Cort
Apple Head
Golden Skies
The grating sound of growled lyrics thumped steadily throughout the concert hall. Jasmine watched as her nearly empty beer bottle danced atop the bar, rattled to life by the music. She’d never heard of the band before, and didn’t like them now. She had no idea what the singer was growling, only that it sounded like a voice from hell.
Jasmine turned slowly, looking out over the crowd. Hot, sweaty bodies crashed together in time with the guitar riffs. The room was a wave of black rock t-shirts and low-rise jeans. An occasional flash of color caught her eye, some pink hair or a piercing glinting in the low light. She stood, woozy at first, moving closer to the crowd. Most of the men had hair as long as the women, making her task more difficult. She turned back to the bar and she saw him. Thin and pale, he was standing at the far end of the bar, cigarette in hand. She ordered a shot of tequila, just enough to calm her nerves. With the heat rising in her, she walked slowly to maintain her balance.
“Hi, I’m Jasmine,” she said with a drunken slur.
“Hi, my name is Brian,” he smiled back. Within two minutes they were kissing passionately, and in another ten minutes they were in his car. It was an awkward, silent drive. Jasmine read the street signs as best her dulled mind would allow, trying to in vain to determine where she was going.
They arrived at a shabby looking town house. The siding was peeling, and the porch sagged tiredly to the left. “You have to keep it down, because my roommates sleep on the first floor,” Brian said, pulling into the driveway. He stalled at the front door, nervously fumbling with his keys. Jasmine would have laughed if her own body wasn’t trembling anxiously.
The interior of the house was less impressive than the outside. Hard wood floors were strewn with dirty clothes and empty food containers. A mid-sized TV sat on a table, surrounded by chairs in an otherwise barren living room.
“We just moved in a few weeks ago,” he explained.
“It’s nice,” she lied. They stood in the living room silently for a few moments. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Brian.”
“Well Brian, are we going to do it or not?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah!” My bedroom is upstairs, just let me get all the stuff out of the way!” he said, running ahead of her. Jasmine swallowed hard, looking at the stairs in front of her. She stepped up and swayed violently, bracing herself against the wall. She wasn’t sure if it was the nervousness or the alcohol making her legs feel like noodles. Regaining her composure, she managed to make it up the stairs. Her heart roared in her ears, giving her a moment of silent thought. Once you enter that room, there’s no way to stop this, a voice warned her. She shook her head, grimly realizing that it had been too late the moment she’d left her house. Jasmine entered the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
A few hours later, she awoke, terrified. The room was black, save for a digital clock whose crimson numbers read 4:22. She always left her hall light on because the total darkness frightened her, but she quickly remembered that she wasn’t at home. To her left, Brian snored loudly. She stood, wrapping a blanket around herself. What are you doing, the voice asked. You already fucked him. Still, she dragged the sheet with her, fumbling through the dark hallway to find the bathroom.
After relieving herself, she turned to flush, catching a glimpse of the used condom still floating in the bowl. Bile rushed up her throat suddenly, and she dropped to her knees and stuck her face in the toilet. As she vomited, the putrid mix of bodily fluids splashed back into her face. Dazed and weak, she allowed the sheet to drop to the floor, and she curled up on it. She wanted to rest, just for a few moments.
* * *
“Hello?” a knock came at the door. Jasmine was still fidgeting with the controls of the bed, trying to adjust it to see the TV. “Jasmine, it’s Dr. Roberts, may I come in?”
“Sure,” she said, finally finding an angle where the sun didn’t hit her.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. Jasmine hated hospitals and doctors, but she really liked Dr. Roberts. He reminded her of her father.
“I feel fine doc, thanks for everything. So when are you going to let me out of here?”
“Soon, we’re just waiting on some paperwork. In the meantime, there’s someone I want you to meet. This is Dr. Rita Rosando, and she’s going to spend a few minutes talking with you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” She would have done anything Dr. Roberts asked. His resemblance to her father was uncanny. They even sounded similar.
“Como estas, Jasmine? Yo soy Rita, y voy estar hablando contigo por varios minutos, okay?”
“Okay, but I speak English,” Jasmine hesitated.
“I apologize. Would you please state your full name?”
“Jasmine Maria Fontanez.”
“That’s a beautiful name. Your age?”
“19.”
“Okay. Your ethnicity?”
“Other.”
Rita looked up from her clipboard. Jasmine‘s dark, curly hair and golden-tanned skin gave her away faster than her accent. “You don’t have to worry, this information will be kept confidential,” she assured her.
