Now Playing: American Honey

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The guard watched a brunette female officer click the handcuffs around my wrists. She and I were facing each other, with her back to the door and mine to the wall adjacent to the hospital bed. His hands were clasped in front of his pants, and his feet were spread shoulder-length apart.

She didn't speak to me other than waking me up and asking for my name, yelling the question over and over before my eyes could adjust to the overhead light.

The guard escorted us out through the back doors, and when I looked behind myself, I saw his hand near his gun. He had a stern expression, and even she wasn't approachable. By the time we got to her cruiser, my wrists were chafed, and my fingers slowly lost feeling around the nails.

"Watch your head," she told me, but she rushed the warning out like she didn't want to say anything. She placed her hand on my head, nudging me into the backseat and shutting the door between us before I could look at her again.

When we finally left the hospital grounds, all I could do was think.

I thought about Jay, how I didn't want to see him again, and how I felt betrayed by him talking to my parents. Their attitudes toward me didn't come as a shock, because if I'd known they were coming, I would've expected it. Claire was different, though. She walked in like a disappointed parent, but really, I could tell she was afraid. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but I wondered if she grew a bond toward me that was stronger and separate from the other girls.

She caressed my hair and looked me in the eyes with the same warmth she had when I cried on my birthday. I cried that night, after spending the best day of my life surrounded by love, because I knew it was no different than the sandcastles we built: it would be wiped into a memory. Those people weren't my family, but they gave me what my real ones didn't.

I kept a roll of photos from that trip and many others that followed, but my favorite was of Kristin burying her feet in the sand. She'd lost her tooth hours before but smiled like nothing happened, ignoring the gap in the top front row.

The officer turned the radio on, then sifted through channels while glancing between the road and the stations buzzing past. She passed on pop, hip-hop, and R&B with the same scowl, but when she found a country song she liked, her face lit up.

I had to listen to American Honey for what felt like an hour. My throat began to hurt, then behind my eyes and around my head. My eyes burned like someone was chopping onions, and my head throbbed like when my ponytail was too tight.

That song, though unfamiliar, reminded me of the songs I'd hear on Hannah Montana.

The show aired months after they buried Kristin, and I was at a point where I couldn't enjoy anything we once did or could've done. I was pouring a bowl of cereal when the pilot episode came on in the living room. Lauren was sitting in Dad's recliner, and I tried to get her to move before he came home and realized a child-sized dent was in his cushion, but she refused.

We argued; I was pulling her, and then I heard the opening scene. Miley Cyrus performed This is the Life and captivated us with her voice and the media production. She wore jeans, a jacket, a shirt and shades. A simple outfit only she could make as chic as we thought it was. Other than in my parents' closets, I'd never seen bell bottoms as often, but hers were different. Hers were low-rise and tight-fitting. She hardly wore accessories but solidified herself as Lauren's fashion icon until the last episode aired. She was even Lauren's age.

As the years passed, more teen-centric shows took over what was once a shared experience. I had the mornings, and she had the afternoons to watch her cartoons. Drake and Josh ended, and iCarly took over. I would be in bed during my depressive lows, and I'd hear that annoying laugh track from the living room. My mom got her a TV after I complained enough, which only worsened things.

I dumped water on the back of her TV, and, to this day, she doesn't know.

After an hour, we made it to a place called Greenwich Institute. The building reminded me of those two-story houses turned into businesses, with its masonry and perfect hedges. The lawn was trimmed so far down and was so green that I would've thought it was fake. That should've been my first red flag.

Two men in white were standing on the porch. The gloves, masks, caps, scrubs, and sneakers only gave me pieces of skin to identify them. One had pale skin and thin, blonde arm hair; the other had dark brown skin and thick, black arm hair.

The pale-skinned one's nametag said Isaac, and the brown-skinned man's tag said Devon. Isaac walked toward my door when she parked in front of the steps, and he opened the door for me. Before my feet could settle, I looked around, and he shut the door behind me. I saw butterflies in the distance and birds chirping. I could smell pot roast far into the building, and I felt the gravel shift and crunch as he walked me toward the porch.

Devon nodded, greeting me despite his cold demeanor. My heart was pounding before he opened the door for us, and when I saw the foyer's wood floor, my stomach twisted in knots. I fought back tears and vomit. I suppressed the urge to scream and run. I got goosebumps when the door slammed behind us, trapping me in my new life.

"You must be Helen." I whipped my head toward the long mahogany stairs to our right, and my eyes climbed the steps until they met a pair of approaching legs in beige slacks and black heels. "It's so nice to put a face with the name."

I looked into her dark brown eyes, but despite her endearing, red-lipped smile, something felt off about her. Her hair was in a sock bun, like the officer that drove me there. She had a mole just below the corner of her lower lip and a long scar from the corner of her eyebrow down to the side of her nose.

She extended her aged hand, and I glanced at her red nails and diamond ring.

"Oh!" She laughed, placing that hand on her black blouse's stomach. "I do this every time; you'd think by now I'd remember you people can't shake my hand." I watched the crow's feet flash as she squinted with laughter, but I didn't even crack a smile. For weeks, I went without a shower. I couldn't brush my teeth, and I hadn't been on my medication because it wouldn't mix well with what they gave me. I wasn't as angry as I could've been, but the more she laughed and smiled, the tighter my stomach twisted. "Where's Devon?"

"He's grabbing her belongings, I believe." She nodded, then crossed her arms.

"Okay, well, welcome to Greenwich, Helen," she said in a motherly tone that felt like nails against a chalkboard. "My name is Lou Anderson. I'll see to it that you get adjusted here. Have you eaten yet?"