Get Me Out of Here Read Online Free PDF Page B

this all into some sort of a game, I guarantee you that I'll win it. So don't even think about trying it again. Do you understand?”
    I nodded. I was numb, way too tired to fight.
    Glaring at her, I shuffled back into my room and then fell asleep, defeated, hating the night and its mind-deafening silence.

    Morning brought a new atmosphere to the ward. Different nurses appeared, and the bantering patients filled the smoking lounge once again. The ward smelled of hospital food, and I could hear the clattering of tray carts, the whir of the housekeeping vacuums, and cartoons on TV. The place was not nearly as frightening as it had been the night before, although I was still convinced I didn't belong there.
    As I pushed aside my half-eaten tray of cold pancakes, powdered eggs, and soggy bacon, the day nurse tapped me on the shoulder.
    “Rachel, Dr. Padgett is here to see you. He's the on-call psychiatrist assigned to your case.”
    Psychiatrist. My case. Reality slapped me again. I was a mental patient. It was all a mistake. I felt fine. A little upset yesterday, but today I was okay.
    I turned around to see Dr. Padgett. He was smiling broadly in almost a goofy sort of way, a slightly built man of average height. He was dressed not in a lab coat, but in a short-sleeved plaid shirt and a pair of tan Dockers. His fine, black hair was slicked straight back, and a pair of thick wire-rim glasses magnified the brown eyes behind them. He appeared neat except for an unruly mustache in dire need of a trim. He didn't look like a psychiatrist. He looked like a geek. I sized him up. He wouldn't pose a problem. A few minutes with him and I would talk my way out of this place by afternoon.

    “Small conference room” was a misnomer. It was a cubicle with barely enough room for a small, round table and two chairs. White walls. No windows. No pictures. I sat in my chair, and Dr. Padgett sat across from me. I fidgeted, deciphered the pattern of the carpet, counted the acoustic ceiling tiles. Silent. I had nothing to say to this man. He was supposed to be the psychiatrist; let him ask the questions.
    I was waiting for a barrage of open-ended inquiries. Why did I think I was there? What did I think of my mother, my father, my childhood? When I looked into the ink splotch, what did I see? I waited for him to try to get into my head, something I was convinced he would never be able to do. I wanted out. Today.
    Yet he sat there, as silently as I did, not saying a word, and seemingly content not to do so. At first I was determined to outlast him; after all, he couldn't stay there all day, could he? Soon, however, the silence became oppressive. My emotions were spinning, nearly overwhelming me. I looked up into his eyes, which were intensely focused on me. Not a stare, exactly. Nor was it a look of clinical dissection, of trying to categorize me. It was a look of genuine concern. As much as I had been determined to distance myself from the man—to control the meeting—I found myself drawn to those eyes.
    Finally, I couldn't contain my emotions.
    “I'm not supposed to be here, Dr. Padgett,” I finally told him. “I went a little overboard yesterday, maybe, but I can handle it. I just kind of went along with what the pastor at my church suggested, but I didn't realize I'd end up here. I don't need to be here. And I don't need a psychiatrist.”
    “Then why do you think you're here?”
    The words spoken in a different tone could have been authoritative, admonishing, or sarcastic. But something in the way he said them made me believe he was honestly interested in my answer.
    “I got upset yesterday. Very upset. I thought I wanted to die; I called a hotline. But I wasn't really going to do anything. I wish I had the guts, but I don't. I'm a fraud. I've never actually tried to kill myself, and I never will. The old ‘cry for help’ thing.
    “But I really don't need any help. I've got a great husband, two beautiful kids, parents who love me, lots