the main person you want
to strangle is the annoying
dude who keeps poking his
head through your door.
How ya doing? Okay?
So by the time you finally
get to see your shrink,
you’re irritated to begin
with. And she asks you
to tell her how you feel
and all you can think
to answer is “pissed.”
Then she wants to know
just whom you’re angry with
and you decide maybe you
shouldn’t tell her the friggin’
nurse’s aide, in case they worry
you might try to strangle
him. So you try to think
of someone else you’re
mad at, and the unavoidable
answer pops into your
warped little brain: everyone.
They Kept Me
Locked up in isolation
for almost two weeks.
See, you have to make
Level One to go to school
and eat with everyone else.
You arrive here at Level Zero.
Nothing. That’s exactly what
you are until you can
prove to them that you
won’t save up your meds
and OD or lynch yourself
with strips of your sheets.
So you hang out in your room,
maybe reading a book
(approved literature) or
journaling with a felt pen.
No pencils (no leads).
No pens (no points).
Maybe I could think up a way
to kill yourself with a felt pen.
Maybe I could sell the idea
to the dozen or so freaks
in here determined to do
themselves in. Maybe I’ll use
it myself. Am I saying that
I’m a freak? Effing A!
I quit worrying about it
a long time ago. Better
a freak than a total loser.
Better a freak than a liar.
So far, everyone I’ve
ever met has been a liar.
Everyone but Phillip,
my only true friend, my
savior. Never hurt me, never
coerced me. Never lied to me.
The Worst Liars
Are the ones everyone thinks
would never, ever tell a lie.
The teachers who act like
they care about you, then
turn you in for smoking a cig
or kissing someone in the hall.
Or the plain Jane, churchgoing
soccer moms who plaster on
some anonymous face, then
sneak out once a week or so,
pretending they’re off with
girlfriends when they’re really
looking for ways to get laid.
No, my ma wasn’t one of
those. She made no bones
about getting laid, something
she did plenty of. Laid by no-
good, nasty losers, single,
married, it didn’t matter,
long as they had a few bucks
and the necessary attachments,
in good working order. Beat
up. Knocked up. Messed up.
She got all of those things,
didn’t care. Worse, she
didn’t give two cents
about what her “lifestyle”
did to me. Her son.
Her only son, because
after one particularly
ugly abortion, her body
decided it had had enough
of Ma’s mistreatment and
formed scar tissue around
her ovaries. The odds of my
having a sibling shrank
to nil.
Vanessa
I Heard My Brother’s Scream
Through the cloud
that had veiled my brain,
coloring everything crimson.
It seemed to last forever,
that scream. Poor Bryan.
He’s only eight,
too little to understand
that dying isn’t something
to fear. It’s a comfort.
I felt comfortable, dying
that afternoon, and would
have, except Grandma
happens to be a nurse—
a good nurse, hard,
wise, through and through.
And she happened to be home.
She calmly dialed 911,
wrapped my arm
in a soft yellow towel
which looked ochre through
the scarlet mist.
Stay with me, Vanessa,
she repeated over and over.
I remember that,
and I remember one EMT,
with blondish hair and a killer mouth
that refused to say a word,
except to his partner.
I remember his eyes the most—
brilliant blue, and filled
with disgust.
Grandma rode in the ambulance
with me, and the last thing
I remember is telling her I was sorry
for staining her new bathtub.
Screw the tub, Vanessa,
there’s help for that.
And there’s help for you.
Which Is How I Wound Up Here
Left hand stitched neatly
back in place.
They tell me it will
be good as new, but my fingers
feel like they belong
to someone else and don’t
want to be attached to me.
Nothing does.
I’ve been here about a week,
I think, watching it snow
and listening through the walls
to other girls, sicker than I am.
They talk about themselves,
about the things they’ve done,
the things they’d like to do.
Parents. Teachers. Counselors.
So-called friends.
They’d all better run when
those sociopaths find their way
back outside.
There are boys here too,
somewhere. I know because
sometimes I hear the girls
call to them down the hall.
The things they say!
A truck driver would blush.
I would never talk that way
to Trevor. He walks on water.
I want him to think I do too.
For a while, he did, or at least
he pretended to.
I did things with Trevor
I wouldn’t dare confess
to anyone—things I didn’t
know anyone did.
But he wanted me to,
so I did. That’s what you do
when you love someone,
right?
The Door Opens
Death watch crew, come
to check up on me.
They’ve been after me
all week, first every
fifteen or twenty minutes,
then every hour or two,
making sure I don’t rip
stitches and let my hand
drop off after all.
Hello, Vanessa, says Paul,
who is fabulously tall
and almost as wide
as the door. He hands me
my morning pill, unwraps
my bandage, peeks underneath.
Dr. Boston says if you join us
for group this afternoon, she’ll
award you Level One. You
could start school tomorrow.
So far I’ve avoided group,
preferring to semi-vent
my pent-up insanity in priva
te
therapy sessions—Vanessa
Angela O’Reilly, closed book.
But I have to admit I’m
tired of this room, weary
of these auburn walls.
Maybe, if I stash my meds,
I can keep my mouth
shut and just listen to the sob
stories, passed around
the big circle like joints.
Maybe I’ll find them entertaining.
So I tuck the Prozac
under my tongue, nod.
“Okay.”
Conner
Suitcase Emptied
I walk to the sealed window,
stare at the glistening world
outside. Buried in snow.
Glare threatens my eyes
but I don’t turn away. I like it.
Up the hall come deliberate
footsteps. Suddenly they
stall and the door creaks open.
It’s Paul, the rather large
guy who escorted me here.
Everything good? It’s almost
a sigh. All settled in?
“Uh-huh.” I offer a (not)
genuine smile. “Unpacked
and ready to party. When
does the shindig begin?”
