The voices started in St. Andrews. Freak. Crazy. Insane. 

I remember waking up to them that first day. I’m not sure if they woke me up or if I’d woken naturally. I tried to sit up and see where they were coming from, but my ankles and wrists were secured to the bed posts. They continued, overlapping each other. They were all feminine. Machines and wires around me blinked and beeped, only adding to the chaos.

Finally I picked up on a male voice that was buried within. “Quin? Quin, look up.”

I did. A bald man smiled back at me. “It’s okay. They’re not real, you know.”

I crinkled my eyebrows.

“The voices.” he said. 

I tried to squawk “How - ?” but my throat was raw and I could only croak.

His smile remained, growing even more fake by the second. “You’re sick, Quin. But we’re going to make you all better. See?”

He produced a syringe and held it up to inspect it. My eyes dried up. Before I could protest, he stuck it in my arm, the smile still pasted to his face. The voices stopped immediately.

The silence was scarier.

Later they’d explained the whole thing to me. I’d pushed another girl down the stairs at school and she broke her neck. That part I remembered. When I was taken to the Vice Principal’s office to discuss it, they noticed cuts on my arms. I remembered those too. They had called in a professional who had given me a psychological evaluation, and it was determined that I had schizophrenia and needed to be institutionalized. That’s the part I don’t remember. I must have put up a good fight though, because they don’t tie you up for no reason, and all those bruises on my arms weren’t there before. Only the red lines.

I’m not even sure how long ago that was. Weeks ago? Months? Years? It’s hard to say. These spotless white walls block out any concept of time. Half the time, when I’m in my room, I can’t really distinguish when I’m awake from when I’m asleep. I realize I don’t even know how long I’ve been lying here reflecting. What did I do before this? Is it still lights out?

Stupid. Nutjob.

I roll out of my bed and creep towards the door, the voices complaining at my cracked feet smacking the floor. Loud. Someone’s gonna hear…  I lay down on the floor, pressing my face against the cold tile and squinting under the crack. The lights are coming on down the hall and slowly approaching, making the section of wall I can see brighten every few seconds. Eventually I see the white scrub pants and shoes pass my door and pause. I hear the buzzer, and the locking mechanism in the door retracts. Get up. Creep. I push myself up and open the door into the hallway. Dozens of other girls are opening their doors too, some rubbing their eyes, others standing there cross armed. Most of them are two to a room, but I learned early that if you make it hard enough on the staff, they’ll give in and let you have a private one.

Nurses disperse through the hallway, opening the doors that no one had answered and dragging the girls out. Once everyone is standing in their door frames, they turn and walk down the hall, and we follow, half scowling and half in another world, to the showers. Nasty. Filth.

We strip off our gowns and throw them in the laundry chute on our way through the entrance. They will be washed in a mass load and we will be given clean clothes when we are done. No one gets the same gown back. We have no possessions here.

The showers are community style. There are no stalls or curtains, only a beige painted room with faucets staked in the cement walls. We don’t get privacy because too many girls try to hurt themselves and it’s easier for them to keep an eye on us this way. Not that exposing ourselves to everyone on our hall on a daily basis helps our esteems or makes us less inclined to kill ourselves.

We all file in front of a shower head and turn it on. The water has two settings: cold enough to freeze your skin off or hot enough to burn it off. Hot. Scalding. Please... I turn it as hot as I can. I pump soap from the wall into my hand and gently work it through my scalp, careful not to lather up the quarter-sized disc behind my right ear. I get another pump and scrub my body. The lye and steaming water sears my skin. I rinse and turn the water off. I plod to the exit and grab a towel from the nurse stationed there. She grins at me. They all do.

I wrap the towel around my body and stumble into the changing room. There are fresh white t shirts and shorts folded on the bench in the center.  Hurry. They’ll catch up. I find my size and slip them on before many others finish bathing. Finally, I turn to the sinks lining the walls, pick out a new disposable toothbrush, and brush my teeth.

When all of us have changed, a nurse takes us to the commissary, where we get cold scrambled eggs and soggy toast. They give me a measly cup of lukewarm orange juice to wash it all down, which I give away because I can’t drink orange juice after brushing my teeth. I start to shovel eggs onto my fork. Ew! Look at that. . . Poison. . . I look down and see the eggs bubbling. I throw away my plate without taking a bite. 

A nurse approaches me grinning. “Why didn’t you eat your breakfast, sweetheart?”

I sit and put my head in my hands, ignoring her. I get tired of their questions. Medicine. You need medicine, stupid…

“Do you need some medicine?” She asks, but her voice is disappearing beneath the cacophony of others. Yes! Say yes, idiot - 

Silence.

All of the voices are cut off at once. I shiver.

“I think we better get you to your room -” the nurse concludes, breaking the stillness.

“No, I just feel sick. I’m going to the bathroom.” I tell her, trotting away before she can argue. 

In the women’s room, I lean against the sink staring at myself in the mirror. The voices never stop before I get medicine. Maybe I’m learning to fight it. Maybe it’ll all go away and I can go back home. Maybe-

QUIN. CAN YOU HEAR ME?

A boy’s voice splinters through my brain. I turn to see who walked in, but I know it’s in my head. “What the -”

Quin. I need you to listen to me. You’re not supposed to be here. They’re going to hurt you.

I stand up straight. I can’t tell if this is real or just a new voice. I’ve never heard a boy’s before.

That stuff they inject you with when you can’t get the voices to stop? It’s a hallucinogenic. They’re testing the effects on your brain. The voices in your head aren’t real. The disc they implanted behind your ear is a transmitter. It’s how they get their messages to you. I’m talking to you on the microphone they use to make the voices in your head.

I’m frozen. I’m the only one in the bathroom. It’s completely still, except for the flickering lights. 

Vinn, I need you to listen. I can get you out of here. The bathroom you’re in has suspended ceilings. If you crawl up on a toilet, you should be able to reach a tile. Pop it off and climb up. If you do this facing the stall door, you’ll have to go straight and take a left, then a right, then straight, then another left along the path with all of the wiring. It should take you to a door, which will lead you onto the roof, where I will meet you. 

I look up at the tiles on the ceiling. I try to think straight, left, right, straight, left. Straight, left, right, straight, left. 

Vinn, I need you to do something. When I finish this message, I need you to remove the chip in your head. They are tracking its location. I need you to leave it in the bathroom so they can’t follow us. Then follow my instructions, and we will get you medical help and get you safe. Understand?

I try not to imagine the wires inside the disc combing through my brain and into my hair as I pull it out of my head. I nod nauseously, though I’m not sure if he can see me. 

Okay, I guess he can. Good luck Vinn. I’m heading to the roof. Meet me there. 

I hear a microphone thunk off. This is it. I don’t even care if the whole thing is imaginary. I have to try. I have to believe that it’s real, and that I’m not crazy. 

Before I can back out, I reach up behind my right ear, grab the chip, and jerk it out as hard as I can.