• “So, what are you in for?” Spoke a deep voice.
    This was the never ending question. New people came in every day, and they would all be subjected to this questioning by the veterans. Some people didn’t talk, and they would be asked until they gave a suitable answer. Not to mention that each person you bumped into who shared at least a milligram of interest in you would ask you at least once.
    Things were measured in milligrams here, like pills, and certain levels of tolerance. For example, “I can’t stand another milligram of you talking.” But the point is that every patient who walked through the doors of the hospital would be asked this question.
    “Huh?” Said a soft voice in return.
    “What are you in for?” The voice rang again, almost booming from a strong male body.
    “Do you want the sentencing or the diagnosis?” She answered, her voice was wispy and light like her weight suggested it should be. She didn’t open her pale full lips very wide to talk.
    “Sentencing first, I like guessing games.” He smirked, showing a hint of perfect white teeth. His golden brown eyes glinted in the yellow light that shone through the huge glass paned windows, barred and locked of course.
    “Until somebody decides to come get me, I guess,” she sat back and curled her legs under her. She and the boy sat on a beige couch in the patient lounge. She wore a white night gown and socks that rivaled her pale skin, and he was fully dressed in baggy black pants and a white tank top and socks just like hers.
    “Lifer?” His eyebrows rose, they were thick and black and matched his hair that was scruffy and hung around his face, streaks of bright red interrupted the jet black as it was spiked up in a sort of Mohawk style.
    “Not exactly,” she sat back, relaxing, running her thin long fingers through her own hair that was light red in color and then propped her head on her arm.
    “Alright, so my first guess is bulimia.”
    “No.”
    “Anorexia?”
    “No.”
    He examined her more closely, looking into her eyes for signs of substance abuse, then judging her hair and her body for the symptoms of wearing and tearing diseases. He noticed she had thin pink scars on both her arms and on the parts of her legs that were visible to him.
    Nobody ever got away with the answer, “I’m crazy.” Because of course everyone in an insane asylum is expected to be crazy to be admitted. What people really wanted to know was the specific disease, and if the disease they had was worse than the person they asked of. It was a sad competition to watch and be a part of, patients trying to be worse off than anyone else. The person who was least unfortunate, however, did not keep their title for long as they would commonly commit suicide.
    “Depressive self-injury,” he saw the clean white bandages on her left wrist, “attempted suicide.”
    “I guess that’s part of it,” her eyes avoided him, but were drawn to him.
    “Part of it? You mean there’s more?”
    “I don’t know, haven’t figured it out yet.”
    “When did you get in?”
    “Last week, I’ve been asleep.” She sighed, he nodded.
    “So have you got a reason? Or are you one of those ‘just because’ types?”
    “Where would you like me to start?” She picked her head up and looked into his golden eyes.
    “The beginning is nice,” he smiled, “it feels like a story.” He leaned forward and touched her bandage; she let him take in the texture of it before she began.
    “My mother died of lung cancer when I was six. My father enlisted to pay for surgery that my mother didn’t live long enough to get. I grew up living with my two best friends, they're like my brothers. Dad came home from boot camp and learned the news, but they still needed him so he left again. He went over to Iraq for the Imposed war years ago, I haven't seen him since," she breathed in as if she had just been held underwater, then sighed, "I guess God isn't smiling on me anymore."
    “I didn't know God could smile,” he retorted out of instinct, but saw in her face that it wasn’t the response she had wanted to hear.
    “He used to.”
    The boy nodded, uninterested.
    “I’m Kaitlyn,” she pressed, trying to catch his attention again. “Kaitlyn Cross.”
    “Benjamin Brooks,” his eyebrows raised and twitched again, he reached out for her hand. She held it for a moment, his hand was warm and he was more tan than she had ever been. He didn’t squeeze her hand, or shake it, but just hugged her hand with his.
    “So, what are you in for? Tell me everything, I don’t like guessing games.”
