The itch.
Interesting description. Personally though, I like the one I came up with: Magic.
I thought it was magic. That something in my blood.
Granted, it was during the time I’d first discovered Harry Potter books and I was in a major Harry Potter phase. Well, to be honest, Harry Potter isn’t a phase, it’s a lifestyle. But still.
I thought I was born a witch and that’s why I was so different from my family. I was almost convinced that when I turned eleven, they’d come for me like they came for Harry. They’d take me to the world’s biggest school of witchcraft and wizardry, Hogwarts. I’d learn about all the spells and incantations and potions and the right way to wield a wand.
But instead of going to my dream school for magic at eleven, I ended up here at the age of eighteen: Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital.
“Can I go now?” I ask.
“Sure. See you next week.”
Because that something in my veins is not magic. It’s anything but magic.
It’s a curse and the only thing that I can do to get rid of it is to not think about it at all. And somehow get through the remaining twenty-eight days of my incarceration, so I can be Outside again and get my life back.
Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital – my home for the next four weeks – is a very small private facility located in the Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey.
Fine, it’s located in the scenic town of Heartstone, and is surrounded by woods and ugly open grounds on all sides.
Okay, fine. Not ugly.
It pains me to say this because I want to hate everything about this place and I do, but the grounds surrounding Heartstone are pretty and spacious. The perimeter is lined with tall trees and brick walls. The grass is a sharp green shade, like the color of my family’s eyes and unlike the color of mine.
I haven’t seen so much space in my entire life. You don’t find something like this in the city. And neither do you find taller and blacker metal gates that keep the Outside world, outside.
I remember seeing them for the first time when my mom drove me up here. They opened on their own when she spoke into the intercom, like something controlled by dark magic. Slowly, they revealed the vintage-looking Victorian style building with a red pointed roof and white bricks, making me wonder how something so pretty, something that might belong in a fairy tale, could be so scary and hellish.
The moment we passed through the gates, I knew. I knew in my heart, in my soul that I’d spend the rest of my life here and even if I did manage to get out, I’d never be the same.
I wanted to make a run for it.
But, of course, I didn’t run. My mom would’ve had a heart attack, and I love her too much to do that to her. With my illness and now The Incident, I’ve already put her through enough as it is.
Besides, I’m getting out in just four weeks. No matter what my overactive imagination makes me believe. Four short weeks and I’ll be out of here. On the Outside.
Away from this stupid hospital that creaks and shakes at night when the wind blows and the rain batters the roof. Well, what else do you expect from a building that was built in the early 1900s?
In any case, Heartstone is way better than the state hospital where I stayed for forty-eight hours before they transferred me here. The staff over there, the patients, the smell of bleach, everything was the stuff of nightmares.
At least, this facility is pretty to look at.
According to history, this was a house long before it was turned into a hospital. The original owner had it built for his mentally ill wife. He’d loved her more than life itself and he hated the little town of Heartstone that shot his beloved wife wary looks. So he said fuck it, I’m gonna build my wife a castle and he did.
This I’ll admit – without any sort of pain – that I find romantic. Kind of epic, really.
A man who builds castles to keep the woman he loves safe. Whoever she was, she was pretty fucking lucky.
This castle has three levels, sixty-seven rooms that house about forty patients, and two separate wings, east and west. I’ll never understand why they needed so many rooms but whatever.
We live on the second level. It’s a long corridor, running from the east wing to the west, flanked by rooms on either side, with a nurses’ station at the end. It’s simple and straightforward, and very white and beige-y.
The third level is what everyone calls ‘The Batcave.’ They usually put patients who require extensive monitoring up there. I don’t know very many people from the upper level. But every time I see someone from The Batcave with their checked-out looks and almost translucent eyes, I try not to make it obvious that I’m staring.