I toss and turn in this bed that isn’t mine, the sheets scratching my skin, the blankets barely keeping me warm. I’m tempted to ask for another blanket, but then the staff will know that I’m not asleep, which will be seen as a “regression” in my treatment. Which means a longer stay. Which means a higher chance of being Wiped.

So I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep when the night nurses come in and check on me, to make sure I’m not dying or trying to, but I would never do that. A suicide attempt would for sure mean being Wiped. And I am not trying to get Wiped.

My parents never understood the idea that some people’s brains work differently than theirs, that mine made me really sad and nervous all the time. They just couldn’t fathom the idea that maybe their “perfect” daughter isn’t like that. That maybe there are some things about me that aren’t exactly what they want.

So that’s how I ended up here, Braeden’s Center for Psychiatric Care. The “best” mental health treatment center in the world, according to my parents. And this is because of one special treatment method that no one else has, Wiping. Removing all memories but basic human functions, walking, talking, eating, etc in attempts to remove whatever trigger event that may have incited whatever is “wrong” with you.

It’s an incredibly risky procedure, but no one really knows what happens in the operating room besides that whenever someone comes out, they’re a new person. But a lot of people don’t come out, and if they do, they don’t know their name, who their family is, not even the most recent thing that happened to them before.

Thank God Wiping isn’t the first resort when you come to Braedon’s. Since it’s so risky, it’s used as a last resort, when they feel that there is truly no hope left for you. When in reality, people have gone on for such a long time being successful with treatment approaches like exposure or group therapy. But Dr. Braedon, the head of the Wiping department, doesn’t understand that. He thinks that Wiping is truly what’s best for the patient.

They’re also engineering medications that are supposed to numb all emotions, then patients are taught how to feel happiness.

I’ve been here three weeks, and I’ve been threatened with Wiping exactly four times. Apparently, the doctors threaten Wiping a lot more than they actually do it, hoping that a scare tactic might just be the cure.

***

“Good morning, Jeanine,” Dr. Webber says, adjusting her glasses on the crook of her crooked nose.

I fidget in my chair, picking at the seam of my shirt. “Morning,” I whisper, letting my brown ringlet curls fall into my face.

“How did you sleep last night?” she asks, pulling out her notepad.

“Fine,” I lie. “Slept through the night.”

“Good, good.” She writes something down with her pen on her notepad.

“I’ve been feeling better, as well,” I lie, again. “Happy.”

Dr. Webber looks up, and makes eye contact with me, then sighs. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure if I believe you. About either of the statements that you just made. For one, you’ve been falling asleep in groups regularly. A sign of fatigue and a lack of sleep. And, you’ve barely been eating. Barely been getting out of bed unless you’re required to. Both of those are signs that your depression has worsened.”

“Worsened?” I exclaim. “You think I’m worse than when I came in?”

Dr. Webber eyes me and takes a note.

She does have a point, though. No food looks appetizing, no activities seem to have any benefit more than staying in bed all day. I’ve been dreadfully tired for like, ever, and I’m sadder than I’ve ever been. But she doesn’t need to know that. Tears come into my eyes, and I feel one fall down my cheek. Is she going to have me Wiped? Is she going to send me somewhere else where they can actually help me?

“We’d like to have your parents come in. I’ll speak to them before you do, make sure that they know the expectations and limitations to what they can say to you. They would like to be involved in the next steps, and ultimately have the final decision on what we do next.”

My parents? The ones who sent me to this hell on earth? Why would they want to be involved? They basically sent me away, okay with the idea that I might come back not remembering them. How could they just waltz in here and pretend like they love me and make all the decisions that will affect my life?

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, quietly. “Do they have to come?”

“You’ve never shared any dislike for your parents. Is there anything you would like to share, Jeanine?”

“No.”

“Very well then.”

***

My roommate, Paula was Wiped six days ago, and spends her time humming senseless tunes to herself in bed. Using the lever on the back of the bed to go up and down. Trying to do anything to occupy her time. The only reason she’s still here is to make sure there were no complications from the procedure. Then she’s free to go. Free to go back to her life. Or whatever is left of it.

“Morning, morning, morning,” she says, singsongy as I return from my session with Dr. Webber. She leans against her pillow and lets the headrest go up and down, up and down. Her black bangs have grown over her eyes, so she has to tuck them behind her ears so she can see me. She’s dressed in the typical Braedon’s uniform - white t-shirt and baggy blue pants that you have to pull up every three seconds to keep them from falling down.

“Morning,” I say, slipping back into bed, wrapping my blanket around my shoulders, pulling my only comfort in this world close to my chest, my years old teddy bear that was gifted to me as a baby.

“I’m almost ready to go home, they say,” she says, looking out the window by her bed. “I can’t wait to meet my family and my friends.”

She can’t wait to meet her family and friends. She can’t wait to meet her family and friends. S h e c a n t w a i t t o m e e t h e r f a m i l y a n d f r i e n d s. Because she doesn’t know them. In her brain she never did. She can’t remember anyone who she cares about. She can’t remember… anything.

My breathing begins to quicken, I touch a hand to my chest as my breaths come out louder and louder, heavier and heavier.

“D-do you understand what they did to you, Paula?” I ask, tears threatening to fall down my face.

“They fixed me.”

“There was nothing broken about you!” I exclaim. “You were struggling, not defective!”

“I don’t remember. Maybe I was broken.”

“Of course you don’t remember, they Wiped you!”

“Wiped? What does that mean?” She looks genuinely confused. Because of course they didn’t tell her the horrible things that they did to her. They just told her that they fixed her.

“What does that mean?” she repeats. “What did they do to me?” she says, her voice quiet.

“They took your memories away,” I whisper. “They took away your identity.”

Paula looks around the room, maybe looking for an answer, or a nurse to confirm or deny what I just told her, or a nurse to take me away from her.

She brings her knees up to her chin and begins humming her nonsense tunes again, rocking back and forth. Tears stream down her face, and I want to go over and hug her, to tell her how sorry I am that this is her reality. That this is what she’s going to have to live with for the rest of her life. But, I decide that she probably wants nothing to do with me right now, so I just cover my head with my blanket and pretend that I’m somewhere else. Anywhere but here.