A Double Murder Suicide

High-fiving in handcuffs is surprisingly hard. 

I’d know, since that's what I just tried to do as my best friend and I were shepherded from the hospital into the backs of two separate cop cars. Apparently, a murder-suicide is harder than I thought, especially a double. I know this case is gonna be easy for me, seeing as I’m schizophrenic. Technically. 

In all honesty, I’ve got nothing wrong with my mind, besides being a bit psycho. But, according to a document that the police found conveniently laying on the counter of the crime scene, I had it and it allowed me to plead insanity in court. My uncle, who would proudly display his certificate of insanity right next to his graduation certificate for his doctorate, easily wrote up the required notes and all I have to do is occasionally pretend to see things that aren’t there and talk to air like it’s a person. Easy peasy. 

Problem is, my best friend doesn’t have that. The note or schizophrenia. The good thing is, we’re being shipped off to a psych ward. Kinda hard to rot in jail when you’re handcuffed to a bed, right? That’s the clever part of murder-suicide. Since we’re still teenagers, we get admitted to the psych ward, one because of the suicide attempt, two because, according to my equally crazy uncle, I’m insane. 

I smile as we bump along towards the police station, because apparently we have to take mug shots and stuff before being admitted. Though, Officer Fat-Head over here assures me I’ll be in the psych ward as soon as possible. I wiggle around a bit, trying to un-squish my arms from their uncomfortable place cinched behind my back. I see Officer Fat-Head give me an exasperated look in the rearview mirror, tired of telling me not to move. Bonus points for the fact that the bandages on my wrists covering the stitches make the handcuffs less painful. We pull in the police station and I’m roughly grabbed out of the car. Affecting a confused look on my face, I stare at the air beside and slightly behind Officer Fat-Head, keeping up with my claim of schizophrenia. 

“What?” I ask the air. 

Officer Fat-Head glances at what I appear to be talking to, but obviously sees nothing. 

“What do you want?” I snap at the apparent hallucination, causing Officer Fat-Head to pull me away and mutter something about “crazy people” and “psych ward.”

We enter the station and I’m taken to a large wall with a covering that displays heights. I’m told to stand in front of it and face the camera. I do so, then turn to the left and right as the camera snaps pictures. After that, I’m taken to an ugly room with what looks like three holding cells. I’m sat on a bench and told to remove my socks and shoes. I pull them off and Officer Fat-Head searches them before returning them. Another officer walks in and Officer Fat-Head looks relieved. 

“Book him. He’s just gotta wait until his buddy gets booked and then they’re getting shipped to the psych ward.” 

The other officer nods briefly, then proceeds to pat me down, searching me for things I shouldn’t have. Naturally, I don’t have any and I’m placed in one of the cells to wait for Hunter. I sit on the wildly uncomfortable bench inside and, a few minutes later, Hunter is brought in and goes through the same search I did. He looks a bit scared but then meets my eyes and smiles when I smirk at him. Yet another officer slides open my cell door and pulls me out, sounding quite happy to tell me that it was time for me to get shipped off to the psych ward. Awesome. 

On the way, Hunter and I sit side by side in the back of the cop car, riding in silence. We pull up to the psych ward, parking and walking inside. We see a family exit, faces streaked with happy tears, celebratory balloons in tow. I make eye contact with the blonde girl in the middle of the pack and see the emotions swirling behind the ocean blue eyes and I know she’s the one that’s just been released, because I have those feelings behind my eyes too. You just can’t see mine. 

“Hey Mia, got two 5585’s for you,” Hunter’s officer says to the sweet looking woman behind the front desk. 

She looks up from whatever she was doing and smiles warmly, but I catch her eyes doing a quick sweep over of me and Hunter. She doesn’t make any indications, but I know she clocked the bandages on our wrists. 

“Sure, can I get a name and background for that one?” She asks, jutting her chin at Hunter. 

“Yeah. We’ve got Hunter Brack, age 15, parents are currently in another country on vacation but are aware of his situation. He doesn’t have any psychological or medical conditions that we are aware of…” he trails off, glancing at Hunter to fill in if there was something they missed. 

Hunter shakes his head, quick and concise, telling them that there’s nothing else. 

“That’s it then. He’s being checked in as a 5585 and will remain here for the permitted 72 hours, until his parents approve or disapprove a longer stay.”

Mia nods again and turns her head to me, staring at me with oddly bright green eyes. The police officer takes the silent hint and starts in on my description. 

“Ryder Galvani, age 15, parents live nearby and are aware of his situation. According to a document found on the crime scene counter, he is schizophrenic, thereby giving him the option to plead insanity in court, etc., etc., you know the drill. Also being checked in as a 5585, waiting parental consent for a stay of more than the permitted 72 hours. Do me a favor and place them in rooms next to each other. It’ll be easier to guard the doors that way and easier for both officers to coordinate. Oh yeah, and I’ll be posting two officers outside their doors because after they’re released they’re getting booked for attempted murder suicides. Well, successful murders. Attempted suicides,” the officer says, exhaling deeply at the end of his long speech. 

Mia, surprisingly, doesn’t interrupt the whole time and just nods again at the end of the boatload of information. After briefly typing in silence, in which Hunter and I side-eye each other awkwardly, she stands up to escort us to our rooms. 

I get let into a room painted a soft blue color with a single bed that has a wooden base, the corners carefully sanded and rounded. As I look around the rest of the small room, I see that whoever designed this room managed to eliminate literally any possible thing that could be used to self harm. I walk into the bathroom which, oddly, doesn’t have a door and look around the shower. According to a sign on the wall, water wouldn’t stay in the basin for more than thirty seconds, meaning baths were out of the question. So was drowning myself. 

I flop dramatically onto the bed and sigh. This is gonna be a long seventy two hours. Or longer, depending on how crazy they think I am.