“I know. Other.”
“All right…Do you know why you’re here?”
“The doctor said I had acute alcohol poisoning.”
“That’s right. Your blood alcohol level was at .25, more than three times the legal limit.”
“Really?” Jasmine said, surprised. “I didn’t know I drank that much.”
“The police report said that you were found naked, passed out on a bathroom floor.”
“Police report? What are you talking about?”
“The gentleman that found you, Jeff Hagel, called 911. That’s how you got here.”
“Jeff? Who the hell is Jeff?” Jasmine wondered allowed. “Oh, that must have been one of that guy’s roommates.”
“Who is ‘that guy’?” Rita asked.
“Um…what’s his name…Brian. Yeah, Brian. That’s who I was there with.”
“I see. The doctors checked you for signs of sexual assault, but when they talked to Brian he said it was consensual. Is that true?”
“Wait, why are you asking me all these questions? What kind of doctor are you?” Jasmine demanded.
“I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Were you going to tell me that?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
“You seemed to be opening up well, and frankly, I didn’t want to scare you.” Rita said.
“Well, I don’t have anything else to say.”
“Please Jasmine, at least answer this last question, because the police want to know. In fact, why don’t you tell me what happened from the beginning.”
“All right, but I’m only doing this because I don’t want Brian to get in trouble. He seems nice enough.”
“That’s fine.”
“All right, let’s see…I left the house around 8:30...stopped by a bar, had a few drinks…went to a rock show and I met Brian there…we went back to his place and fooled around…then I threw up. That’s all I remember.”
“When you said ‘fooled around’, you mean that you and Brian had sexual intercourse?” Rita asked.
“Yes.”
“So it was consensual?”
“Yes,” Jasmine sighed. She started playing with the bed again, as the sun had moved directly into her eyes. On the television she could see an infomercial about some cooking device. She decided that Rita’s questions were mildly more entertaining than that.
“Do you often engage in this type of behavior?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you usually drink until you pass out?”
“I’ve done it a few times, but not usually.”
“Do you usually have isolated sexual encounters?”
“Not with complete strangers, no. That was my first time doing that,” she said.
“I see. These questions aren’t for the police anymore, they’re for my notes. I see you’ve been to several therapists in the past,” Rita said.
“So?”
“Repeated risky behaviors are common for people with depression, but you never stayed with any or your past therapists long enough for them to make a complete diagnosis.”
Jasmine’s mood changed quickly, and she glared angrily at Rita. “What did you say?”
“Oh, I said that repetitive risky behaviors are-”
“I heard you damn it!” Jasmine snapped. “I meant what are you trying to say about me?”
“I’ll get straight to it: based on your past medical history and your behavior yesterday, I think you may have depression,” Rita said.
“What? So I like to drink. And so what if I fucked a stranger? That doesn’t make me crazy, unless a lot of other people are crazy too!”
“Jasmine, I’m not calling you crazy. I think you have a medical condition that needs treatment.”
“Look Rita, I’m not crazy, and I’m not depressed. All right? And those other doctors don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. My mother made me go to those fucking appointments, I didn’t want to be there. That’s why I seemed depressed!”
“Why did she make you go?”
“Because she thought that I needed someone to talk to after her and my father split. I swear, I thought she was just trying to get me out of the house so that she could be alone with Jose,” Jasmine said angrily.
“And who is Jose?”
“My mother’s boyfriend, the bastard.”
“So your mother made you go to all of those therapy sessions without asking you?”
“Yup. Well no, not exactly. I did go twice by myself.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Here’s a better question: why am I still here? I feel fine, can I leave?”
“Dr. Roberts already said they’re waiting on some paperwork, so you’re not going anywhere just yet. In the meantime, I think we’re doing well, but you can stop if you want. We can just sit here and look at each other,” Rita explained.
Jasmine looked out the window. They were midway up in the building, and she had a clear view of the city that sprawled outward. The roads and sidewalks all led somewhere else, away from the whitewashed walls and constant beeping monitors. They led back to her life, and Jasmine didn’t want to be there anymore than she wanted to be in that room with a shrink. She eyed Rita suspiciously, then sighed. “Well, if I’m going to be here anyway.”
“I’m glad you changed your mind. Now tell me why you decided to go to therapy on your own.”
“The first time was a week after Jose moved in and hit me for the first time. He nearly broke my jaw because he said I’d disrespected him. I told my mother that I didn’t want her dating him because I found dirty needles in the bathroom. She told him, and he punched me in the mouth. And she just stood there and watched! That night, I said to myself that I was either going to kill him or myself. So I went to therapy the next day.”