Paul, who is not amused,
tosses a pair of gray sweats
on the bed. Put these on.
He crosses the room, opens
drawers, assesses sundries
and wrinkled clothes as I slip
into the sweats. You’ll wear
those except for Sunday services
or when your parents visit.
Now Dr. Starr would like
to chat. Please come with me.
He draws to the far side
of the door, allows me by,
takes his place at my elbow,
reminding me I no longer
own the space around me.
Dr. Starr Isn’t Like Dr. Boston
No tight navy suit, no
miniscule skirt. Nothing
about her hints nymph
or flirt. She’s a bulldog.
She motions for me to
take a chair, studies me
as I move, as if the very
way I plant myself there
can tell her something
of import. She stays silent
for several long seconds.
Finally, as if holding court,
she lifts her chin, sights
down her nose, and asks,
Why are you here, Conner?
An unsettling energy flows
through the room, and it
emanates from the canine
Dr. Starr. Her patronizing
tone activates my inner
mute button. I answer with
a small shrug, and she gives
me a grin worthy of Hannibal
Lecter—evil, overtly smug.
You don’t know? Don’t you
think it’s time to find out?
The “f” elicits a saliva spray.
The bulldog doesn’t even blink.
I realize you don’t want to
be here. But until you give
me a hint about just what
you fear, you can’t get better.
Her voice is almost gentle,
and part of me wants to
give her what she wants.
The smart part says no way.
Play the Game
I instruct myself, give her
a little taste of what
she wants to hear. After
all, we don’t want to waste
a perfectly good shrink
session. So I settle deep
into my chair, search for
some vapid confession.
Finding none I wish
to give voice to, I decide Dr.
Bulldog has given me
no other choice but to lie.
“It was really all a huge
mistake. I was goofing
around and the gun just
went off, for God’s sake.
I mean, you’d think my
dad would have left
the safety on.” I almost
feel bad for blaming him.
But her eyes tell me she’s
heard the line before. With
quiet ferocity, she says,
Not another word, Conner.
You believe this is a game,
and you may be right.
But if you think you can
play it better than me, think
again.
Tony
I’m Glad I’m an Only Child
Ma didn’t deserve kids.
I mean, if it had been up
to her—impossible, all
things considered—I’d be
back on the streets right now.
Or maybe I’d have already
finished myself off. No, it
wasn’t dear old Ma who
paid my way to Aspen
Springs. According to Dr. B,
it was, in fact, dear old dad.
Dad, who dumped Ma and me
when I was still shitting
green. ’Course, looking
back, I guess he had every
reason to leave Ma in
his dust. But did he ever
once think about me?
Anthony Ceccarelli III.
Medium height. Medium
build. Medium brown
hair. A medium chip off
the ol’ block. Where was
medium Dad all that time?
Dr. B says he lives at Tahoe,
has his own insurance office,
makes decent dough. Ma
never left Reno, except
when she was working out
at “the ranch” near Dayton.
Ranching hookers. They
do that in parts of Nevada.
Funny, if it wasn’t so sick.
Did Dad know? And what
made him decide he gives
a damn about me now?
The Clock Reminds Me
It’s time for group. I open
my door, nudge my hand into
the hall. A faceless voice
shouts, What’s up, Ceccarelli?
“May I go to group, sir?”
Stay polite. Earn ten points.
You may. Don’t get lost
along the way, though.
Old joke, not funny.
Still, I chortle and say,
“I’ll do my best, sir.
You know how confusing
these halls can be, though.”
Yeah. Follow the yellow
line to the classrooms,
white to the dining hall.
The blue one leads to
the conference rooms.
Mommy Long Legs waits,
black widow-style, in
room C-3. Most guys
would call her a fox,
I guess. But to me she’s
all spider, poison stashed
in hidden fangs. Yes, Dr.
Boston’s questions sink
clear through flesh, into
bone. She’s after marrow,
but she hasn’t managed
to get much of mine yet.
Funny thing. No one but
me seems to recognize
how her Barbie-doll act
covers up a real lack
of charm. She’s a user.
Same as everyone here.
We Gather
In room C (for Conference)-3,
six crazies, looking to
unload. Or thinking of ways
to avoid it. There’s Schizo
Stanley, three hundred pounds
of loaded gun, who tried to off
his little brother. Yeah,
he denies it, but hmm …
wonder how Daddy’s Xanax
> got mixed into Junior’s milk.
On the far side of the table
sits Lowball Lori, princess
of depression. I bet at
home she wore nothing
but black—clothes,
makeup, mood. Next to her
is Do-Me Dahlia, who
uses sex like most people
use money. I heard she
tried to put the moves
on Dr. Starr, even. Yech!
What an ugly picture!
Jesus-save-me Justin
lurks in one corner,
greasy hair hanging in
his eyes, while Toot-it-
all Todd rocks back
and forth, as if his past
pursuits haven’t quite
deserted his system.
Just as Dr. Boston says
it’s time to start, the door
opens. Someone new steps
inside. She’s pretty (did I think
that?), with copper hair and
startling eyes, and her name’s
Vanessa.
Vanessa
Seven Pairs of Eyes
Pierce me as I walk into the room.
I already know I can’t
measure up to Dr. Boston’s
expectations—she’ll want
me to open my head and let
this crowd of eyes peer
into my psyche.
I want to turn and run.
Please sit down, Vanessa,
urges Dr. Boston.
We’re ready to start.
If I can’t run, I want to
scream. I want to scream,
but I can’t find my voice,
hidden somewhere
in the indigo sea that has
swamped my brain.
Blue. Blue. Deep, dark blue.
The blue that fills me with desire,
the desire to find a small,
sharp blade and watch
blood run, red.