I scooped up another hunk and pulled the plastic back with the tip of my finger. I let it go, watching the glob land with a resounding smack, right on my supervisor. Crotch blast. I was about to fling another spoonful but he grabbed the plastic utensil out of my hand. The 'food' oozed down his hand. Disgusted, he took the tray and the spoon and walked out of the room, flinging it in the trash can. He returned with a napkin, dabbing at the blotch. There was going to be a big whitish tan mark right where he didn't want one.
“Do you want to ever get out of guarded solitary?” He spit.
“Nah, I like your company.” And with that I rolled over, staring at the wall. But in reality, I wanted out. Very, very, badly.

Without a word I was whisked out of the room and brought to an office I took to be administration.
“I don't know why you keep moving me out of my environment. I'm mentally unstable. That could disorient and/or set me off.” I said, sitting down in a chair opposite her.
“We need to make sure your records are still accurate and you are getting your proper medication.” She said briskly.
“If I cooperate can I get out of solitary?” I asked, looking at her hopefully.
“We'll see.” She said, pulling out my paperwork.
I would cooperate. I was still tired and didn't feel like coming up with anything.
“So your name is still Sophie French?”
“Yes.”
“And your mother and father are still together, living at the same adress?”
“No. My mom and dad split up a few months back and my dad blew his brains out.” I never had much respect for him, especially when he walked out on my mother.
“I see. I'm sorry.” Adults. Always thinking that I was going to be inconsolable or something.
“I'm not.”
“I'm going to skip over the obvious, such as gender and race. Those things don't change.” She smiled, and I smiled back. No use pissing off the woman who might get me bumped up.
“Okay.”
“Can you please step over here so I can get your height and weight? This is for your medication, so you get the right dosage.” She led me over to the ancient machine and fiddled with the bars at the top, you know the drill. “Five seven, one hundred and six...” She scribbled a note of that and stuck it on the papers.
“And what is your diagnosis exactly?”
“I have depression, slight psychotic tendencies, anxiety, and anger problems. Don't know the big word term for that one.”
“And what medications are you taking?”
I went through the list for her, and we followed down the list. Allergies, and other things. I mentioned my issue with blood, how it made me nauseous.
“Thank you Sophie.” She said, and whispered something to the guard stationed behind me.
He led me to another room, and left me by myself. One small step for me, well that was just a one way thing. No big step for anyone else.

Again, I slept without issue. I woke up when two big guards brought me to a room with glass walls. The sun shone through and warmed my pale skin. I smiled, stretching my neck out to get maximum coverage. There was a circle of people sitting in folding chairs with the doctor I had given a hard time to leading. Group therapy, my arch nemesis. They sat me down in one of the chairs and I noticed I was the only one not wearing actual clothes and instantly felt weird. The hospital gown was short, halfway or more up my thighs. Not to mention the fact that I didn't have any underclothes on. I still wasn't allowed any.