“And the second time?”
“I went after my father died. That was the closest I came to actually killing myself.”
“Why?”
Jasmine looked away, wiping her eyes quickly. “Because I wanted to go with him.”
“Where do you think he is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t believe in God or heaven. But ever since he died, I’ve been having this dream. I’m sitting in my bedroom, and the sun is pouring through the window. I look out, and my father is waving and smiling, calling me to come down. I can’t go down the stairs, because my mother and Jose are in the living room. So I jump out the window, and just before I hit the ground he catches me in his strong, warm arms. Then, suddenly he shoots into the air, carrying me! I can smell flowers and the trees on the crisp air as it rushes past us. I look up, and the sun is huge in the sky, giving everything a gold glow. Below us, people are smiling and waving at us. I ask him how he learned how to fly, and he says, ‘It’s not that hard, you can do it. You just have to let go.’ Then he drops me, and I panic, but instead of falling I’m floating too! I turn towards him, and he’s gone, but it doesn’t bother me. I just keep going, soaring high above everyone else through those beautiful golden skies.”
“That sounds lovely,” Rita smiled.
“I hate that dream,” Jasmine said. “Because when I wake up, it’s to my dark, cold room, and usually to the sound of Jose screaming at my mother. I can’t see the sun in my house, because a dark, ugly cloud hangs over it. I do anything to get away from that house, but I feel worse because I realize that the cloud isn’t over the house, it’s over me. Wherever I go, it’s there. So I drink and drink until I can’t see it, or anything else. And then I end up in bed with a guy because I think it’ll make me feel better to get off. I’ve fucked some of my friends just because I didn’t want to go home that night. Then they tell everyone, and everyone else wants to fuck me too. They think I’m their ‘good-time girl’. Every time I wake up in some guy’s bed, every time I wake up with a hangover, every time I wake up to the sound of Jose and my mother arguing, every time I wake up period, that cloud seems a little bigger and a little darker and I know that someday it’s gonna consume me. Is that what you wanted to hear? Do you see why I’m a little reckless? A little upset? Maybe a little depressed? Why do I give a fuck what happens to me? It can’t be worse than what I deal with everyday.”
Rita was visibly shaken, and struggled to find something positive to say. “Jasmine, I…yo no se…”
“Jasmine?” Dr. Roberts opened the door slowly. “All your paperwork is in order. You’re free to leave.”
“Doctor, are you sure you have all of her paperwork?” Rita asked, looking at him urgently.
“Hm? Oh! Uh, let me double check-”
“Stop right there, Dr. Roberts,” Jasmine said in a tone she would have never used with her father. “I knew you guys were just trapping me in here with this paperwork crap, but unless you’re going to give me a magic little pill to make the world look like rainbows and unicorns, this therapy session is over.”
Dr. Roberts looked at Rita apologetically. “Very well, young lady. When you’re dressed, you can go. Your mother had already signed the discharge papers.”
“My mother?” Jasmine yelled. “What’s she doing here?”
“Go ahead, Dr. Roberts, I’ll handle this,” Rita said, ushering him out. “Jasmine, you were unconscious when you came in. We had to notify someone, and Brian declined to be here when you were discharged.”
“Figures,” Jasmine smiled bitterly. “I don’t want to see my mother.”
“I understand that, but you need to go home and rest. Here, take my card. You may not believe me, but you did very well today,” Rita assured her.
“Then why do I still feel like shit?” she asked, pulling her shirt over her head.
“It will take more than one session before you feel better. I really think you are depressed, but if you call me, I promise I’ll do my best to help you. I came to you today, the next move is yours. Agreed?” Jasmine was still wary, but she nodded in agreement. “Ay, negrita, things will get better, I promise.” Rita said, giving her a long hug before leaving. Jasmine stared at the card for a moment and walled towards the garbage can. She stopped short though, and jammed the card into her pocket.
Jasmine opened the door slowly, scanning the hallway carefully. Between the shuffle of nurses and patients, she spotted a thin, pretty woman with short hair standing next to a husky, balding man. She snorted in disgust. Her mother was there, and she’d brought him along. Jasmine snuck out quickly, darting across to the back stair well. She thought she’d heard her mother’s voice, but she ignored it as she dialed a number into her cell phone.
“Hello, Stacy? It’s Jasmine. Yeah, yeah. Look, can I crash at your place for a few days? Thanks. What? A rock show tonight? Yeah, I’m free. What time?”
