Halloween/Samhain 2008
. . . true orders . . . test to see . . . another Seal hangs in the balance . . . if Lucifer rises . . . Apocalypse . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .
Anna wakes to fading whispers of Angels and the sounds of hospital monitors.
She tries to sit up but can't; she's strapped down.
She supposes that's what happens when you run out into the street yelling at your neighbors that the Apocalypse is nigh.
She's about to call out -- surely someone is waiting to hear that she's woken up -- when she becomes aware of other voices, human voices, in the hall.
" . . . don't understand," says her father. "She was getting better. Calmer. What happened?"
"Mr. Milton," says the gently professional voice of who Anna assumes is her latest doctor, "there's no set pattern with mental illness. And it does appear that Anna had stopped taking her medication. Your daughter needs more help than you and your wife can provide."
"What do you mean?" Amy Milton asks.
"She's in danger of hurting herself, or someone else. It took four people to restrain her this afternoon, and you said she kept screaming until she was sedated. She's not well. It's probably time to start considering transferring her to a behavioral health facility, at least for a while."
"Have her committed, you mean?" Rich says.
"Let's talk about this in my office, all right?" the doctor says.
Anna thinks about calling out to them, but if she does that know, they'll know she's heard all that and they'll be embarrassed and it will be awkward and awful.
So instead she lets them go, because at this point she's probably going to wind up in the loony bin anyway, and there's no sense in making it harder on her parents.
She lies there, still strapped into the hospital bed, and waits for them to come back.
Her nose itches.
Really, really itches.
Anna wakes to fading whispers of Angels and the sounds of hospital monitors.
She tries to sit up but can't; she's strapped down.
She supposes that's what happens when you run out into the street yelling at your neighbors that the Apocalypse is nigh.
She's about to call out -- surely someone is waiting to hear that she's woken up -- when she becomes aware of other voices, human voices, in the hall.
" . . . don't understand," says her father. "She was getting better. Calmer. What happened?"
"Mr. Milton," says the gently professional voice of who Anna assumes is her latest doctor, "there's no set pattern with mental illness. And it does appear that Anna had stopped taking her medication. Your daughter needs more help than you and your wife can provide."
"What do you mean?" Amy Milton asks.
"She's in danger of hurting herself, or someone else. It took four people to restrain her this afternoon, and you said she kept screaming until she was sedated. She's not well. It's probably time to start considering transferring her to a behavioral health facility, at least for a while."
"Have her committed, you mean?" Rich says.
"Let's talk about this in my office, all right?" the doctor says.
Anna thinks about calling out to them, but if she does that know, they'll know she's heard all that and they'll be embarrassed and it will be awkward and awful.
So instead she lets them go, because at this point she's probably going to wind up in the loony bin anyway, and there's no sense in making it harder on her parents.
She lies there, still strapped into the hospital bed, and waits for them to come back.
Her nose itches.
Really, really itches.