Geoffrey handed over two sheets of paper and a pencil. I took it, thanked him, and went to the sitting area. Most of the other patients were watching television or talking. I sat down at a table that faced away from the television, and I put the sheet down. I held the pencil between my fingers and sat, frozen, with the tip of the pencil touching the paper.

I remembered when it used to be so easy. Every feeling I had was so easy to write down and pour out of me onto the paper. They went from just mere thoughts and feelings to words and creative expression. They traveled from my mind and heart to my fingertips, to the pen, into the ink, and out onto the paper. It was hard, sitting here at Bent Creek with the pencil and the paper. Mr. Sharp kept screaming in my mind. What if he really did leave me? What would I be? Who would I be without him?

I was writing instead of cutting--was I the one abandoning him? Writing used to be so easy. Easier than cutting, anyway. But here in Bent Creek, neither came to me easily. I felt abandoned, in a way. I stared down at the paper. What was I feeling?

CHAPTER 41.

The next day, Dr. Pelchat called for me after lunch. When we arrived in one of the Group Therapy rooms, he didn't waste any time.

There was a booklet on the table, and two No. 2 pencils. When he told me that I had sixty minutes to complete the test, I felt like I was back in public school. Dr. Pelchat looked down at his watch and nodded.

He said, "This is a yes-or-no choice test. You just have to answer as truthfully as possible. If you don't understand a question or you cannot answer it, then skip over it. Some questions may not seem to apply to you. Everyone who takes this test has different experiences. Just answer as best you can. Responding openly and honestly to all of the questions is the only way that we can accurately a.s.sess whether or not there is something we can do to help you. If you are not open and honest, the test measures will indicate that you are being defensive or suppressing information or simply lying to hide things you don't want us to know. This response att.i.tude then prevents an accurate a.s.sessment of your situation, and then we may have to do this all over again. So, remember to be honest. Go ahead and start when I walk out of the room. If you need me, I will be across the hall. Good luck."

"Good luck" didn't seem like the right thing for a doctor to say, but I nodded at him anyway.

When I heard the door shut behind me, I opened the test booklet and began. The first question was simple: Do you feel that you worry excessively about too many things? Yes or No.

Second question: Do you have a fear of losing control of yourself? Yes or No.

Do you feel afraid that you will be in a place or a situation from which you feel that you will not be able to escape? Yes or No.

Do you find it difficult to let go of the past? Yes or No.

Do you find yourself constantly having to answer to a higher authority due to your actions? Yes or No.

Suddenly I was taken back to an earlier time, when I had been called to the princ.i.p.al's office at my last high school.

"This is the second time we have had to call you into our office," the princ.i.p.al said.

Mrs. d.i.c.kinson was always so sincere, and she spoke in such a calm voice. This time she wasn't so calm. She nervously stared down at the b.l.o.o.d.y kitchen knife that was sitting on her desk. She had it in a plastic bag, with paper towels wrapped around the blade. Mrs. d.i.c.kinson wasn't talking to me. She was talking to my mother, who was sitting next to me while we sat, face to face, with Mrs. d.i.c.kinson.

I sat quietly as she told my mom about what had happened. She only told her side of the story, about the girl who had been in the bathroom while I had been slicing myself with the kitchen knife. I'd made a mess on the floor, and the girl had been scared, so she'd run to get the school nurse.

When the school nurse had seen me, I had already put the knife away, but I couldn't hide the blood I'd spilled, or even the cuts on my arms. The nurse had pulled me into her office so that we could have a "nice talk" while she wrapped up my arms. Did she need to call the princ.i.p.al? Apparently she'd felt the need to after she'd found the b.l.o.o.d.y knife in my backpack. She hadn't even asked me why I'd done it. She was so quick to tell on me.

So that's how I wound up in Mrs. d.i.c.kinson's office, with my arms wrapped up and my mom sitting next to me, ready to snap my neck because she'd had to be pulled out of work to come to my school.

"This is very serious," Mrs. d.i.c.kinson continued. "Last time we caught her with razor blades in her locker. Now she has a real knife! Normally, in situations like this, we would have to call the police, and Kristen would be arrested for bringing a deadly weapon to school. From what I see, Kristen does not need to go to jail. I think she needs to see a psychiatrist."