The grating sound of growled lyrics thumped steadily throughout the concert hall. Jasmine watched as her nearly empty beer bottle danced atop the bar, rattled to life by the music. She’d never heard of the band before, and didn’t like them now. She had no idea what the singer was growling, only that it sounded like a voice from hell.
Jasmine turned slowly, looking out over the crowd. Hot, sweaty bodies crashed together in time with the guitar riffs. The room was a wave of black rock t-shirts and low-rise jeans. An occasional flash of color caught her eye, some pink hair or a piercing glinting in the low light. She stood, woozy at first, moving closer to the crowd. Most of the men had hair as long as the women, making her task more difficult. She turned back to the bar and she saw him. Thin and pale, he was standing at the far end of the bar, cigarette in hand. She ordered a shot of tequila, just enough to calm her nerves. With the heat rising in her, she walked slowly to maintain her balance.
“Hi, I’m Jasmine,” she said with a drunken slur.
“Hi, my name is Brian,” he smiled back. Within two minutes they were kissing passionately, and in another ten minutes they were in his car. It was an awkward, silent drive. Jasmine read the street signs as best her dulled mind would allow, trying to in vain to determine where she was going.
They arrived at a shabby looking town house. The siding was peeling, and the porch sagged tiredly to the left. “You have to keep it down, because my roommates sleep on the first floor,” Brian said, pulling into the driveway. He stalled at the front door, nervously fumbling with his keys. Jasmine would have laughed if her own body wasn’t trembling anxiously.
The interior of the house was less impressive than the outside. Hard wood floors were strewn with dirty clothes and empty food containers. A mid-sized TV sat on a table, surrounded by chairs in an otherwise barren living room.
“We just moved in a few weeks ago,” he explained.
“It’s nice,” she lied. They stood in the living room silently for a few moments. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Brian.”
“Well Brian, are we going to do it or not?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah!” My bedroom is upstairs, just let me get all the stuff out of the way!” he said, running ahead of her. Jasmine swallowed hard, looking at the stairs in front of her. She stepped up and swayed violently, bracing herself against the wall. She wasn’t sure if it was the nervousness or the alcohol making her legs feel like noodles. Regaining her composure, she managed to make it up the stairs. Her heart roared in her ears, giving her a moment of silent thought. Once you enter that room, there’s no way to stop this, a voice warned her. She shook her head, grimly realizing that it had been too late the moment she’d left her house. Jasmine entered the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
A few hours later, she awoke, terrified. The room was black, save for a digital clock whose crimson numbers read 4:22. She always left her hall light on because the total darkness frightened her, but she quickly remembered that she wasn’t at home. To her left, Brian snored loudly. She stood, wrapping a blanket around herself. What are you doing, the voice asked. You already fucked him. Still, she dragged the sheet with her, fumbling through the dark hallway to find the bathroom.
After relieving herself, she turned to flush, catching a glimpse of the used condom still floating in the bowl. Bile rushed up her throat suddenly, and she dropped to her knees and stuck her face in the toilet. As she vomited, the putrid mix of bodily fluids splashed back into her face. Dazed and weak, she allowed the sheet to drop to the floor, and she curled up on it. She wanted to rest, just for a few moments.
* * *
“Hello?” a knock came at the door. Jasmine was still fidgeting with the controls of the bed, trying to adjust it to see the TV. “Jasmine, it’s Dr. Roberts, may I come in?”
“Sure,” she said, finally finding an angle where the sun didn’t hit her.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. Jasmine hated hospitals and doctors, but she really liked Dr. Roberts. He reminded her of her father.
“I feel fine doc, thanks for everything. So when are you going to let me out of here?”
“Soon, we’re just waiting on some paperwork. In the meantime, there’s someone I want you to meet. This is Dr. Rita Rosando, and she’s going to spend a few minutes talking with you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” She would have done anything Dr. Roberts asked. His resemblance to her father was uncanny. They even sounded similar.
“Como estas, Jasmine? Yo soy Rita, y voy estar hablando contigo por varios minutos, okay?”
“Okay, but I speak English,” Jasmine hesitated.
“I apologize. Would you please state your full name?”
“Jasmine Maria Fontanez.”
“That’s a beautiful name. Your age?”
“19.”
“Okay. Your ethnicity?”
“Other.”
Rita looked up from her clipboard. Jasmine‘s dark, curly hair and golden-tanned skin gave her away faster than her accent. “You don’t have to worry, this information will be kept confidential,” she assured her.
