I guess when you truly love someone, you must be ready to lose them all over again. That's been the story of my life. Literally!
But nobody ever says what happens next. Do you find another love, or remain fixated on the past. Truth be told, I was kinda in between; do I keep loving, or move on?

Loving felt so lonely, and forging ahead had its bulging sack of guilt. It was like being frozen in limbo of constant regrets, pains, and countless decisions I knew I was never gonna act on. And darling its always the same, when you get overridden with emotions, and all you feel is emptiness and loneliness. You get a little time to yourself and all you have is thoughts, thinkings that fuels your current state: Anger, depression, fear, sadness, and every festering negative emotions. And upon all these, you make decisions: "I'm gonna do this... I'm gonna do that....", and then when it all dies down, you feel stupid and very reluctant to carry out those emotion fed decisions. So stupid! Humans literally make themselves emotional fools, and slaves to their very own guilt and pain.
Unfortunately, I was no different.

I wasn't ready to give up my love though, so I thought "... why don't I use it?", and that's how I took advantage of it, I turned it into a tool to birth the future, a future from the few decisions I had chosen. Bad or right, those choices were mine, and I was never gonna let any person, steal them away from me, ever.
See folks, life will always be a bitch, and if you don't take advantage of the little gift she has, you could be lost for good. The decision to fight your past, and look to the future, is entirely up to you, don't let some circumstances dictate who you are, and who you should be, not even your skin color, and definitely not even fate.

And there I was, about to kick fate in the nuts and say... "You don't own me", the second he braced through those doors, in his deep blue uniform, hanging from neck to ankle. He looked so innocent and stern, like he came to do a favor to an uncooperative child: strict and friendly. It sickened me out. And I needed to turn that beautiful smile, into a frown immediately, or create an emotional imbalance in three minutes.

"What day is it?"
I remember giving the analogue timer sitting at the head of the bed –just below the huge boldly red written four number digits, was the date –a quick glance.

"Why do I feel today is special?"
I thought after seeing the date. There was a twenty four, with a dot and then a twelve, another black dot before the remaining two digits for the year, and the date was something I normally looked forward to, but I sat on my bed confused, unsure of what I did spend the time for. I think I remembered what day it was, but I didn't want to reminisce on my happy past.

I snapped the thoughts of anything sappy out of my mind, to concentrate on the task at hand. All I had at hand to escape was just an already straightened paper clip, and the cap of a ballpoint pen.

"I need to use the bathroom right away."
He was about five feet away from the door the second I turned around from the clock, and without haste I yanked myself from the bed and launched straight for him before he could make another step.

My plan was in motion, and every little detail involved was just too critical to be messed up.

I needed to steal something off him, and distracting him was paramount for that.

From the tray he held I saw what I needed. He only came to administer a sedative, so basically what he had on him was simple enough for the task: a syringe with a cocked needle, the tiny bottle of injection, and for precaution, a distilled water which he never uses, and I needed it.
Both bottles were similar, same mass and size, with each content as transparent as a clear flowing spring. The only thing distinct was the names on the label.

The label. That just brought back some memories. I once struggled with a mother in a mall, over the last pack of juice box on the counter. It was hilarious. Typical black mama show down, with their kids chanting "Juice box" from behind. Twas like watching an MMA or Smack down of two black women over one item on the grocery list. Weird right? Its always a fight to the death. The last mama standing wins. It starts with the rigid western cowboy distance stare, as we hold tightly the straps of our handbags, and slowly pull out our sheathed weapons: The grocery list. The bloodthirsty stares we give, makes the spectators faint in awe. It was too late, nothing could stop the show down, not even the mall securities. Slaves to our masters, in a Colosseum as gladiators, bound by our honor as mothers, we rocked the world in our ferocity and love. And we raced to the counter. First to snatch it and put it in a cart, wins.

I can never plan a show down like that with Steve. His name was Steve, the slim metal on his right chest pocket told me. There's no way I'd go toe-to-toe with this veteran attendant. He was an Australian, his thick almost exotic accent gave a hint, in alliance to his golden-brown hair, his straight long face, encamping a perfectly chiseled jaw bone, evenly accentuating his bulging chest muscles  which threatened to rip through his clothes. Everything about him silently screamed his nationality, but the fierceness in his eyes spoke differently. I was more than certain he once fought in a war somewhere, probably in either Afghanistan or Iraq. Steven was the first barricade I had to overcome, and I needed to do it smartly.
So, as I rushed at him, I forcefully bumped into his body, causing him to fall as I did, and so did the silver tray he held. I had successfully tackled a human being, although cowardly, but who's judging? I'm certain wrestlers have a term for it: running in full might, crashing your shoulder into your opponents, and stealing the split second he stumbles a bit, to support the action with a quick jab from your foot to his ankle, causing him to completely lose balance, and fall. I'm sure wrestlemania have something like that in one of their attack lectures. And to make it a more convincing accident, I had to fall too as he did. We both landed together, and it did hurt a bit, but to imagine his own share of pain, was like trying to fly with a feather, when he's got wings.

"What is wrong with you?"
He quickly sprinted up, ignored the pain, and rushed for the spilled items.

"I'm so sorry, I am really pressed and couldn't contain my muscles any longer."
My face was drowning in so much remorse, that he couldn't see the smirk underneath.

"Let's get going, before you spray those amber liquids over me next time."
He was very agitated as he swiped the keycard under the sensor, sending the door to the other end.
"Quickly!"
He called for me as he gestured to the door.

Again, I rushed for the door, and fell again, just slightly over the metallic frame of the door. He ran for me, to help me up, as I wince and growl in pain, and like a little brat, I jetted my legs in between his, and crashed it into one of the pair, causing them to split wider apart, creating an imbalance, which forces him to fall again.

I took the chance to place the already stretched paper clip over the left end corner of the door frame, jerked up immediately, and went to help him gather his things once more.

"I'm still whoosy from all the sleep."
I chuckled in embarrassment.

"That's it, no more bathroom for you."
He ordered in rage. I'm sure it was the pain getting to his head.

"But I really need to go."
I defended, as I picked up a bottle, and safely hid most of its surface within my fingers, and still offered it to him

"I said, no more!"
He swiped the little piece of bottle from my hands.
"Its not like you'd even feel the urges to pee after this."
Me muttered softly, making certain that I couldn't hear him.

I had him how I wanted it, but he was just too blind, stupid and overly confident to even notice it.

He immediately sent the needle through the rubber crown of the bottle he got off me, and ran it into my skin, pressed in the head of the injection nozzle, and I had every liquid he had extracted flowing inside me.

"Wha- what's th-that?" I stuttered.
"I really –" I yawned. "– I have to... I need to... to use the bathroom!"
My eyes were heavy, head spinning, feet weakening, and I couldn't fight to stay sober anymore. I dropped into his arms, and he carried me over to the bed.

I didn't notice when he left the room, but before then, everything was set.
I was certainly going into the book of records as the first woman, to escape an asylum with only a paper clip, a pen's cap, and my wits, on a Christmas eve.
When they remember Naomi, they'd say the smart black woman, who fought to protect her rights, or they might say something even nastier. White people drama.

The next step was in motion, it would be dangerous, but I'd still manage to kick it off. All I needed to do, was just open my eyes, and start.