Mom sat up straight and jumped in, "No! Excuse me. I don't think that you are certified to even make a suggestion like that. Is your degree in psychology?"

Mrs. d.i.c.kinson said, "No. but-"

"I didn't think so," Mom cut her off. "You can be a.s.sured that this will be handled. With our family's breakup and the divorce, things have just been a little rough, and Kristen is dealing with it in her own way. It's not necessarily the right way, but we are working on it."

"Have you even noticed Kristen's change?" Mrs. d.i.c.kinson ignored my mom. "The way her grades have been dropping? She pulled out of the Writing Club, which I thought was very important to her. She's been absent eighteen days this semester. Did you even notice?"

Mom looked at me while rubbing her neck, the way she did when she was nervous but trying not to let it show. She put on her intimidating face and stared at Mrs. d.i.c.kinson.

"You know it's hard on all of us right now. I will deal with her. This will not be a problem anymore. Believe that."

She turned and looked at me. She kept her eyes on me.

"I hope not," Mrs. d.i.c.kinson said. "Because next time this happens, not only am I going to have to get the police involved, but she will be kicked out."

Mom brought me home right after the meeting with Mrs. d.i.c.kinson. It was a good thing Nick and Alison were both still in school. When we got back home, Mom did not hesitate when we got through the front door. She slammed the door shut, and before I could put my backpack down, she slapped me across my face. I looked up at her, hurt and shocked.

"I work two jobs," she began, "to feed you and the twins. I put a roof over your heads. I clothe you. I am dealing with this, and trying to make it work for all of us, and this is the kind of mess that I have to deal with! All I ask of you is to help me out by trying to set an example for your brother and your sister. You don't want to be the example from which they learn what not to do. Just do what we talked about. What about our new beginning, Kristen? You have to stop this. If you keep this up, they will call Child Protective Services, and they will take you, Nick, and Ally away. You don't want that, do you?"

Anger seemed to be seeping out of her with each word she spoke. Afraid to say anything, I just looked at her. I did not react or answer her question. I just stayed silent and listened.

"I worry. I worry all the time. You don't think I cry and I get depressed? Sometimes I just want to punch my fists into the wall and just go crazy, too! But I don't, because I think about you and the twins, and I know that's not what you need to see. I know that I need to keep it together for all of you. I can't just act the way that I feel. You can't act like this! Now I want you to stop. Stop right now!"

I let the tears fall as she scolded me. She was right. Somewhere I needed to feel that she was right and not just know it in my mind. I just couldn't feel it. I thought about what Mrs. d.i.c.kinson had suggested, and I dared to bring it up.

"Mom," I said, while wiping my eyes. "Maybe I need help. Maybe I should go see the doctor that the judge ordered you to take Nick to after Jack's trial was over."

Her shoulders tensed up, and she looked away from me. "What would you say to a doctor that you can't say to me?"

I shrugged, afraid to answer. I tried anyway.

"I could talk about the things I saw. I could talk about Jack and what he did. I can't keep letting it play in my mind. It's like a movie that won't stop playing. I can't hit pause sometimes, Mom. I can't make it go away. I feel so sick when I think about how I knew what was going on when Jack would take showers with Nick, and when he would hurt him so bad, and I knew what was going on, Mom! I knew! And I just want to die sometimes, because it happened, and I knew! And then when I saw Jack, and he had Nick in the-"

She put her hands up and covered her ears. She shook her head with tears in her eyes. I looked at her, confused and hurting deep inside. I was crying so hard that my breathing became shallow and rough. The metal ball in my chest was turning at about a hundred miles an hour.

"Mom!" I cried. "Mom, please. Just let me talk to Nick's doctor. Maybe I can get help, too. Maybe I can stop-"

Mom uncovered her ears and grabbed my shoulders. She shook me hard.

"No! No! No! You do not need a doctor. Don't do this, Kristen. The only reason you want to see a doctor is because you want attention, just like Nick. Nick was the one who was hurt. That's why the judge said he should see a doctor. You are always so dramatic and seeking attention! That therapy is for your brother. Think of his future if he did not get that treatment. What do you think his life is going to be like? All you will do when you get in there is complain about the past, and nothing has really happened to you. You're going to tell the doctor that you knew what was happening? Well, if you knew and you were so sure, why didn't you help your brother? Why did you let it continue? Why didn't you come to me? Tell me, Kristen. Why?"

