She could fuck you up. In the worst kind of ways. Even when you're the one they all say shouldn't be here, that there's nothing wrong with your head. You know different.
Lisa, though — there's something about her. You're not sure quite what it is that draws you to her, but there's definitely something.
It's not sex. At least, you don't think so. You like guys. You know that much about yourself, that you're not a dyke like Cynthia. (Sometimes you think that that's why she's here, because she's into fucking women instead of men and that isn't cool with the people out there.)
They all talk about free love out there in the real world, but when it really comes down to it, that's got just as many boundaries and boxes and lines drawn as sex had before. You get called promiscuous for the least little thing, unless you're a guy.
If you were a guy, nobody would care that you slept with three guys in your time at this place. That you nearly had sex with an orderly. Well, no - they'd care if you were a homo, but if you were a guy sleeping with girls, it's considered normal.
That's fucked up all by itself.
Lisa, though. There's just something about her. She'd break you if she got the chance, she doesn't care about anything or anyone and she lets everyone know that, but she doesn't speak out about it. She doesn't protest her cause. She doesn't care enough to do that. But sometimes you think she might care what people think of her, on the inside where she'll never let it out, like a cancer growing in her chest until she goes to claw it out with her nails.
Those long, sharp, fascinating nails. You saw the welts she'd left on the nurse who tried to subdue her during her last meltdown. Red raw, like her nails would be if she hadn't lost her last bottle of nail polish in her last trade for a smoke. But they're yellowing from the cigarettes. Nobody tells her that they look awful. She could probably see it herself if she stopped for long enough to take a good look.
You could do with some weed to smoke, but that's one thing you still can't get in here. Shame.
The high from what you can get is nowhere near as good as getting stoned on your own bed with a guy.
They won't let you near them anymore. The guys here. They want you to be done with the place, but they don't want you to have any fun.
Lisa's got a plan, her eyes have been gleaming with it for days, but you don't know what it is.
You hope it's fun — but maybe not anything crazy.
You're not sure you ever were crazy, anyway.