“I know. Other.”
“All right…Do you know why you’re here?”
“The doctor said I had acute alcohol poisoning.”
“That’s right. Your blood alcohol level was at .25, more than three times the legal limit.”
“Really?” Jasmine said, surprised. “I didn’t know I drank that much.”
“The police report said that you were found naked, passed out on a bathroom floor.”
“Police report? What are you talking about?”
“The gentleman that found you, Jeff Hagel, called 911. That’s how you got here.”
“Jeff? Who the hell is Jeff?” Jasmine wondered allowed. “Oh, that must have been one of that guy’s roommates.”
“Who is ‘that guy’?” Rita asked.
“Um…what’s his name…Brian. Yeah, Brian. That’s who I was there with.”
“I see. The doctors checked you for signs of sexual assault, but when they talked to Brian he said it was consensual. Is that true?”
“Wait, why are you asking me all these questions? What kind of doctor are you?” Jasmine demanded.
“I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Were you going to tell me that?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
“You seemed to be opening up well, and frankly, I didn’t want to scare you.” Rita said.
“Well, I don’t have anything else to say.”
“Please Jasmine, at least answer this last question, because the police want to know. In fact, why don’t you tell me what happened from the beginning.”
“All right, but I’m only doing this because I don’t want Brian to get in trouble. He seems nice enough.”
“That’s fine.”
“All right, let’s see…I left the house around 8:30...stopped by a bar, had a few drinks…went to a rock show and I met Brian there…we went back to his place and fooled around…then I threw up. That’s all I remember.”
“When you said ‘fooled around’, you mean that you and Brian had sexual intercourse?” Rita asked.
“Yes.”
“So it was consensual?”
“Yes,” Jasmine sighed. She started playing with the bed again, as the sun had moved directly into her eyes. On the television she could see an infomercial about some cooking device. She decided that Rita’s questions were mildly more entertaining than that.
“Do you often engage in this type of behavior?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you usually drink until you pass out?”
“I’ve done it a few times, but not usually.”
“Do you usually have isolated sexual encounters?”
“Not with complete strangers, no. That was my first time doing that,” she said.
“I see. These questions aren’t for the police anymore, they’re for my notes. I see you’ve been to several therapists in the past,” Rita said.
“So?”
“Repeated risky behaviors are common for people with depression, but you never stayed with any or your past therapists long enough for them to make a complete diagnosis.”
Jasmine’s mood changed quickly, and she glared angrily at Rita. “What did you say?”
“Oh, I said that repetitive risky behaviors are-”
“I heard you damn it!” Jasmine snapped. “I meant what are you trying to say about me?”
“I’ll get straight to it: based on your past medical history and your behavior yesterday, I think you may have depression,” Rita said.
“What? So I like to drink. And so what if I fucked a stranger? That doesn’t make me crazy, unless a lot of other people are crazy too!”
“Jasmine, I’m not calling you crazy. I think you have a medical condition that needs treatment.”
“Look Rita, I’m not crazy, and I’m not depressed. All right? And those other doctors don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. My mother made me go to those fucking appointments, I didn’t want to be there. That’s why I seemed depressed!”
“Why did she make you go?”
“Because she thought that I needed someone to talk to after her and my father split. I swear, I thought she was just trying to get me out of the house so that she could be alone with Jose,” Jasmine said angrily.
“And who is Jose?”
“My mother’s boyfriend, the bastard.”
“So your mother made you go to all of those therapy sessions without asking you?”
“Yup. Well no, not exactly. I did go twice by myself.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Here’s a better question: why am I still here? I feel fine, can I leave?”
“Dr. Roberts already said they’re waiting on some paperwork, so you’re not going anywhere just yet. In the meantime, I think we’re doing well, but you can stop if you want. We can just sit here and look at each other,” Rita explained.
Jasmine looked out the window. They were midway up in the building, and she had a clear view of the city that sprawled outward. The roads and sidewalks all led somewhere else, away from the whitewashed walls and constant beeping monitors. They led back to her life, and Jasmine didn’t want to be there anymore than she wanted to be in that room with a shrink. She eyed Rita suspiciously, then sighed. “Well, if I’m going to be here anyway.”
“I’m glad you changed your mind. Now tell me why you decided to go to therapy on your own.”
“The first time was a week after Jose moved in and hit me for the first time. He nearly broke my jaw because he said I’d disrespected him. I told my mother that I didn’t want her dating him because I found dirty needles in the bathroom. She told him, and he punched me in the mouth. And she just stood there and watched! That night, I said to myself that I was either going to kill him or myself. So I went to therapy the next day.”
