72

This is part 2, or was it part 1? Broken brains are rarely reliable when it comes to time.

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Fifty-five hours of the mandatory seventy-two left.

She shuffled across the glossy tile. Beneath the waxed shine, the floor looked aged and dingy white. She contemplated the contrasting concepts in her brain.

The team of doctors assigned to her most likely thought the same about her mind - that it was just as aged and dingy beneath her wax exterior also.

She slouched in the oversized chair, worn with overuse. Drawing her legs up to her chest in a protective gesture, she imagined her posture to be armor around her.

How could they think she would be a danger to anyone? She was 96 pounds. Who could she hurt?

Rubbing her arms vigorously to fight off the chill in the cold, she evaluated the sterile observation room. The frayed edges of her bandaged wrists tickled her arms, and immediately it reminded her exactly why she was here.

Oh, right. I could hurt me.

She never understood that statement: "danger to self or others."

Others - sure, she could comprehend that. Only lunatics ran around hurting people. And lunatics deserved to be locked up in padded rooms.

But whose business was it if the danger was to herself? Did they really think they were saving her? For what?

Were they planning on being there at 3 am, when the nightmares brought the screams?

What about 2 pm? When the isolation numbed?

7 am? When yet another day needed to be faced.

She felt the tranquilizers reach her blood stream. Once they kicked in, she would have four hours of catatonic relief before they slid her another paper cup of pharmaceutical peace.

Before her eyelids became too heavy to lift, she glanced up at the large, plain clock, hung slightly askew on the wall.

Fifty-four hours and forty minutes left.

Then, she would try again.

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