Why Am I Here (Open)

Something about this place was unsettling, too unsettling. Maybe it was the lack of color on the walls floors and beds or the fact that there were too many people located at this facility for her liking. Whatever it was, Marie wasn’t very excited to be where she was, in room 4 of the C ward. She had a bag in one hand of her essentials that she would need and in the other she carried a suitcase full of clothes and the handbook she had been given. The room was empty when she got here but it seemed as if she had a roommate. As if she wasn’t afraid and unsettled enough, she had to have a roommate. She dropped her stuff onto her plain bed that looked like the other three in the room and sat down next to the bags, flipping through the handbook before setting it on her dresser. A rather depressing sigh left her lips as she considered unpacking her things. She really didn’t want to as she didn’t want to plan on being there long. She would figure out a way to get back home with her brother if it was the last thing she had to do. After a few minutes of nothing but sitting, daydreaming about her escape plan, she reluctantly stood and started putting her things into her assigned dresser, making sure the shirts were folded and in a drawer together and going through the rest of the clothes the same way. She opened one of the bags and pulled out some frameless photographs of her family, glanced at them with a soft smile on her face for a second then threw them into her second drawer under her clothes where she thought no one would see them.

It was an understatement to say Marie was a private person. She rarely told people anything about her if she even spoke to them to begin with. That was what had gotten her here after all, her lack of socialization. Who decided socialization was important anyway, she thought to herself. People don’t NEED friends or other people to be happy. It’s possible… I think. If only she really believed what she was saying. She had watched her peers eating lunch with their friends, laughing and having a good time. She wasn’t them. She didn’t think she had ever eaten with anyone but her family before. Well, there was Patrick. A shiver ran down her spine as she quickly pushed his face away and out of her mind. Last thing she wanted was him haunting her every minute of the day. No, she didn’t need anyone, not even Charlie. It wasn’t worth the humiliation or rejection to befriend people. They would all hurt her somehow in the end; it was inevitable.

She finished unpacking and slid her bags under her bed, glanced around at the room once more and pulled out her drawing pad and pack of charcoal sticks from the place she had put them. She opened the book and took out a stick, trying to get something to come out but nothing came. It was as if the room was keeping her from having any thoughts of creativity. Perhaps it was the lack of color once again that seemed to be stopping her. She had considered bringing her dark purple blanket but wasn’t sure if they would confiscate it from her upon arrival. She didn’t think she could deal with it if they had. So, instead she had left it in her room, on her perfectly made bed that would go untouched for however long she was here. There was a pang in her heart as she thought about home, causing a tear to fall down her cheek. Quickly, afraid someone would walk in at any minute, she wiped it away and stood up, notebook and sticks still in her hand. She had to get out of here, to get outside where there was air to breathe. She gripped the book close to her chest as she walked down the hall and eventually out the doors to the open. It was cold outside for someone who was used to hundred degree weather at this time. She pulled her sweater tighter to her as she walked, trying not to shiver.

She wasn’t sure where she was going or if she was even allowed at the place she was at. Where am I anyway? She looked around the building, noticing different things about it. Rooms that looked like they could be offices, a rec style room nearby and possibly one of the most important things, people close to her age. Seeing this helped her relax just a little as she knew she was okay to be in here if they were, or so she hoped. Last thing she wanted to do was get in trouble for being somewhere she shouldn’t on her first day. She started to walk down a hall quietly before stopping and backing up to a door that had a small window in the middle of it. Her eyes lit up and grew large as she opened the door and stepped out into the gardens. Maybe there is something redeemable about this place! She walked through, her eyes wandering around at everything before stopping and sitting on a bench. She had forgotten about the cold upon the sight of the garden. She thought about her garden back home and wondered if anyone would take care of it. She pulled her notebook into her lap and flipped to an empty page and pulled out a stick of charcoal once again. Her hand started to move down the page as she started to sketch a face of a person that she had never met or encountered. It was just a face that seemed to go along with her hand. The sound of the stick on the page eased her a bit as she leaned back into the bench and pulled her knees up to her, creating more of an easel so she could draw. This was where she would spend most of her time here, she just knew it; this peaceful place where surely no one else would roam to. Besides, most people her age didn’t seem to appreciate the beauty of a place like this.

