Disequilibrium

Part 5: Denouement - Scene 8

October

The first to visit me at the institution upon arrival is Nichole. She comes on a day where the meds are working wonders on my body, so I'm especially ecstatic to see her even though I don't want to be. She looks a little different now. Happier, I guess, though it might just be the new haircut, or the expensive makeup on her face that wasn't ever there before.

She smiles when I enter the visiting room, but it's a sad kind of smile—the same type she's been giving since we were back at the park. Slender arms wrap around me in a tight hug and buckets of her perfume swallow me whole, but I let her have it. It's what she's been waiting for, after all.

"Oh, darling," she whispers, pulling away. "Your hair."

But I can't stop smiling despite that sad look in her eyes, and I know it must bother her, but I can't help it. And I can tell it's getting a bit awkward but I don't stop, so we sit down instead.

"Are you..." She looks around the room. Only one other family is there, a mother and father speaking to a girl who's only focused on her hair. "...okay here?"

I notice the heavy emphasis on okay but don't comment on it. Okay can mean many things, really. I'm feeling okay now, sure, but isn't this just the work of the medications? Am I really okay? Or is this all just a lie?

"They gave me these pills," I tell her. "I forgot what they're called. I've been having a rough time sleeping and coping so they gave them to me and now I feel great. And it's not so bad, really. I get my own room, at least, and they're kind of nicer here than they would've been if I got life, you know?"

She frowns. "You're not acting like yourself."

"Did you ever really know who I was, anyway?"

Nichole looks down at her hands right when I say that, and I know I should feel bad but I don't. Instead, I drum my fingers on the table to a beat that's not playing, my leg shaking like a jackhammer and my head rolling back and forth, left to right. I'm itching to get up and just run, run run—to burn this energy bouncing around in my system, but I know I can't. And her, well, she's too slow for me right now. Too damn slow.

"Aren't you going to ask?" I say after a while, which makes her look up.

"Ask what?"

"Why I killed him. How it felt, maybe. How I did it. You know, the stuff everyone else wants to know." I lean closer to her, and I can tell I'm scaring her a little by her expression. "Did it hurt you when you found out? Did you cry?"

She stares at me for a while, dumbstruck, before her eyes shift from me and go to anything that can distract her from what's happening right now. But I don't back down, and I keep staring and staring until she can't take it anymore.

"I wasn't all that surprised, to be honest."

"No?"

"No. The thought was always in the back of my mind that you might do something like that, but I kept telling myself that it was irrational, and you were just a kid who needed help and once you got it, you'd be okay. But seeing you here like this is making me think—" she stops and rubs her forehead instead. "I don't blame you for what happened, Holden. You just needed help, that's all. And he kept pushing it back."

It's kind of pissing me off now, to be honest, the way everyone thinks I'm in need of something. But did I ever ask for it? Did I ever plead for it? They've all put their ideas on me, pushing me towards what they think is best. But what about me?

What about me?

"I've got some of your stuff here," Nichole says, leaning down to pick up a covered box lying at her feet. "It's not much. The landlord was about to throw it away, but I requested for it. It's just books and some clothes you might need. I figured you might want some things to keep you busy—"

Her voice cracks for a moment and she stops, still staring at the lid of the box. She runs a delicate hand over it, pauses, then slides it across the table. "If you need anything, anything at all, just call me. I'll leave my number with the guys over here." She looks up at that moment, eyes glossy with tears that don't fall. "I want to take care of you now, Holden. Better than anyone ever did."

I don't know what it is about what she said that sets me off, but suddenly I can't stand looking at her face anymore. There's this unexplainable feeling rolling in me, churning, and not even the pills can help stop it. And in that moment, I start hating her more than I ever did during that Christmas dinner or the time she told me she was going away. She hasn't done anything to deserve it, and I know that, but I can't get it to quit. I really can't.

So I look away and get up suddenly, grabbing the box and hugging it close to my chest. "Thanks for the stuff," I tell her, still ignoring her eyes. "But I think I'm going to go to my room now."

"Holden, wait—"

"I'm ready to go now," I say, and she finally backs down when I look at her. Her expression is hurt, and I know I should feel bad about it, but I don't.

"I'll visit again," she says instead. "Soon. I won't leave you alone here."

I don't realise just how much she's changed until she says that. The old Nichole probably would've kept silent, maybe even shed a few tears, but the one sitting before me doesn't do any of that stuff. Instead she matches my stare, keeps her back straight, and waits for me to say something back. But I don't. I can't. I only manage a single nod, swallow, then continue gripping the box close to me as I follow the guard out of there.