The feeling of death seeped into my soul. I had never wanted to be dead as much as I did at that moment. She was right, I thought. I should have said something. But I wasn't sure until I'd finally seen Jack doing what he'd done to Nick. It wasn't until that last day when I'd seen him, hovered over Nick and having s.e.x with him, that I really knew for sure. Didn't I try to tell her? Didn't I show her the mess in the bathroom? Didn't I try to call the police when he'd gone out of control on Nick? I had.

I realized why Mom did not want me to see the doctor. She was afraid for herself. I bit down on my lip so hard that I could taste blood. Mom took her hands off my shoulders, and she backed away from me, almost looking like she was drained of her energy. She placed her hand on her forehead, like she was checking to see if she had a fever.

She looked away from me and said, "If you need to talk to keep from doing that mess you've been doing, then come to me. Don't go into the kitchen and touch my knives. And those knives and little swords that you like to collect are to stay in the boxes that you keep them in. Do you understand, Kristen?"

I didn't answer because I was not all there. I was still in a daze from the realization that had come over me.

She yelled, "Do you understand me?"

I snapped out of the daze and looked at her with wet eyes. I nodded.

"Let me hear you say it."

"Yes. I understand now," I said.

She nodded and came over to me. She wrapped her arms around me to try to make me feel safe again. I tried not to let it affect me, but I needed her arms so badly. I closed my eyes and gave in. I allowed myself to believe that she was right. If I did go to the doctor, I would be calling attention to myself, and then I could get her in trouble. I didn't want the people to come and take us away. I didn't want to have to cut. At that moment, I told myself that I would try to stop.

"Mom," I said.

She pulled away from me and looked into my eyes.

"If I get a job, could I check into doing home schooling?"

Mom thought for a moment. A smile appeared on her face. She said, "That doesn't sound like a bad idea. Let me think about it some more. Meanwhile, you should look into finding an after-school job or a weekend job. I think that will help you. You won't have time to sit and think about things that are supposed to be behind us."

"And it could help, because then you won't have to work two jobs," I added.

She nodded and started to walk away. "Let me think about it," she said.

Question number 59: Do you constantly find yourself feeling bad about yourself, and that you are a failure because you have let yourself or your family down? Yes or No.

Yes.

Final question: Do you have constant thoughts of death or being dead? Yes or No.

Yes.

CHAPTER 42.

The next part of the day was filled with poking and prodding. But it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. After the test, Dr. Pelchat told me that my results would be back no later than a week. Then he took me to another part of Bent Creek. We had to walk through the Adult Ward to get there. I grew nervous pa.s.sing through there. There were a lot of elderly people sitting alone and in corners. A few other patients who looked younger, but who actually were a lot older than me, were watching television or sitting alone as well. The atmosphere was different from the Adolescent Ward. At least, in the Adolescent Ward, we talked, even if it was to make fun of someone. Like when Tai made fun of me for not being able to take a bath. I cringed as I thought back on that.

"This is the Adult Ward, Kristen. We've had a few kids in the Adolescent Ward actually turn eighteen and graduate to the Adult Ward while they were here in Bent Creek. I've seen some adolescents leave Bent Creek, only to come back, old enough to go straight to the Adult Ward. It doesn't look too fun, does it?"

Dr. Pelchat always had a way of reaching me. Though his words did scare me, I tried to listen and take it all in.

When we got to the other side of the hospital, we entered the medical clinic. The waiting room was empty. A nurse came out of the back, and she took Dr. Pelchat to the side. He handed her my chart and they began talking. They were talking about me. I heard her say that the doctor, whose name was Dr. Mitsen, was going to look at my st.i.tches and determine if it was time for them to be removed. Shortly after they spoke, the nurse came over to me with a sweet smile and, in a tiny voice, invited me to the back, where I a.s.sumed the doctor was waiting. Dr. Pelchat a.s.sured me that he'd be back to escort me back to the Adolescent Ward.

