Chapter 8

I reach out to you, can you hear me?
I'm feeling oh so lonely
Can you give me any time?
I called your number
Hoping I would find
Someone who would listen to me
And give me peace of mind
~ ‘Should I Believe' by Hayesland

All the windows were open in the cozy two story home three houses down from the corner. The weather was warm and sunny, brightening the streets only shadowed in places where the cumulus clouds that clustered together to create shapes for children to pick out and marvel at flitted past.
A warm breeze flowed in and out of the home, and the only presence in the house to enjoy it was a lone woman. She sat on a stool in a small room at the front of the house, hair bundled up to leave her neck exposed to the wind coming in from the two windows as she worked. A potter's wheel sat in front of her, creating the only noise in the room as it spun endlessly while she worked her craft. Her concentration was absolute as the small vase was formed and shaped beneath her hands, its rounded surface smooth and wet under her fingertips. By the time she was nearly finished, her back was protesting along with her arms, but she wanted to make sure its form was flawless before she stopped. She would paint flowers on this one. Bright blue flowers with green vines on a white glaze.
When it was finished, she let out a sigh and let her arms rest and the spinning stop. She stretched her back and gave the completed vase a small smile feeling, as she always did when she finished a piece, a sense of accomplishment. After decades of doing this, that sense of accomplishment and contentment never faded.
Mrs. Mouri stood, ignoring the protest of her ever-aging body, and walked past the pottery wheel and kiln to the sink. She'd barely begun washing the clay off of her hands when the phone rang.
She scrubbed at them quickly, hoping to get most of it off, then shut off the water and grabbed a hand towel to dry them off as she tracked down the phone. The answering machine clicked on to pick it up just as she answered.
"Mouri residence."
"Hi, Mum."
Pleasure bloomed, and the woman smiled. "Sayoko. Darling, it is so good to hear from you. How have you been? How is everyone?"
"Just fine, everything and everyone's great. And how are you doing? You sound winded."
"Oh, I'm in the middle of making a vase. A little something I might have to send to you when it's finished." She looked fondly back at the vase, envisioning the white and bright blue flowers her daughter would love.
"Mum, you don't have to do that. You're supposed to sell your work, not give it away. I do appreciate it, but I don't think I'd have room for another – I have your pieces everywhere as it is!"
Her mother chuckled. "Point taken. I'll get it in the mail by tomorrow." Her daughter's long-suffering sigh turned the chuckle into laughter.
"Since it's useless to argue with you, I'll change the subject. Where's our little boy blue?"
"He's been over at Kento's house for most of the morning, but I'm expecting him back within the hour. We're going to make a late lunch."
"You know he'll end up doing most of the work. He'll just sit you down in a chair and tell you he'll ‘handle things.'"
She laughed. "I usually let him. I love watching him when he's cooking anyhow. He's come such a long way from the way he used to try and help me when he was little."
Sayoko laughed, her voice warm in her mother's ear. "Oh, that always gave me a good laugh. He'd get so mad at you when you wouldn't let him cut any of the vegetables."
"Or crack open the eggs. I remember this one time, Cye was maybe six, and I was making your birthday cake – you were turning sixteen, so yes, he was six. I had already argued with him about staying away from the eggs with a promise that he could stir the batter, but the doorbell rang. I turned my back to answer it for maybe half a minute, and when I came back, Cye was standing on a chair and there were broken eggs all over the counter and at least three in the batter." Mrs. Mouri laughed with the memory. "I had to start making your cake all over again, and he was so horrified at being caught and the mess he made, he started to cry and I had to send him outside to play."
Sayoko chuckled. "All great chefs have to start out somewhere. So who was at the door?"
"Hmm?"
"You had to turn your back to answer the door. Who was it?"
Mrs. Mouri grew quiet as she withdrew into her memory. She had opened that door, and a little girl wearing a purple t-shirt and dirty overalls had stood there, peeking up at her from beneath messy red bangs with shy green eyes. The memory was so strong, she closed her eyes and could very nearly see that small child looking at her, hoping to come in and play with her son, her little fingers wringing nervously at the thought of being turned away.
