive that I wouldn't build up a single friendship.
    He shook his head, obvious frustration glimmering in his eyes. "No, it doesn't. But what if somebody not becoming your friend prevents them from leaving?"
    I shrugged. "I couldn't possibly have such an impact on somebody else, Doctor. I'm not that grand of a person, and I am no walking miracle."
    "If you insist," he said, waving me away. "The session has ended."
    Dr Andrews was very easily annoyed by my stubbornness. I couldn't help the way I felt about myself, and his suggestions annoyed me. I wanted to get better about my depression, and cutting habit. I didn't want to change who I was. It wasn't possible to change the person that I'd become.
    I ate in silence, staring at my food or the wall, not really listening to the slight chitter-chatter going on around me. There was a buzz in the air that evening, however. I just knew that something was about to go wrong.
    I was halfway finished with my meal when I heard the ear-shattering screams coming from a table just a few rows down. When I turned to look, a young woman, hardly older than myself, was holding her hands over her ears, and screaming over and over again. "Make it stop! Make it stop!" she screamed, rocking back and forth just the way I often did while mutilating my arms.
    Attendants were rushing over there and trying to calm her. They gave her a tranquilliser, and she fell limp. She was quickly taken out of the cafeteria, not before starting up a ruckus, though. Several others, frightened by her outburst, had to be calmed down and escorted back to their rooms as well.
    I noticed, though, that the young man who had been sitting with her had a grin on his face. He seemed satisfied with himself, and I couldn't help wondering what he had to do with her outburst. It made me angry to think that even here somebody could be so cruel to another.
    I decided to ask about the young man and the girl. I found an attendant and quickly stopped him. "Excuse me?" He looked up from the paper that he'd picked up to start reading again. "I was just wondering if that girl is going to be alright. The boy that she'd been sitting with seems rather satisfied with himself, as if he had something to do with it."
    He looked past me, and raised his eyebrows when he saw the boy. "Thank you for bringing that to my attention."
    Suddenly the boy, too, was taken out of the cafeteria, and everyone else was ushered out at closing time. I followed along with everyone else, but decided to go see the girl first. I had found out her name by listening in on some attendants' conversations.
    Tammy Mae Lawson was a schizophrenic who saw and heard "people" speaking to her who weren't there. Evidently, the boy that had been sitting by her often pestered her, but having been worried about Tammy, the attendants hadn't noticed him or reported him.
    I found Tammy's room, and walked there. I was surprised that the nurse at the desk had given me her room number. Not because we weren't supposed to visit each other's rooms, because that was permitted, but because Tammy had gone through such a horrific episode.
    I knocked on the door softly. When there was no answer, I pushed the door open and peeked in. I saw Tammy lying on her side in her bed, staring at the wall. The tranquillisers weren't very strong; so they tended to only calm a person's nerves, while leaving them awake.
    "Tammy?" I called out, somewhat afraid. I wasn't very good with people, but for some reason she had called out to me. "May I come in?"
    "Are you a doctor? A nurse? An attendant? Jack Matello?" she asked, still staring at the wall, but obviously alert and talking.
    "No, I'm not any of those things. I'm just another patient here. My room is just down the way from here." I stood in the doorway, not wanting to enter unless she said that I could.
    "Then you can come in," she said, sitting up in her bed. She finally looked at me, and I was stunned by her beauty.
    Her hair was the palest of gold I'd ever seen, almost appearing silver. It was shiny and well-taken care of, almost as if she brushed it a million times a day. Her eyes were a breathtaking colour of violet, shining brightly from her large, round, innocent eyes. Her lips were small, maybe even slightly too small for her long face shape, but they were beautifully curved and full. Her nose was slightly long, but all of it tied in well together to make her one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen.
    "Hello," I said, feeling nervous as I walked in and shut the door behind me. "I'm Felicity Lavigne."
    She cocked her head to the side. "Lavigne? Aren't you one of those kids whose nanny abused and molested them?"
    "You heard about that?" I asked, temporarily forgetting that it had been all over the news.
    "I've got news for you. Everyone heard about that," she said, raising her perfectly shaped eyebrows, shocked that I didn't realise that so many people knew about my family. "Is that why you're here?" she asked, tilting her head again, sympathy shining in her eyes. I realised quickly that Tammy wore her feelings out on her sleeve.
    "Well, no, not really; a lot more than that has put me here. But maybe that is part of the reason. I'm not sure about much anymore," I said, my shoulders drooping, my head down.
    She patted the spot next to her on the bed, and smiled when I sat beside her. "The doctors here tend to do that to people."
    "I've noticed. I was so sure about what all of my problems were before I came in here. Now Dr Andrews does nothing but make me think about things that had been long dead and buried." It was so easy to talk to her. The words simply rolled off of my tongue.
    "I have Dr Andrews, too. I hate how he always tells me that I should talk to more people. As if I don't see and hear enough people talking to me." I laughed with her. She seemed in good nature of what she had. But then again, didn't you have to be?
    "Yes, he's always telling me that associating with people will make me all better. I always wonder how that will help keep myself from hurting myself," I muttered.
    "Self-mutilation? Is that what you're here for?" She laid back on the bed, crossing her legs over each other.
    I nodded. "Yes. It's something I got into when I was locked up."
    "Locked up? Were you in, like, juvenile hall?" She leaned towards me, suddenly very curious.
    I shook my head. "No, not juvenile hall." I wanted to end it there. How could I trust this girl I'd just met?
    "Then how and why were you locked up?" she pushed on, wanting to get it out of me.
    I bit my lower lip, and decided to go ahead and tell her. What did it matter if she told anyone here, anyway? "Well," I began, and told her my entire life story, not leaving out a single thing.
    "And you're only sixteen? I'm twenty, and I've been through a lot, but not nearly to the extent you have been!" she exclaimed when I was finished. "If I were you, I'd be a lot more crazier than just a cutter!"
    I laughed. She was right. Anyone else who had been in my situation would have gone completely nuts. I had stayed strong through it all, and I couldn't help being proud of myself because of it. I hadn't really gone crazy; I had just gone temporarily insane.
    I found a friend in Tammy that day. I found out a lot about her. She had been molested and abused by her father as a child, and when she got older she said the good voices helped her get through it. But the bad voices were her father's voice, telling her to do bad and horrible things to herself, such as trying to commit suicide.
    Tammy wasn't crazy. She had just found a way to deal with the troubles her life had been dealing her. God hadn't been on her side, so she had attempted to kill herself, more than once. She hadn't been able to control herself. She had been hurt, and wanting to find a way out. Being here, she admitted, kept her from doing bad things. She had been here for four years, and felt safe.
    "I don't plan on leaving!" she confessed. "I am comfortable here, and I'm safe. Nobody can hurt me here."
    "What about that scene with the boy?" I asked, confused. She had seemed freaked out.
    She shook her head, not wanting to remember. "That's Jack Matello. He's mean to me, and always whispers to me, confusing the voices in me. I get so many 'things' speaking to me at once, and I really feel crazy!"
    Tammy was the reason for my strength. I think she was the one who really brought my sanity back. I realised that I wanted to live my life, and take risks. I didn't want to stay locked up here for the rest of my life, other people making my choices for me. She felt safe here, I felt trapped.
    I'd never really had any friends, especially one that was considered to be schizophrenic. But here she was, angelic looking and sweet as could be. And I most certainly wasn't ready for the relationship that I was about to have with Tammy. It was incredibly unexpected, and not something that I would have ever dreamed of doing before.

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