I followed the nurse, and she led me to an examination room. I had to get changed into the hospital gown, so the nurse left me in the room alone. After I was changed, I looked around and studied the room. It was a normal examination room, with the examining table that reclined back, the doctor's rolling chair, a sink, and some cabinets. But what was different about this room from others I had been in was that this room had locks on the cabinets. And there were no cotton b.a.l.l.s in small jars, or those sticks that the doctor put on your tongue to make you say "Ahhhh!" There weren't even any lollipops that the doctor was supposed hand out when a patient was well behaved.

Dr. Mitsen entered the room. He was a tall and thin, friendly-looking kind of man. Even when he unwrapped the bandages and saw the sad scars and the wires and stringed st.i.tches, he still remained smiling. While he examined me, he asked me questions about school.

It was as though this was a normal check-up at a regular, family clinic. After examining my wrists, he determined that the st.i.tches would need to be in for another two weeks because of the vein damage. He said that they needed to heal properly. Therefore, he told me to keep cleaning the st.i.tches and not to get them wet. He kept the bandages off my wrists. It made me feel a little uneasy. I looked down at my wrists and saw the lines and rows of the damage I had done. Mr. Sharp smiled from somewhere inside of me. I felt almost safe, but, without the bandages, I felt somewhat scared.

I asked, "Dr. Mitsen? Are you going to put the bandages back on?"

His warm smile was kind and gentle. He said, "I think it's best to leave them off since the st.i.tches will be coming out soon. Let them air off a bit." He chuckled.

I tried to smile back.

When the doctor was finished with my examination, he sat down in the rolling chair and wrote in my chart. Naturally, I was curious. I tried to look at what he was writing. He laughed when he looked up and caught me peeking.

"Don't worry, Kristen. I'm not writing anything terrible. Everything I just told you is what I'm writing in here." He was so warm when he spoke. "Okay, Kristen Elliott. If you are not here in Bent Creek in two weeks, when it's time to take those st.i.tches out, I'm going to see to it that you get back here to see me. And don't worry, because it won't hurt taking them out as much as it did putting them in."

"I guess I was lucky. I was sleeping the whole time," I told him. I let out a snicker.

Dr. Mitsen didn't find it funny. He ignored my sick humor and opened the door to leave. He said goodbye and left so that I could get dressed. After I was dressed, I walked back out to the front where Dr. Pelchat was waiting. Dr. Pelchat was reading over my chart.

"Two more weeks in those chains," he said. "Don't worry, Kristen. Two weeks will go by as fast as the past four weeks has for you."

CHAPTER 43.

Friday was exactly four weeks to the day since I had taken the pills and had cut my wrists. Four weeks ago, I had almost died.

I opened my eyes and saw the sun shining through the windows. Ms. Mosley never failed. I looked at my bare wrists. No bandages. I held them up to the sunlight. Then I pressed my arms to my chest and kept them there, as if I was hugging them. I closed my eyes and let the sunshine warm me.

Ms. Mosley crept into the room. I heard her shoes squeak on the floor. I opened my eyes and saw her standing at the foot of my bed. I sat up.

"Are you ready?" she asked me.

I nodded and got out of bed. I tried to gather my things for my bath quietly. I didn't want Mena to wake up and see Ms. Mosley helping me. I could hear all of her smart remarks in my head. She would shove it in my face as much as she could, and as loud as possible.

"So, how did it go with the doctor?" Ms. Mosley asked.

"The doctor said two more weeks," I told her.

I knew she could have read about it in my chart. She was trying to make conversation because of the awkward silence while she helped me clean up. After I was drying off, she put the treatment for my st.i.tches on my wrists. The smell was strong.

I thought back to the day I had woken up in the hospital. I'd had no idea where I was, or that I had been asleep for a week. From looking at my st.i.tches, I couldn't really tell that I had done that much damage. I had waited so long to look at what I had done. Now that the bandages were off, I had no choice. When I looked down, it didn't really feel like the wrists I was looking at were mine.

"How long have the st.i.tches been in?" she asked as I started to dress.

I frowned, remembering how angry I had been when I had woken up. How angry I had been at Dr. Cuvo! He had only been doing his job, trying to help me. I had been so harsh in the beginning. I had been asleep for a whole week before I realized that I was still alive.

"It's been a month," I told her.

"Seems like a long time?" she asked as she stared down at my wrists. She looked like she wanted to touch them. I wouldn't have minded, but she didn't.

"No," I honestly replied. "It doesn't seem that long ago at all."