“And the second time?”
“I went after my father died. That was the closest I came to actually killing myself.”
“Why?”
Jasmine looked away, wiping her eyes quickly. “Because I wanted to go with him.”
“Where do you think he is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t believe in God or heaven. But ever since he died, I’ve been having this dream. I’m sitting in my bedroom, and the sun is pouring through the window. I look out, and my father is waving and smiling, calling me to come down. I can’t go down the stairs, because my mother and Jose are in the living room. So I jump out the window, and just before I hit the ground he catches me in his strong, warm arms. Then, suddenly he shoots into the air, carrying me! I can smell flowers and the trees on the crisp air as it rushes past us. I look up, and the sun is huge in the sky, giving everything a gold glow. Below us, people are smiling and waving at us. I ask him how he learned how to fly, and he says, ‘It’s not that hard, you can do it. You just have to let go.’ Then he drops me, and I panic, but instead of falling I’m floating too! I turn towards him, and he’s gone, but it doesn’t bother me. I just keep going, soaring high above everyone else through those beautiful golden skies.”
“That sounds lovely,” Rita smiled.
“I hate that dream,” Jasmine said. “Because when I wake up, it’s to my dark, cold room, and usually to the sound of Jose screaming at my mother. I can’t see the sun in my house, because a dark, ugly cloud hangs over it. I do anything to get away from that house, but I feel worse because I realize that the cloud isn’t over the house, it’s over me. Wherever I go, it’s there. So I drink and drink until I can’t see it, or anything else. And then I end up in bed with a guy because I think it’ll make me feel better to get off. I’ve fucked some of my friends just because I didn’t want to go home that night. Then they tell everyone, and everyone else wants to fuck me too. They think I’m their ‘good-time girl’. Every time I wake up in some guy’s bed, every time I wake up with a hangover, every time I wake up to the sound of Jose and my mother arguing, every time I wake up period, that cloud seems a little bigger and a little darker and I know that someday it’s gonna consume me. Is that what you wanted to hear? Do you see why I’m a little reckless? A little upset? Maybe a little depressed? Why do I give a fuck what happens to me? It can’t be worse than what I deal with everyday.”
Rita was visibly shaken, and struggled to find something positive to say. “Jasmine, I…yo no se…”
“Jasmine?” Dr. Roberts opened the door slowly. “All your paperwork is in order. You’re free to leave.”
“Doctor, are you sure you have all of her paperwork?” Rita asked, looking at him urgently.
“Hm? Oh! Uh, let me double check-”
“Stop right there, Dr. Roberts,” Jasmine said in a tone she would have never used with her father. “I knew you guys were just trapping me in here with this paperwork crap, but unless you’re going to give me a magic little pill to make the world look like rainbows and unicorns, this therapy session is over.”
Dr. Roberts looked at Rita apologetically. “Very well, young lady. When you’re dressed, you can go. Your mother had already signed the discharge papers.”
“My mother?” Jasmine yelled. “What’s she doing here?”
“Go ahead, Dr. Roberts, I’ll handle this,” Rita said, ushering him out. “Jasmine, you were unconscious when you came in. We had to notify someone, and Brian declined to be here when you were discharged.”
“Figures,” Jasmine smiled bitterly. “I don’t want to see my mother.”
“I understand that, but you need to go home and rest. Here, take my card. You may not believe me, but you did very well today,” Rita assured her.
“Then why do I still feel like shit?” she asked, pulling her shirt over her head.
“It will take more than one session before you feel better. I really think you are depressed, but if you call me, I promise I’ll do my best to help you. I came to you today, the next move is yours. Agreed?” Jasmine was still wary, but she nodded in agreement. “Ay, negrita, things will get better, I promise.” Rita said, giving her a long hug before leaving. Jasmine stared at the card for a moment and walled towards the garbage can. She stopped short though, and jammed the card into her pocket.
Jasmine opened the door slowly, scanning the hallway carefully. Between the shuffle of nurses and patients, she spotted a thin, pretty woman with short hair standing next to a husky, balding man. She snorted in disgust. Her mother was there, and she’d brought him along. Jasmine snuck out quickly, darting across to the back stair well. She thought she’d heard her mother’s voice, but she ignored it as she dialed a number into her cell phone.
“Hello, Stacy? It’s Jasmine. Yeah, yeah. Look, can I crash at your place for a few days? Thanks. What? A rock show tonight? Yeah, I’m free. What time?”
