Lifers by K.C. Blume EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: K.C. Blume
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 4.2 MB
- Price: Free
BLAIR
I pull up in front of Elsberry State Psychiatric Institution in the back of a
private ambulance on an overcast morning. The threat of rain sits on the
horizon—a fitting forecast for the occasion.
The gown that they gave me back at the hospital never feels like enough
to actually cover me up. I’m always left so paranoid that I’m about to flash
either the paramedic or the armed officer who sits at the back of that bus
with me. It isn’t enough to deter me from getting myself into this situation,
though, apparently.
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My eyes are heavy when I step out onto the pavement, the sedatives
they’d given me twenty-four hours prior having not worn off yet. It’s hard
to admire the building standing tall before me anyway when the gauze on
my forearms is now oozing through with red stains. The paramedic doesn’t
seem to notice. It’s just his job to sign me off to the nurse who’s waiting at
the awning with a beige folder that’s only been growing since I hit puberty.
This time, my stay is involuntary. Mandated by the state.
“Miss Mitchell?” the nurse says, and I hate how she talks to me in that
high-pitched tone. It’s like I’m an unruly child, and she’s just gentle
parenting the best she can.
I glance toward her, and I’m sure I look just as dead as I should be by
now.
“This way for intake.” She adds, leading me through a pair of glass
doors.
The facility is too white. They all are. Of the five residential hospitals
I’ve been to, only one has been painted differently. Mint green. That place
was a fucking mad house. I have a theory that they paint hospitals white
because lighter hues are supposed to emote optimism. It’s the manipulation
of one’s emotions. Gaslighting, if you really think about it.
They go through my physical exam, and it’s no surprise that I’ve lost a
few pounds. In the days before my attempt, I couldn’t eat. All I could do
was drink water and suck on popsicles. I’d known I was going to go
through with it and had seen in true crime documentaries about how people
tend to shit themselves when they die. No way was I going to let someone
find me covered in my own feces.
“Seems like your most recent cocktail of medications wasn’t very
effective.” My newly appointed psychiatrist mentions while he scribbles in
my file on his desk.
And what I want to say is, “Yeah, no shit. I wouldn’t be here if they
were.”
I don’t say anything at all.
I’ve been here before, not at this facility, but in this state of mind. The
headspace of a failed suicide attempt is more bleak than the moments
before bringing the razor to your wrist or tying that noose around your
neck. All you feel is despair because you know you weren’t supposed to
feel anything by now.
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