#7 - Mental Mishap

Prompt: You wake in a mental hospital signed in under someone else's name

A scraping sound startles me from sleep. I jolt up, out of bed and am quickly standing barefooted on the cold tile. Plain white walls surround me. There's window, the kind with chicken wire panes. The bed I've just flown from is plain. A twin size like the ones in college dorms that are a little bit longer than a child's twin bed. 

I look around for anything familiar. Everything is white. The walls, the floors, the bed clothes. I'm wearing a white tee shirt and light gray sweat pants. There are words on the tee shirt that I try to read upside down. 

'Goodrich Mental Hospital'

What does that mean? It's then that I notice the plastic bracelet on my wrist. I don't remember going to any hospital. I blink, trying to focus my eyes and read the information on the plastic bracelet.

Patient: Harrison, Caroline M.

Sex: F

Age: 27

And then some string of letters and numbers that have no meaning to me. Harrison, Caroline M. Who is that? Me, certainly not. My name is not Caroline. It's not even Carrie; it's Charley Wait, that's a nickname. It's Charlotte. I am Charlotte Walsh. I am twenty seven; that's true too. 

The scraping sound catches me again. It's coming from somewhere else. I turn to the door which is opened slightly. There are other sounds too. People talking, a television, a beeping echoes down the hall. 

Carefully, I step toward the door. The handle is silver, brushed so it's not too shiny. I pull the door open and all the noises come at me. The television is louder. There's some cartoon playing I'm guessing by the high tones of the voices. Adults don't sound like that, I think.

Stepping into the hallway I peer left then right. To my left the hall contains several doors on each side. Some of the doors are opened, others closed. To my right the hallway opens to a large room. This is where all the sounds are coming from. 

I cautious walk into the large room. Everything is white here too except for the furniture. The couches are mismatched. There are metal folding chairs and plastic folding tables. It all seems faded like I'm seeing the world through a sepia filter. 

People sit or stand, all wearing the same clothes as me. Everyone in light gray sweats and white tee shirts with the black lettering. And everyone has a plastic bracelet too. I'm betting their names are correct though. 

There are large windows, chicken wire paned like the one in my room. My room? It's not mine; it's Caroline M. Harrison's room. A large woman stands in the middle of the room with a clipboard. She isn't wearing gray and white. Instead, a pair of dark blue pants and a cream shirt with blue dots. She's not overweight. She's tall and broad like a football player. Her jaw is set and square, but her eyes are soft. I watch as she watches. She looks down at her clipboard then around the room at the people. 

"Alright, it's time for Circle Talk, everyone," she calls out. Slowly, one by one, people gather around her. They carry the metal folding chairs and begin sitting in a circle. "Thank you, Monty." A man has set a chair beside his. The large, soft eyed woman takes her seat along with everyone else. 

I stand, watching and waiting. The woman looks up from her clipboard, surveying the circle and smiling softly at the gray and white people. She stops and looks up at me, standing fifteen feet back.

"Carrie," she meets my eyes, "are you joining us today?"

I don't know what to say so I just stare. Does Carrie join this group? I don't know. What would Carrie do? I don't know. The woman is waiting, I can tell. Finally I shake my head.  She nods a little and looks back at her group. I guess I made the right decision. I guess Carrie doesn't join this group.

She starts talking about trees. She says trees grow deep roots that help them stand up in rough weather. I tune her out and walk to a window. I'm thinking, trying to figure out who Carrie is and how I'm going to get out of this place. 

Outside the trees are naked. There are no leaves. It's late Fall or Winter then. How do I know this? I see a parking lot. There are lots of cars. There are a few people going in and out of the building. I want to be one of them. I want to be going out of here. 

Quickly I turn around and search the room. What am I looking for? I don't know. I look at the ceiling. It's white, popcorn style. The kind that everyone hates on HGTV.  The mismatched furniture is frayed. The metal folding chairs are dented. Nothing here is smooth except the tile floor. Everything feels used and discarded. Even the people feel like leftovers. 

I stumble forward suddenly dizzied by it all. The matching people and mismatched room. The huge, soft woman. The walls are too close, but the room is too big. Something is not right. 

"Are you alright, Carrie?" The woman asks. 

I grab a metal chair. It slides, scraping the tile. This is the sound that woke me. 

"Carrie, is something wrong?" 

I look up at the woman. The matching people turn to stare at me. I can feel there eyes on me. I can feel my heart starting to race. I need to think, but everything feels wrong and I can't straighten my thoughts. 

"Carrie?"

Carrie? Who is Carrie? Caroline M. Harrison should be here, not me. Not me.

"I'm not Carrie," I say finally. The woman is standing. She pulls out a radio and talks into it. I can feel the panic, the worry of the matching people in the circle. I can feel the woman approach me. She towers like a giant teddy bear. It's smothering.

"Alright, we're going to get you back to your room. You don't seem to be feeling well today," the woman takes my arm and begins to lead me toward the hallway. I try to step, but my bare feet stick to the white tiles. I stumble. 

Suddenly there are men. These men are tall like the big softie. They take my arms and pull me along. I'm not walking; I'm floating on my toes. 

"Alright, Ms. Harrison. It's going to be alright. We'll get you back to your room," one man says.

"Harrison?" I mumble. "I'm not Harrison."

They take me back to the room I woke up in. There's a man standing in the corner as they place me on the bed. He's wearing a lab coat, also white. Of course it's white; everything is white, blinding white.

"Carrie, I'm going to give you something to help you sleep," the man says. He's holding a syringe. 

"No," I exclaim. "No, I don't want to sleep."

The man glances at the two large guys who dragged me here. They grab me and force me down onto the bed. I kick, I scream. They push me down. The lab coat man approaches.

"Carrie, it's going to be okay. You just need to rest. Once you've rested then we can get you better," the man says over my screaming. 

"I'm not Carrie! I'm not!" I scream and scream. "My name is Charley. I'm Charlotte Walsh!"

The big men hold me still. The other man shushes me and sticks the needle in my arm. 

"Sleep," he says. "You'll feel better."

"No, I'm not Carrie," I strain to speak. I can feel the medication. It weakens me. My body slackens like I'm sinking into the bed. "I'm not Carrie. Not her." 

That's all I can manage before everything goes black.