    “I’ll be here for a few months before I can fake clean again.”
    "Oh, that's lovely." Kaitlyn wasn’t fazed by the answers anymore. Everyone had some extraordinary story to tell, at least, everyone who ended up here.
    “I’m violent. Sex, drugs and rock ’n roll. I lie, I cheat, I steal.” He sat back, satisfied with his self-diagnosis.
    “That’s rather vague.”
    “So are you,” his eyes narrowed playfully.
    “What do you want to know then?” She wasn’t miserable talking to him, it was pleasant and it passed the time like nothing else here could do.
    “What exactly is going through your mind when you put blade to vein?”
    “It's hard to explain—” She growled through clenched teeth.
    His eyes pressed her for more.
    “It’s hard. There are a lot of thoughts. It’s just to get rid of the thoughts. There's so much pain and chaos on the inside, you'd do anything to get it out of you. You'd rather stop breathing than hear another word from yourself.” Her voice was higher pitched, her eyes darted around the room and her hands gripped the cushions.
    “You don’t want that to be permanent do ya?” He seemed almost hurt.
    “You’re not my therapist, Ben.” She sat back and her voice got soft and light again.
    “I'll still tell you the truth.” His fingers traced around her bandages again.
    She took a breath.
    “I had a tough childhood, my dad left right after my little brother Billy was born. My mom was psychotic. She's the one who should be in here—" Ben's eyes gazed off for a moment in thought, "so about a year ago, I come home, and there's my brother, balling his eyes out on the floor. Mom had been drinking and she's gone berserk and attacked Billy, so y'know what I did?"
    Kaitlyn's eyes were desperate to know, even though she was terrified of the possibilities in the next sentence.
    "I started attacking her, she didn't even recognize me. I kept pushing and punching until she was down and when she was out cold I grabbed Billy and ran out of the house."
    "That's awful—"
    "When we came back later that night, the house was quiet, and dark. I went in, thinking she was gone to bed, and I saw her lying on the kitchen floor where she went down. But she was pale, and she was cold. My case is still open."
    “I-I don't know what to say.”
    “What, are you afraid of me now?” His eyes narrowed into a glare, he shifted, preparing to be ignored by yet another person, preparing to be hated again.
    "No Ben, I'm not afraid of you."
    There was another silence, their gazes fixed on the window. His eyes wandered to her, and he examined her for a moment. Her frame was thin but it was proportionate. He wanted to see her standing up, but she was in a curled up position in the corner of the couch. He caught her brilliant blue eyes as she looked back at him.
    “I’m worthless.”
    He snapped out of his focus and shook his head in surprise, “What?”
    “I’m worthless, no good and nobody wants me. That’s what’s going through my head when I cut myself,” she blinked to relieve is gaze.
    “Th-that can’t be true though,” he stammered, unable to comprehend why anyone would feel that way. It so contradicted his way of life.
    “Well, I’m alone. My brothers put me here. My father's in Iran, he probably won’t come home, I haven’t heard from him in—” tears started to well in her eyes as she went on, “I have nobody, I have no life, no future. I wanted to be a good mother, just like my mother was for me. I was destined to become something more—”
    “So why can't you do all that?”
    “I lost hope.”
    He was silent; she wiped the tears before they fell from her eyes.
    “He wouldn’t answer my prayers.”
    “I’m sure your mom's teaching him how to smile again.” He smiled apologetically.
    “I hope she isn’t watching me now,” she sighed.
    “Why not?” He rubbed the bandage again, wondering what the wound looked like and how serious it was. He pulled a marker out of his pocket and looked down at the bandage in thought.
    “She’d be heartbroken to see this.”
    “One more reason to get out alive, right?”
    “I guess you’re right,” she looked up.
    “Then don’t die,” he stood up, “I need somebody to talk to 'round here.” He smiled and walked down the other end of the hallway out of sight, leaving his signature on her bandage.