Free WHITE WALLS by Lauren Hammond

wrist, turning her hand palm up and flashes me an obscene gesture.
    I clench my jaw, shake my head, and plop down in the chair next to her. “You're nuts, you know that?”
    She laughs. “So you are you.” She sweeps her hand across the front of her like one of the pretty game show hostesses on “let's make a deal.” “Hence, why we're here among the nut jobs.”
    “I don't embrace it like you do.”
    She scoffs, “I do not embrace it.”
    I roll my eyes. “You're in denial. You know, Dr. Morrow tells me that overcoming denial is one of the first steps to aiding in recovery.”
    Aurora bends over and picks up a blue crayon. Her vibrant red curls bob up and down as she draws blue raindrops on a blank piece of paper. “Dr. Morrow is an idiot.” She starts coloring hard and the tip of her crayon snaps off. “I don't really think I'm crazy and neither are you.”
    “Sometimes, I think otherwise.” I shudder and wrap my arms around my chest. I think of the way I act at night when my dreams take over my mind and I swear I can feel my dead boyfriend lying in bed next to me. “I hallucinate a lot. That's not normal.”
    “It's not crazy either,” Aurora points out. She stares at me, her eyes narrowed. “Do you ever think you might not hallucinate if you stopped taking your meds?”
    “What?” I gasp. “I can't do that. Marjorie watches me to make sure I take them.” Plus if I don't take them, they stuff me into a straightjacket like sausage being stuffed into a skin casing.
    Aurora shifts in her seat and picks up a red crayon. “She watches me too. I still manage to not take them.” She lowers the red crayon to the paper and draws little hearts in between the raindrops. “Do you know hallucinations are a side effect?”
    My mouth falls open. “How long?”
    “How long what?”
    “How long have you not been taking your meds?”
    She shrugs still focused on the paper. “A few months, maybe. You should try it sometime. I feel like a new person now that I'm not on them.”
    A loud commotion in the corner of the room interrupts our conversation and our heads snap in the right direction at the same time, Suzette slaps a cup of her meds out of an orderlies' hand. “No!” she screams. Then she pulls her knees to her chest and starts bouncing on the sofa. Her voice drops down a level and she chants, “I don't want them from you. I don't want them from you. I don't want them from you.”
    Aurora is up from her seat before I can stop her and she's already making her way over to Suzette. I jump up too. “Aurora, don't!” I call after her. When a patient loses their last marble it makes me nervous. I’ve seen some of the other patients get hurt during one of these fits. The last thing I want to see Aurora hurt.
    Her head snaps back to me and she shakes her head. “Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing.” This is a quality that I love most about Aurora. I've spent the last few weeks studying her and I've come to the conclusion that her snappy, yet at times hard demeanor is just a front. It's a front to hide the fact that she's vulnerable. Also caring. To me vulnerability is beautiful. It is beautiful because it means you're human. You have feelings.
      Aurora doesn't make it to Suzette in time.
    She's only a few steps away when the orderly puts his hand on Suzette's shoulder.
    After that everything falls apart and chaos ensues.
    Aurora mutters, “Shit.”
    Suzette lets out the loudest, piercing scream I've ever heard, followed by, “Don't touch me! Don't touch me!” Then she bites down on the orderlies' arm before scampering to the opposite side of the room. She huddles in the corner, trembling in fear.
    The orderly clutches his arm, grits his teeth, and forces out, “Fuck.” Then he dashes from the room.
    Aurora is at Suzette's side, whispering comforting words into her ear, sweeping her up into her arms. All of the patients in the rooms eyes are focused on Suzette, mine included.
    This is the first