"Mum?"
She opened her eyes. "Darling, do you remember Robyn?"
The other line was quiet for a long moment. "Yes, I do. She used to play with Cye when they were kids. Glued to the hip. Didn't she . . . wasn't she taken away? Social services?"
"Yes. I think Cye was nine at the time." Mrs. Mouri sat down on a chair in her living room, her mood subdued as she remembered the allegations of abuse on Robyn. The bruises the child would have on her when she came over to play. And the look in her eyes when asked about them. She had wormed her way in Mrs. Mouri's heart, and even though she knew child services was going to take her away if she called, she had to. She'd never forget Robyn's father pounding on their front door, and the huddled forms of Robyn and Cye in the kitchen. The terrified look in Robyn's eyes. How could she have lived with herself if she didn't make sure Robyn was away from that monster? Even so, after Robyn was gone, she had grieved as if she had sent away her own child. Cye had been devastated.
"She was a sad little thing, wasn't she?"
"She had terrible parents," Mrs. Mouri replied, old anger welling up in her heart. "They didn't deserve that little girl. And she certainly didn't deserve to be treated like she wasn't human. I still can't believe I waited so long to do something." I wish I could have taken her in myself.
"Well, what were you going to do? Accusing your neighbor of child abuse is a big deal, and for a while, there wasn't a lot of proof. But you did the right thing, Mum. I'm sure Robyn is happier for it, wherever she is."
It was never enough to just speculate on whether she was happy or not. She wanted to see it for herself. She had loved Robyn, had did all she could for her and hoped it was enough. It had broken her heart to see her go.
"Yes. I hope so. She meant so much to Cye, and to me."
"I know." They continued reminiscing for another fifteen minutes or so, and the moment they both hung up, Mrs. Mouri's thoughts were back on Robyn. She had tried her best to give Robyn what she was sure she wasn't getting at home – good meals at dinner, unhindered playtime with her son, and love. Lots of love. Why couldn't she give that again? Robyn was nearly eighteen; surely the child services in the United States wouldn't turn her down for information like they had before.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the front door to the Mouri residence opened and then shut. She couldn't hold back a smile when her son came into the room, and when he saw her staring, he slowly smiled back.
"Hey, Mum."
"Hi, sweetheart. How was your morning?"
"Fine. If you don't mind, Kento might come for dinner."
She grinned. "I would have expected as much." She hesitated for a brief second. "Here, come sit with me a moment. I want to talk to you."
Cye obliged and raised an eyebrow at her when they were seated on the couch. "What about?"
Mrs. Mouri paused and just took in her son's tall, lanky form, his face that had long ago lost its childish curve and matured into the young man peering at her with concerned sea green eyes. Love swelled in her, and she thought of how surprised he would be when he found out what she was thinking. That it was about time they stopped wondering and did something about the absent member of their family.
Although . . . why spoil the surprise? As Cye looked at her expectantly, she realized that she couldn't tell him just yet. There was always a chance this wouldn't work, and he would be so disappointed if it didn't. She couldn't get his hopes up yet.
"Everything all right?" Cye gave her an uncertain smile at the faraway look in her eyes.
She shook her head and smiled at her son. "You know . . . I made a vase for your sister. Come see it."
Cye stared after her when she stood up and walked jauntily to her pottery room and smiled. She was keeping something from him, and doing a horrible job at hiding it. He figured he'd let her have her way for now – she would tell him eventually.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Robyn stared at the closed door of Regan's room, wondering how she could get one of the nurses to open it so she could speak to her. She'd felt a strong urge to talk to the girl for days, and had previously tried to get one of the evening nurses to let her see her, but she had said no.
Figuring she'd have a better chance with Angelina, she was trying again this morning. Robyn craned her neck to the side and watched patiently as Angelina made her way down the hall, thick black heels clicking against the tile in a pleasant manner. It was such a normal sound in this place, Robyn was fairly mesmerized until it stopped, and she realized she was staring.