In the past few days, Michael had gotten used to the fact that Nate and Connor had their own agendas. Everyone did, after all. He refused to go inside of the room without either of them in it, so when he wasn't in A2 (which was most of the time), he was wandering aimlessly. Michael had the worst sense of direction imaginable, but now he knew where everything was between Robertson and the co-ed building. Even he didn't get lost after being here for a few days. Well, it had only been three days since he arrived, but that was enough time to get used to the place. Time went by so slow in mental hospitals and institutions, as he knew. A day felt like a week, at least to him.

In meal times, Michael said grace and read the patient handbook routinely. He thought that he needed to get started to on knowing the rules, and it took him a while to read the entirety of the small booklet- he read every single sentence 3 or more times because of his OCD. He didn't mind it though; at least he memorized the rules. Now he was sure that he'd never stray from them or forget them.

Michael wasn't at all disappointed that he didn't have day leave, because he accepted that he wouldn't leave the grounds when he first got to St. Christina's. Right before he met Andry. He knew he was dangerous- he was an Ward A patient, so of course he wouldn't leave. Ward A was the danger ward; Nate had said so. He already assumed that none of the patients could leave upon arriving... so this wasn't a major change.

Michael's indifferent mood changed quickly to happiness, or borderline hyperactivity, when he received a letter from Jorge. He hadn't laughed so much since he was in the recreation room with Talon! (He made a mental note to look for Talon later.) Michael was thrilled that he got to hear from his youth home friend; Jorge definitely made his stay in Marquette County Youth Home easier. And he was also thrilled that Jorge was close to being adopted- Michael smiled at that thought. Jorge had been through a lot; his father was physically abusive, his mom was a heroin addict and he was separated from his two older brothers, Cristiano and Alejandro. Sometimes, Michael got through things by comparing himself to Jorge; 'This isn't so bad- Jorge's been through worse.' He had the same attitude with Talon's past, even if he only knew of the details vaguely.

Michael decided to go outside, his face and stride making it obvious that he was in a good mood. He made another mental note to write to Jorge back when either Nate or Connor were back in the room. Connor wouldn't mind that he would write the letter instead of talk; Connor didn't seem to like to talk, and it was apparent that verbalization gave him trouble. He would probably just ignore him anyway and play his spelling game. Michael definitely wouldn't mind the other boy's silence as long as he was in the room with him.

The sunlight made him thank God that he was wearing a t-shirt this time. What was cold for others might have been hot for him; northern Michigan weather would do that to someone's body temperature. He wasn't used to weather above 65 degrees.

As Michael walked, he put his hands in his pockets and hummed "Papercut" by Linkin Park, but due to his mood he gave it a happier melody. It was an angry, depressing song (like most Linkin Park songs), but somehow Michael managed to make it sound like Frosty the Snowman.

Michael was wandering aimlessly again and found himself near the gardens. He looked up, which was a change because his eyes were always on the ground when he walked, and saw a girl sitting on a bench. As he walked up to her, he didn't think she noticed; she was too engrossed in her drawing. Curiosity was his fuel for leaning over and looking at the picture the girl was drawing.

"That's really good," He said sweetly. His cheeks flushed red when he realized that he didn't say anything like 'hi' beforehand, or introduce himself.

"Sorry," He said as he sat down next to her. "I'm Michael. Do you always sit here by yourself?"

The thought never occurred to him that the girl might be violent, or was sitting alone because she didn't want to talk to anyone. He had too much trust in other people, but he didn't see a problem with that.

The scratching of the stick on the paper continued until the face began to take on a form. It was an older man. He was probably in his late fifties, starting to develop wrinkles but nothing too serious. He wore an expression of seriousness as his lips remained stiff and straight across his face, not daring break into a smile. His eyes were dark and lonely. They told a story but one that was nearly impossible to decipher beyond the hardships the man had endured. Bags rested under his eyes, he was tired but why? Marie’s hand stopped as she studied the picture for a moment. She was grateful the man wasn’t too old; older people scared the life out of her. The more she looked at him, the more she seemed to feel for the guy. He was sad, alone and growing older minute by minute, waiting on his next challenge to strike. Her hand began to move along the page again, drawing the receding hairline before the thin hair on the scalp. She slowly began to shade it, making it a lighter shade so it resembled something of a darker gray. She went back to the face and started to shade there, taking her time and smearing some of the spots as she went on.

