Suicide Hotline Butterfly [ch5]
Candice woke up confused and terrified in the night, searching the bed beside her frantically for something that was familiar. She found her stuffed black bunny from home. She pulled it by the ear across the bed to her. She was against the wall, looking out into the darkness of the room; she didn't ask for a nightlight like she should have nor did she turn her bathroom light on. Candice crawled out of the bed and held her arms out at her side as she tried to not only not run into anything or fall, but be quiet. She made it to the dim light coming from beneath the door and found the knob.
It was quiet other than the rain falling outside. She could feel the cold coming from the floor. Pacing in front of the sliding back door, she wanted to shake her nightmares and go back to bed before Toby were to hear her or get up and find out she was up being a pansy. Putting her hand against the glass of the door startled her even as she was expecting the cold. Something moved outside
Suicide Hotline Butterfly [ch4]
She made it outside. The toothbrush must have worked, she thought. I carved my way out of there. She looked around. The large marshy land surrounding St. Christina hospital should have felt like relief and freedom, but they didn't for some reason. The thing she had planned to do when getting out of the psych ward was to collect her belongings and start walking – the last passing months would have been a convenient time to have been more sociable. She didn't really feel like collecting anything though. It didn't seem to matter. She felt the wind and spun slowly to look around the fields. She couldn't tell what time of day it was – the sky was gray and the clouds parted slightly to show the white light shining through. It reflected on the shallow water in the tall grass. It was beautiful, but she felt afraid. Something had gone horribly wrong and she couldn't remember what.
Candice couldn't see the hospital. This looked exactly like the area where the hospital was l
Suicide Hotline Butterfly [ch3]
Standing in the hallway, Candice had just finished her blood-pressure check and received her morning medication. Candice had borrowed some red lip-gloss from a female patient who had been there for two weeks, as well as finally giving into that patient’s urging to allow her to put mascara on Candice.
“Please,” she said, her brown ponytail pulled back tight. She was probably a bit younger than Candice but certainly thought Candice was a teenager. “You’re normal and I’m bored; no one else talks to me or lets me put makeup on them, they just yell at me.” Candice smiled.
“Fine. I don’t usually let people touch me…but there are no mirrors in here and I’m going to trust you.” The girl smiled back and spent five quick minutes very close to Candice’s face before they were called for medicine.
“Thanks,” the girl said, putting away her makeup.
“Thank you,” Candice replied. The girl wi
Suicide Hotline Butterfly [ch2]
“Where do you work besides the hospital?” asked Candice, sitting once again in Dr. Thibodaux’s office, wearing the same thing she had the day before, without the protective blue sweater, and feeling rather hungry from skipping breakfast; it just wasn't edible.
“Good morning to you, too. I work several jobs,” Dr. Thibodaux said, turning around from his laptop to look at Candice, closing it. The time had not started yet for their session and he was reading an online crime article. The font was too small for Candice to read. He wore a gray sweatshirt over what Candice imagined to be the same thing as yesterday. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it didn't matter. Why do I care?
“Being a psychologist isn't a low-paying job, so why?”
“Two of my jobs are psychology related, and the other is fishing, particularly for catfish. I sell a bit. It’s kind of on-and-off again…” Candice nodded and eyed the large black bible on D
Suicide Hotline Butterfly [ch1]
Candice blinked hard waking up underneath the florescent light of the hospital she was suddenly in. She had blacked out in the ambulance and she felt the stinging ache on her thigh – the reason she was there. It had been bandaged and doctored, she was sure. Not yet changed into hospital garments - those ugly paper gowns - Candice was still in her short pink night-shirt and her long blonde hair was tied to the side. I don't remember calling them, she thought. The last thing I remember was throwing her phone and watching the blood pool around her thigh from the slices she had made herself. She had been in her room alone; she was on the phone with her best friend, if you could call him a friend, Daniel, and she was having...trouble...
She heard a nurse scurry by the curtains. She collected herself and tried to remember what had happened.
“I feel nothing,” she had said into the phone to Daniel. “When something good happens, I just brace myself and wait for