"Is there a reason you're standing there, Robyn?" the woman asked.
Robyn nodded slowly. "I want to talk to her." She gestured toward the closed door.
Angelina's eyebrows knitted into a frown as she peered at the door, and then sighed. "Robyn, you know I can't let you."
"Why not? Is she contagious or something?"
"No."
"She lives on the floor; I don't see why she can't have visitors. You know, it's probably not good for her to be alone all the time. Isn't that why we're placed with roommates? I'd go crazy if I was by myself like that." Angelina hesitated, and Robyn leapt in again. "I saw her, coming out of my therapists' office a few days ago. She looked so sad, Ang. I just want to talk to her, maybe see if she needs a friend." She paused for a moment, and then added quietly, "I could use one, too."
Angelina gazed into Robyn's eyes, and Robyn bit her lip and tried to look as guileless as she could.
"As much as I'd like to see Ms. Mendola join in with someone from the floor, I don't think so, Robyn. Her doctor specifically said –"she stopped when Robyn's eyes filled with tears and her lower lip started to tremble, and sighed. "Robyn, you are not fooling me in the least."
Robyn sniffed them back. "You know, you people harped on about doing what was best for us to help us get better. I don't think isolation and being holed up in your room 24/7 is doing what's best for someone. I think that'd make someone even more depressed." With a last baleful look at the door and questions still burning in the back of her mind, Robyn walked away from the door and past Angelina's gaze.
She stopped when the woman's voice rang in the hallway. "I'll talk to her doctor about brief visitations with another patient. If he says no, there's nothing else I can do."
Robyn smiled to herself. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet."
Robyn wasn't able to get her answer that day due to Regan's doctor's elusiveness, so she tried to forget about it while she went to her ‘appointments', but the anxiousness of either being turned down and given an okay stayed at the back of her mind.
She couldn't focus on what her psychiatrist was saying until he started talking about her medicine.
"Why do I need to take this stuff, anyway?" Robyn blurted out.
Dr. Grendel stopped talking and gave a little sigh. He clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and looked Robyn in the eye. "Sometimes medication does what counseling cannot, Robyn. You may not think it now, but you need it. Tell me something. Have you had many nightmares since you've been here?" Robyn slowly shook her head. "That's not just a product of counseling. Your medication has helped with that. If you stopped fighting this so much, Robyn, you might begin to see the benefits."
"Pardon me if I hate being forced to take pills everyday."
"Did it occur to you that you might not have to take as much if you talked about what really happened?"
Robyn stared at the psychiatrist. "What makes you think I haven't been telling the truth?"
"You haven't told the therapists much of anything, and what you have told them has been very vague."
"That's not lying, that's withholding information."
"Miss McCarthy," Dr. Grendel said on a sigh. "You will get nothing out of your stay here if you refuse to cooperate with the therapists."
A pained expression crossed Robyn's face. In a miserable whisper, she said, "You'd think I was even crazier if I told you."
"Try us," the older man pleaded. "You'll be surprised by how understanding the therapists here are. And we don't think you're crazy, Robyn. Far from it. You are suffering from post traumatic stress disorder because of an event, not just your childhood. Of that I am certain. If you think the therapists will blame you for what happened to you, whatever that may be, you are wrong." The girl didn't respond; her head was slightly down, red hair acting as a curtain for her face. The hands that gripped the chair's arm rests were tense.
"I know what you're thinking," she heard him say quietly. "That by giving in to what the therapists want, by accepting the medicine as something helpful rather than forced on you, you will be accepting that you need to be here."
"I don't belong here!" Robyn cried out, looking up at him angrily. "I don't want to be here, I don't want to talk to your stupid therapists. I don't want to take this medicine –"
"I am afraid you have no choice, Miss McCarthy," Dr. Grendel's voice cut through. His tone became firm as he stared at her. "You are only making this harder on yourself by resisting. Believe me, you are not the first and you will not be the last patient to refuse to cooperate. This will go by much quicker and easier for you if you are honest with the therapists and honest with me. Now." He closed their argument with a snap of the file in front of him, causing Robyn to jump at the noise. "Is there anything wrong with the medicine you are now taking?"
