The Finer Points of Becoming Machine Read Free

cup. I have a little blue pill and a slightly larger white pill in my paper cup.
    ‘What is this?’ I ask the nurse.
    She curtly responds to me. ‘Your medicine.’
    ‘Yeah, I got that. What kind?’
    This stocky, ruddy, un-pretty middle-aged nurse who is giving the opiates to the masses looks up at me. Like I am deaf or stupid, she repeats herself. ‘YOUR MEDICINE.’
    Ricky is behind me and whispers to me quickly. ‘Just take it, or she’ll call a code on you, and you don’t want that.’
    I take his advice, and swallow the medication with the tepid cup of what tastes like toilet water. I stick my tongue out and they check to make sure I took them.
    An orderly comes in and unlocks a big plastic bin and passes out colouring books and crayons. I scoff. I colour the angel picture they gave me to colour in with the darkest crayons in the box. I colour her wings black. Then I draw blood dripping down them, just to upset people. ‘How the HELL is this supposed to make me better?’ I think to myself.
    A bell rings and we put the books and crayons away. We go to lunch. We are supposed to write in our journals before evening therapy but I don’t do it. I think it’sstupid. Not as stupid as the crappy colouring books and the cheap, shitty crayons they gave us to colour the pictures with, but still completely retarded and pointless. Besides, where would I even begin?

CHAPTER 3
My first journal
    December??
    I know it’s December, but I don’t know what day it is. How can I know
when there are no calendars around the place? Perhaps they think that if we never know what the date is we won’t excite ourselves by looking forward to things like birthdays or holidays. This place is stupid and lame. I really don’t know how this godforsaken journal is supposed to do anything, and I really don’t know what the hell you expect me to write. Your food sucks ass, it’s too damned cold in here, and it would be nice if I had a mattress that wasn’t blood-covered . Also, perhaps you’re not aware
of this, but these clothes don’t fit me and it would be nice if I had some that did. All in all, I’m having a miserable time. Screw you.
    Dr X looks at me with a frozen stare that leaves me genuinely afraid. There is an uncomfortable silence. I wish he’d just yell at me or something, not just stare at me. The haughty demeanour I walked in with fades under his icy gaze.
    ‘Perhaps you didn’t understand the directions Emma.’ I pick at nothing on my pants.
    ‘You said to write about my feelings. So that’s what I did.’
    ‘The directions were to write about your feelings, yes. These are complaints. Secondly, you are supposed to write at least a page a day, half a page in the morning and the evening at the minimum.’
    Dr X drops the journal on the desk in front of him and distastefully pushes itback towards me. ‘You’re not trying Emma. I suggest you start.’
    His words thinly conceal an open-ended threat that I might find myself having to stay in this shit hole. I pick up the journal and leave. I go and sit back in the main room and listen to all the other patients talk about nothing important at all. I am growing more and more irritated. I’ve focused in on the sound and it grows louder in my head, like the buzzing of bees.
    I am afraid I’m going to do something horrible, I can see myself screaming at all of them about their stupid, meaningless lives and I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m gasping for air when finally group therapy is called and everyone shuts the hell up. The buzzing stops. I can breathe again.
    I cross my arms and scowl at every single person while they talk. I make goals for myself in here to keep myself entertained. Today I have decided to practise staring at people until they feel uncomfortable.
    My game is interrupted by Dr X’s voice. ‘Is there a problem Emma?’
    I flinch at the sound. Everyone stares at me. Now I feel uncomfortable. ‘No.’
    He waits for a minute and then looks at the