And then Cathy had discovered the waste pipe – just in case she didn’t get out. It was suspended from the ceiling, in a side room off towards the laundry. The room was used to store the simple wooden chairs when space was needed in the group therapy room for twirling around like fucking fairies – dance therapy (with a pit faced, chunk of a woman who resembled a puck – both in the mythical sense and the small, fat inanimate object). Cathy fantasised about taking one of the chairs, that she now sat on, tying the piss stained, bed sheet around her neck, flinging the other end around that glorious waste pipe and kicking the chair over. How’s that for group therapy? It was only a pity she wouldn’t be around to see bitch nurses gaping face hole.
Cathy had said this last part out loud again. Vow of silence unwillingly and temporarily broken: another side effect of her all-consuming troubled mind. Cathy blamed the drugs. A couple of the women nudged each other and sniggered, as if their presence here was not an integral part in keeping this sad circle of the demented dysfunctioning. Others were unaware that Cathy had even uttered a word, heavily medicated and dribbling thick, fizzing spit down their braless cleavages, lost in their resident, private torment. Cathy knew that she was nothing like this lot because when you’re truly one hundred percent stark raving, you’ve no awareness of it.
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