Robyn glared at the older man. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ticking clock on his wall.
She finally relented. "No. Nothing's wrong with it."
"It doesn't make you feel ill?"
"No." But it makes me feel sick to take it, she added silently.
"Good. Our session is over." She got up stiffly to leave, and as she was opening the door, her psychiatrist added, "Promise me you will at least try to let the therapy do you some good. As in any illness or problem, it cannot be cured or helped when you do not tell someone what is wrong."
She didn't give him an answer as she shut the door behind her to be escorted back to her room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Robyn was still in a foul mood after her discussion with the psychiatrist later that day when the door to her room opened and Angelina came in.
"You can see her."
Robyn blinked, trying to place what she was talking about. When it came to her, she flashed her teeth in a wide grin. "Wow, really?"
"Definitely wow. They were so adamant about no visitations for the longest time," Angelina said. "He only gave clearance for you, however."
"So if I wanted to, could I see her again?"
"You can visit her as long as both of you behave yourselves."
"I don't think you have anything to worry about there. Can I go now?"
"If you want."
"Yeah." Robyn got up and followed Angelina out of her room and down the hall to Regan's room. She waited with growing nervousness as Angelina produced a key to unlock the door (locked? Was it really locked all the time?). With her hand still closed around the doorknob, Angelina knocked a few times first before entering.
"Regan? You have a visitor." Angelina put a hand behind Robyn's back as she entered the room. She spotted the figure sitting on top of the bright blue bedspread in the corner, sitting with her legs folded with a notebook in her lap and a pencil in her hand.
"This is Robyn," Angelina said, her tone soothing and quiet, as if she were talking to a skittish cat. "She wants to visit with you for a while, so I'll leave you two alone to get acquainted." Before walking away, she squeezed Robyn's arm. "Thirty minutes tops."
Robyn nodded and waited to hear the door click shut. Regan didn't look up, but she did stop writing in her notebook. From Robyn's vantage point, all she could see was the shiny top of a dark head of hair. It was parted to the left side, so the sweep of hair made it hard to see her face.
"Hi."
No response.
For a moment, Robyn didn't know what to do. Being a lone with this girl was kind of intimidating. But she refused to be ignored, so Robyn tried again. "Uh, well, my name's Robyn, like she told you. Glad that we know each other's names now." Nice one, Robyn.
"This is a pretty nice room. Very bright." She winced at how lame that one sounded, too, even though it was true. The walls were a cheery pale yellow, and the other primary color in the room was bright blue. There were blue flowers in a vase on the dresser on the opposite wall, and a blue throw rug was placed over the off-white carpet. Robyn spotted a door tucked in between a small closet and the dresser, and realized that was probably her bathroom. When Robyn took a closer look at the walls, however, she noticed something a little odd. It looked like someone had written on the far back wall, but a lot of it had been washed away. She couldn't tell what the faint gray and blue markings were, though, and wasn't about to ask. Might not even be from her.
When Regan did nothing but sit and stare down at her notebook, Robyn sighed. "It sucks being here, doesn't it? No matter how cheerful the room is, it's a pretty pathetic tradeoff for the outside." She watched for a reaction and found Regan sitting very still, as if she didn't know what to do. Or maybe she was waiting for something else. Feeling progress that she knew she was listening, Robyn continued.
"I haven't been here for very long. Not even a week. A few of the girls said you were here before them, and Jill's been here for two months. That's a long time to be stuck in this place. I'm supposed to stay for three months, and I'm really not looking forward to it." She paused, watching, and then added, "Mind if I sit down?"
Without waiting for a response, and figuring she wouldn't get one, Robyn sat gingerly on the bed next to the girl, facing the curtain of hair and slightly hunched sitting position. Her top was short sleeved and dark blue, and the pants were light brown. She wasn't wearing any socks and her feet were just as tanned as her hands and arms, so Robyn assumed it was ethnic instead of from the sun. She was sitting very still; the pencil lay on the notebook, still loosely clutched in her right hand, and when Robyn leaned in to see the writing, she realized it was in a foreign language. It looked like French.
