Convicted (Consequences)

to share this revelation with others, I guess it isn’t my place to divulge it. I just hate that I won’t be around to help her move beyond this milestone.
    I’m off to my last day. I’ve decided that I owe it to Claire to allow Emily to fire me. My husband reminded me last night that I’ve been in violation of their restraining order. I’d actually forgotten that—which is in a way comical. This whole exercise has morphed through so many phases—curiosity—investigative reporting—recognition of guilt—and finally, a deep agonizing friendship. No one will believe that I’d given up the reporting, to help Claire. At least, as I sit in jail, I’ll know the truth.
     

     
    Claire paced the trek she’d created next to her bed. Since she’d found her voice last night, she was anxious to use it. Yes, she considered speaking to some of the other people, but she was afraid. There were so many things she couldn’t recall, so many voids, and so many things that didn’t make sense. It was painfully obvious; this facility— as Meredith called it—was a mental facility. She had recollections of discussions about that. Each day, more memories surfaced. Some were clearer than others. She remembered Tony telling her that the offer of a mental facility was to protect her. Was that why she was here? Was she being protected?
    That’s why she needed to talk with Meredith. Claire’s speed increased as she walked exactly six steps one way, turned, and stepped six paces the other way. She didn’t mean to count, but behind her thoughts, concerns, questions, she heard the numbers: one, two, three, four, five, six—turn—one, two...
    There wasn’t a clock in the drab room. As she truly looked around—there was nothing. No pictures, no personal items, nothing that gave the room her personality. Claire wondered how long she’d been there... two, three, four, five, six—turn ... The only indication of time was the gray in her hair, and what did that tell her? ... five, six—turn—one ...
    Claire heard the door open. She wanted to look, but what if it wasn’t Meredith, she wasn’t prepared to speak with anyone else.
    “Hi, Claire, it’s me, Meredith.”
    She wanted to turn, but she was only on two . Claire waited until it was time to turn. That was a better time to break the cycle; however, by the time the voice behind her thoughts said turn , Meredith was talking again, “...when I got here. They told me you were all right after our late night. I think that was their way of reminding me not to do that again. They also said there’d been no changes with you.”
    Claire turned toward Meredith’s voice. She wanted to look up and see her friend’s eyes. No, she didn’t want to see Meredith’s eyes—she wanted to see Tony’s. As she forced her glance toward Meredith’s face, she saw dark blue irises. Her knees weakened. It wasn’t the dark brown she sought, but it was color! For so long, there’d been no color. Inhaling deeply, she smelled the food that Meredith had placed on the table. If she ate it fast, they could go outside. If they went outside, she could ask her questions. It was too risky talking in here.
    “Why, Claire, why haven’t they noticed any changes?”
    She didn’t answer; instead, she walked to the table, uncovered the dish, found her silverware and began eating. Each bite she took faster and faster.
    “Slow down; I can’t have you choking on my watch. I’m already on probation for our late night escapades.”
    It wasn’t funny. Claire knew she was supposed to be concerned about appearances. Following rules and behaving was essential for appearances; however, listening to Meredith talk about breaking rules made her smile. It was either that, or the blue in her eyes. All the people around the facility wore white scrubs. Well, except for Emily, the doctors, and therapists. Suddenly, more than food, Claire wanted color . Wasn’t that an odd request? Maybe that was what being crazy was all about, seeing things differently and wanting things that others didn’t realize were gone.
    When her plate was clean, Claire stood and went to the closet for her jacket. The voice that had been counting told her to look down. She knew to obey; disobeying could have negative consequences; but hadn’t Meredith just been talking about breaking rules? Shyly, Claire lifted her eyes. There was Meredith watching her. Before she could stop it, her lips morphed into a smile—the rush was intoxicating.