She was nearly finished with the drawing when she heard a voice. She had been so stuck on the portrait and the quiet surrounding her that she hadn’t expected to hear anything beyond nature. She jumped in the bench and grabbed onto it to keep herself from falling to the ground in surprise. She felt herself tense up as she looked nervously around at who had spoken to her. The young man walked around the bench and sat down, looking at her. She blinked at him curiously, as if she had never seen another person before. He seemed young and she couldn’t help but wonder what he was there for. She finally felt the red in her cheeks that had probably been there for quite some time at that point. She pulled the notebook up to her chest, as if she was hiding it. She blinked at him again, not saying anything as she continued to study him, wondering why he had come over to talk to her. He questioned if she always sat there by herself. Her mind was calculating the right answer as she stared back at him, I just arrived here today, so no I don’t sit here by myself all the time; but I do sit by myself no matter where I’m at. She would have continued on if she hadn’t stopped herself. This was part of the reason why she rarely talked, she was too afraid of rambling on and on. She shook her head to his question as she continued looking at him. She knew she should probably say something; anything but she was having a hard time getting words out.

Marie clammed up when around males, no matter the age. The only men she spoke to were her father and brother, and even then there were times when she felt uncomfortable around them. She blamed Patrick before she blamed anyone or anything else. He was the one who had made her so untrusting of men after all. Then again, he had everyone fooled, her father and Charlie included. She wanted to believe that others could be different but so far, she hadn’t really seen anyone that was. Even if she did find a guy that was different, she wouldn’t become friends with them as she would never be the first to speak. The situation she was in at the moment was a different one than normal and she was unsure how to go about it. She opened her mouth to speak to Michael but nothing came out. She closed it and looked out at the garden for a second. The second attempt showed a little more improvement. “I’m Marie. I just arrived today.” She was soft spoken and her southern accent was hidden beneath the softness. She didn’t make eye contact with him and looked off at a bush. Had she said the right thing? Had she really even answered his question? All she wanted to do at that moment was run away, escape to her empty room, at least until her roommate returned.

Michael felt so guilty- he didn't mean to scare the artist. She probably wasn't expecting anyone to lean over and look at her drawing. Was his voice too loud? Should he have given more of a warning than immediately complimenting her picture? He watched the girl jump in surprise, trying to keep her balance on the bench so that she wouldn't fall over. Guilt was weighing his body down- it was a physical reaction for him.

"U-Um," Michael froze with a confused and guilty look on his face, his voice quieter this time. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

The artist blinked at him, her eyes filled with inquiry and apprehension, as if she was trying to learn more about Michael just by looking at him, to see if he was a threat. In truth, in the fourteen years that Michael Courtenay had been alive, he was never a threat to anyone or anything. He'd never once shouted or fought back to the kids who teased him/beat him up in school and the only creature he'd ever hurt or killed was the kindergarten class goldfish after he fed it too much... and he cried about that for months. Whatever distress he obviously caused the girl, it certainly wasn't intentional.

He saw her blush, and was confused as to why she wasn't saying anything. It reminded him of when...

"I'm not expecting you to talk very much- I mean, some people are talkers and some aren't. It's really okay- when I had a stutter from ages 3 to 10, I didn't like talking either. I was afraid kids would make fun of me some more. Before I went to speech therapy, I really only spoke when spoken to. Now, I talk too much... I guess because all of those words that were sitting behind my vocal chords came out when I wasn't stuttering anymore. I guess it's because in case I end up getting a stutter again or become mute or something, I want to make sure that I get the words I need to out. You just never know- sometimes when you wait, you lose your chance."

Michael grinned warmly at the artist. He hoped that she got that he was talking about her blatant shyness- he wanted to help her. He watched her pull the notebook close to her, as if she feared Michael would steal it. Connor had done the same thing with his spelling game after it was obvious that he distrusted him. The only thing Michael had ever stolen in his life was a pack of gum and he didn't even want to steal it- it was a dare. Maybe this was a 'once a thief, always a thief' kind of deal? Although he doubted that this was the reason for the artist's mistrust in him.

“I’m Marie. I just arrived today.”

Michael smiled brightly after the artist told him her name. What she told him wasn't what he'd originally asked, but at least she was talking! He knew for her, that was a tremendous leap.

"Nice to meet you, Marie! I actually came here three days ago- so we're both pretty new I guess. Don't worry; I had a hard time when I first came here too, but it's not so bad once you meet people. What ward are you on? And you have an accent- where are you from? I'm from the midwest, so I kind of have the American un-accent."

Michael hoped he didn't overwhelm Marie with too many questions. He feared the same thing when he first met Talon. Talon wasn't bothered by it, but Marie had a lot of difficulty with talking.

Michael took another look at Marie's sketchbook. "Can I see your other drawings?"