"What language is that? Is that French?"
Her only response was a brief tightening of the girl's long fingers on the pencil. Pursing her lips, Robyn studied her a moment longer. How could she get something out of this girl? On impulse, she reached up to swiftly tuck Regan's hair behind her ear.
Regan reacted too late, and minimally jerked back at the gesture. She stared at Robyn in slight surprise and suspicion, and Robyn stared back, smiling a little.
"There. I can see your face now." Up close, she was even more gorgeous, bringing Robyn to the conclusion that the world was completely unfair. People in mental hospitals had no right to have small, upturned noses, full lips, and skin that looked like it'd never seen a pimple before. It was a small consolation that it looked like her hair needed washing.
Her eyes took Robyn in but gave nothing away, and her expression was carefully blank. Robyn felt she could break that silence, if she worked a little at it.
"You're freakishly pretty, I hope you know that. Just had to say it out loud." She took in a breath. "So, I guess I'll tell you a bit on why I'm here. They told me I'm depressed and I have . . . post-traumatic disorder, something. I'm a foster kid, and my guardian decided I was too messed up to function on my own, which is ridiculous because I was doing just fine on my own." As Robyn talked about small, harmless facts of her life, Regan turned her head away to look straight ahead. Her hand still loosely held the pencil.
Robyn stopped talking after a good fifteen minutes. Instead of feeling foolish for talking so long, she actually felt marginally better. Maybe it was because she felt like the girl was honestly listening, and having someone just listen to what she had to say felt kind of good. If anything, this girl would make a good soundboard, but she still hoped to get her to talk back.
Robyn left the room reluctantly, and went to bed that night feeling a little better than she had when she woke up.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Robyn didn't know why she kept coming back to this girl who didn't talk to her. She hadn't felt a pull like this towards someone since she met Cye. There had to be something to that, coupled with the strong feeling that Regan didn't belong here, either.
The next two visits with Regan were much the same. Robyn sat down on the bed and talked while Regan seemingly ignored her. Just looking at her, it would seem that she was, but after the third visit, Robyn was becoming sensitive to Regan's body language as an indicator of what was going on upstairs. During one, she continued to write in that other language, but her head tilted slightly toward Robyn's during the one-sided conversation. The last visit, she had recapped something funny that had happened to her the year before, and was rewarded by seeing the corner of Regan's mouth quirk up slightly.
Talking with, or to, Regan, made Robyn feel a little better each time. It seemed to do more than the question answer game with the therapist did, and she found herself not bothered by telling a perfect stranger some of the more terrible stories of her childhood. She also touched on Cye, and some of the things they did as kids. Talking about him was comforting, too.
Her talking finally paid off at the end of the fourth visit.
Regan was sitting in the same position she had been for the past three visits, only wearing pajamas this time; white with little black cows and yellow moons. Her notebook was not present, and her hands rested limply on her folded legs. She was staring at some point on the floor while Robyn chatted. A few times Robyn had paced the floor while she talked, but found she much preferred to be sitting on the bed. She also found out what the faint writings on the far wall were upon closer inspection – they were numbers and some letters. Equations. Another interesting fact about Regan's room was that the bed and dresser were bolted to the ground. She didn't really know what to think of that, so she ignored it.
Robyn was almost finished with a story about her first foster family who thought she was mentally retarded because her English still needed work and she only wanted to speak Japanese when she felt eyes on her. She looked over to the silent girl next to her, and was surprised to see pale green irises peering out at her through strands of oily hair.
"So I had to retake all of the testing that like, kindergartners take to prove to the morons that not being fluent in English doesn't result in mental retardation," Robyn finished as they stared at each other. "Hello. I thought you'd never act like I was here. I was getting one of those feelings you get when you're talking to someone, than you turn your back and turn around to find that you're talking to thin air. Makes you feel kind of silly."
Regan stared at Robyn for a long moment, and then turned her head the other way. Robyn couldn't hold back a sigh of growing frustration. What did it take to get her to talk? Was she wasting her time here? Maybe her perception of Regan being different was totally off, and that thought was kind of upsetting.
"I guess I'll leave you alone." She got off the bed and walked towards the door. She paused at the door and turned partially. "I . . . never mind. Have a – good night, I guess."
She turned the doorknob and pulled it open, but froze when a voice, slightly hoarse from un-use, spoke up from the bed.
"Why do you come here?"
Robyn gently pushed the door shut, and then simply stood staring at the white door to find an answer. Why did she come here everyday for four days to talk to a ghost that wouldn't talk back?
But first . . .
"Why are you deciding to talk now?" Robyn turned around and looked at Regan. "You let me ramble for four days and when it becomes apparent that I'm giving up, you finally talk?"
The girl on the bed merely pursed her lips. Apparently she wasn't going to answer until she got an answer to her question. Robyn turned back to the door and stared hard at it, collecting her thoughts. She couldn't respond with her eyes on her like that.
Robyn answered as honestly as she could. "Because I felt like you were listening to me. And it made it feel like what I was saying was important. I . . ." She was blushing now. She could feel her cheeks growing warm. "You didn't interrupt or ask questions . . . you just let me talk. I guess I needed that. I was sort of using you as a soundboard, I guess. But you seemed okay with that. And I felt . . . I honestly don't think there's anything wrong with you."
She turned back around to look at Regan. "Why are you here?"
Robyn considered herself pretty good at picking up on how other people were feeling by the way they moved or acted – something she'd picked up very early when she became more sensitive to her mother and father's moods. It became a mode of survival for many years, and while it seemed to fail her when it came to Jason and his friends until the last possible moment, or whether she'd just turned a blind eye to it in favor of having some friends, it was coming in handy now.
This girl was miserable. Her gaze never left Robyn's, and her facial expression didn't really change other than a brief clenching of her jaw. Her eyes were blank, but it was all in her posture. Her sitting position had been the same since Robyn first visited – shoulders slightly slumped, back curved so she was curled closer to herself - and she only just noticed how . . . defeated it was. Hopeless.
"It's not important." The girl's voice was low and a shade raspy, like she was getting over a sore throat.
"I think it is. Why do they lock you in here? And why do they talk about you like you're this dangerous psycho? I haven't seen anything to support that."
"Get out," Regan whispered, but there was no force behind it, as if she couldn't muster up the strength.
"So you can sit and sulk about how crappy this all is? That won't get you anywhere." In fact, it was making her angry. Watching someone apparently give up on getting out . . . on pretty much everything, made her angry.
Regan's facial expression was frigid, bordering on indignant, and Robyn saw traces of the real person under however many layers she'd built up.
When she didn't say anything, Robyn sighed tiredly. "Whatever. I just think you're not giving yourself much of a chance. I think accepting being in this place is a load of bull." Regan's head very nearly shot up, and she looked at Robyn out of the corner of her eye. That got a reaction, Robyn thought a little smugly.
"Do you always just sit on your bed, contemplating how shitty this whole deal is, or do you at least do something productive? If I let myself get like that, I'd never want to get out of bed. That's no way to live." Part of her was astonished she was even saying this, because not a month ago she was the same way. Maybe her psychiatrist wasn't so crazy and this therapy was doing a bit of good. By the time Robyn was finished, Regan's pale eyes were icebergs, and Robyn was almost hoping for an outburst – any kind of honest emotion from this girl who'd seem to shut everything off – but she didn't get it.
Robyn left, glad that they had at least talked, and hoped that maybe next time they could actually have a conversation. She still wasn't entirely sure why this was so important to her, but it was.

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The night after the fourth ‘session', as Thora called them, Robyn awoke with a start. She took in the dark ceiling above her as she struggled to figure out why she was awake. It was still night time, and she'd been sleeping so soundly.
There were noises in the background that sounded out of place, and she couldn't figure out what they were until it grew louder.
People were shouting.
She sat up in bed and waited a moment for her eyes to recognize the dark shapes in the room as their dresser and Thora's bed, and looked over to see Thora sitting up and rubbing her own eyes.
"What's going on?" Robyn asked, keeping her voice low. She couldn't tell how far or close the shouting was.
"I don't know," Thora said in the same tone. They both slid out of bed and Thora immediately felt for Robyn's hand and squeezed it as they walked to the door.
They opened it just as a man sprinted past their door, causing both girls to jerk back. When he passed, Robyn stepped into the hall, keeping close to the wall. Thora shut the door as others in the hall opened to join the other girls peeking around their doors and staring in open fascination at the right end of the hallway.
Three orderlies in white were struggling with someone they couldn't see, and two men in a dark uniform they had never seen before accompanied them.
"Shit, man, someone's trying to escape!" Jill crowed. "Run! Kick them in the balls!" Daniela and Evan joined in the encouragement, their shouts echoing down the hall until nurses and more orderlies came to get everyone back into their rooms. As an orderly came up behind Robyn and took her by the elbow, she jerked away and walked a little further down the hall. Who was trying to get away?
"Ladies, back to your rooms!" the night nurse ordered. "This is none of your concern!"
The figure being restrained by the orderlies suddenly fell to the ground, and Robyn gasped when she saw the dark hair and petite form of Regan, putting up a pretty good fight against the orderlies. Looking closer, there was blood coming out of the nose of one of the men, and another was limping.
She was fighting a losing battle, though. When Robyn spotted one of the men in the dark uniform holding a needle, she sucked in a breath and started for her . . . acquaintance? Friend? Fellow prisoner? A nurse grabbed her arm before she could get any further, just as the orderlies grabbed Regan's arm and held her still so the needle could plunge into her arm.
"Robyn, go back to your room!"
"Why are they doing that to her?" Robyn cried, whirling to look at the night nurse. Her name was Miranda, and she looked taken aback by Robyn's outburst.
"She tried to escape, Ms. McCarthy, and she's obviously become violent," Miranda replied stiffly. "Patients like that are dangers to themselves."
But she's not! Robyn wanted to yell. "But why drug her? Her room's right there!" She flung an arm in that direction to prove her point.
"They're not taking her to her room," Miranda replied, all the while trying to coax Robyn back to her room by taking her elbow and steering her there. "They're taking her to maximum security." Robyn looked back as the orderlies carried the limp form out of the hallway. Unexpectedly, she felt tears well in her eyes at the sight.
"Trying to escape this place can land you in maximum security? Forgive me if I don't believe that," Robyn shot back sarcastically.
"There are extenuating circumstances that you aren't aware of, Robyn," Miranda said flatly. "This is the best for her."
Before Robyn could snarl at the woman for being a complete moron, she was pushed into her room and the door was shut in her face.
"Can you believe that woman?!" She spun around to face a bewildered Thora, but Robyn seemed oblivious to her as she ranted. "‘She's obviously become violent,'" she mocked, complete with hand gestures, "‘Patients like that are dangers to themselves.' ‘This is best for her.' Bull! She doesn't know anything about Regan, or any of us. Getting drugged up isn't going to make us better, but apparently they think so! Forget talking about our feelings and our childhoods, it's the drugs that are supposed to make it all better. Taking someone to maximum security because they got sick of this place –" Robyn paused in her rant, and her anger deflated with her last words.
She had accused Regan of accepting her fate here – all but told her how useless she was being just sitting there and taking it. Her words hadn't spurred Regan on to take action, had they? She'd just been frustrated with her – or anyone, really – who would apparently give up like that. She didn't mean for her to try something like this. She sat down on her bed and guilt flooded her. When Thora asked about it, she told her.
Thora brushed it off. "Robyn, it's not your fault. Whatever decision she made, she made it on her own. I guess I don't blame her for trying; a lot of other girls have tried. I've never had the guts, because maximum security is a really scary place. I'd hate to be put there."
Robyn went to sleep after receiving a hug from Thora and a cheerful reminder that tomorrow there was no group therapy session and they had some free time.
It didn't cheer her up.