ReALiZe

For a long time, you didn’t think this was strange.

The tests with no answers.

The bars on the windows.

And me. The hallucination. The little shadow in the corner of your mind. Always listening. I notice everything you do, but I don’t comment. I’m too kind for that. I simply… attempt to keep track of every crime you commit. Every murder, every theft. The things you do when you aren’t sure you even did them. But I’m sure. I’m always sure.

Now you’ve been caught, and what do you do?

You scream at them.

You yell, and kick, and flail, and you grab the needle and break it before they force me away. Because I keep you… sane. On the right track. If I weren’t here, no one could tell you what happened yesterday. Or why you’re here in the first place.

You need to be here. This is your home. Our home. This padded-up room, in a building of the insane. The place everyone winds up when they can no longer tell how real I am. But listen up.

I’m real.

You’re real.

And we’re all just a bit… Mad.

 

 

ReMiNisce

Blackness. Whiteness. Redness.

My mind. My walls. Their medicine.

Those are the only things I have left. Those, and the pink-tinted bandages on my wrists. The bandages that I hide under the jackets they give me. The spotless, white, dreadfully sanitized jackets that I can never keep. I’m never permitted. I see them one day, and I wear a jacket and it holds me still and I sit and I sit until lunch, and I take it off. I eat, it goes back on, and then dinner comes and with it, there’s a new jacket. It doesn’t matter if I’ve worn it before because now it’s clean and bleached and won’t be mine ever again.

Click. Laugh. Scribble.

A shot. A joke. The notes.

God, their terrible notes. They never show them to me. But I know what they say, down to the last apostrophe. “Improving. Inconsistent coherency.” The usual. The psychiatrist, he tells me what it says every time I visit. Asks me why I don’t just explain. It’s not that simple. Never is. I can’t just explain. Can’t drop the wall I’ve built, not on command. That fine barrier that keeps me from having to care. But that wall, it has a second purpose. It’s there to shield me from the darkness. It keeps me from falling in and having to face my shadow and his traitorous, murderous thoughts.

Trip. Stumble. Fall.

Careening into the place I wish I never had to see again. The place I call the abyss, stuck with my shadow surrounding me, whispering false truths in my ears at every corner, where I’m more vulnerable than anywhere else.

Others call it an Asylum.
 

 

AnALYZe

• October 23, 2015

Though continually showing signs of improvement, it seems as though the patient is only learning to mask his emotions and thoughts – with increasing success. Soon, even I won’t be sure what he’s really thinking.

It’s cases like this that make me start to wonder. It used to be only occasionally, but it’s getting more frequent.

What if they’re not the insane ones? What if they’re the ones who should be saluted as heroes? They deal with these “hallucinations” – which might not even be that – and don’t ask for anything in return. What if those same “hallucinations” are actually something else entirely? If these people we believe to be treating are in fact ambassadors to a “something else” that no one can see?

What if, what if, what if. I sound like one of them… Then again, that would give me some perspective.

I’m usually wondering what’s going on behind those acid eyes of his. He never seems to hint at what he’s thinking, let alone tell me. It’s futile to continue, yet we do it anyway, waiting for that day when he’ll say something miraculous. I can’t imagine what would be worth all these years of trying. Surely not a simple sentence, a turn of phrase? It can’t possibly be worth it.

• October 24, 2015

He spoke today.

Finally.

Nothing like I was expecting, of course. It brings some sense of calm to me, that my “what-ifs” might actually prove true. He claims to have been sane for most of his time here. He had a simple request, and I accepted it. The words were few, and not really meaningful to anyone but the pair of us. But I finally know. All of that effort, for this simple morning conversation?

The quiet words were worth every second of it.

 

 

sALvAGe

“Do you feel like explaining now after that… outburst?”

No, the younger man would say, if he hadn’t refused to speak to this excuse of a doctor. The series of one-sided conversations and frustrating silences had been the only communication between the two for years.

“You know I hate having to say that you’re insane, but it’s the only choice I have.” The wording sparks something in the huddled and gray-clad patient. Words slip off the taciturn’s tongue, rendering the doctor speechless.

“I’m not insane.” His voice is melodic, almost as though he’s singing. He continues before the doctor can interrupt. “I might just be the sanest man in the looney bin.”

The statement is so out of place that the doctor has to cough to cover a laugh. The patient notices the expression anyway, a grin slipping onto his face. Suddenly, his eyes look far too old for him, and his doctor realizes, again, how young the schizophrenic is. His hair – shaggy and unkempt due to his time in the asylum – hangs loose and black by his shoulders. He tugs his sleeves down to cover hands which, like his bare feet, are scarred and calloused.

The doctor quickly remembers he should be making notes and starts scribbling furiously to catch up.

“My mind is sound. But no one knows it. That’s the only problem. He’s hidden behind the barrier along with my words, and he’s still trying.”

“Trying to make me run. To escape.” As if in response to the doctor’s sudden unease, the patient shifts.

“But I won’t let him. I’ll never let him free.” He’s no longer talking to the doctor. He’s talking to his shadow, his hallucination, his guide. Because it will always listen. Even now, locked behind that barrier of will and courage.

“Never again.”

 

 

IsoLATe

He sat as though he was worried of being burned by the floor. His feet, completely bare, were tucked against the edge of the chair, knees pressed to his chest. He stared at me as though he was a caged bird, as though I would force him through a ring of fire at any moment. And who was I to blame him, really? He’d seen nothing but hospital beds and doctors since he’d arrived here.

He looked around the room, seeming to relax, but his position was no less tense. I broke the awkward silence with a cough, and his acidic green eyes snapped back to me with rapt focus. He didn’t make a sound, only stared at me, somehow making me feel… what? Afraid? Nervous? Weak? Possibly all three.

“Would you like to talk now?” I asked, using the characteristically kind voice that was practically hard-wired into me. In response, his eyes simply narrowed into a glare.

No.

I should have known that was coming. They never wanted to talk, not at first. Nevertheless, we had an hour to fill, and fill it we would. Pulling the folder on my desk closer, I flipped it open.

“I see you’ve had quite the history. Five counts of attempted murder, two of attempted suicide – and that’s only what’s on file.” He seemed to be trying to ignore me, head turned to one side. “You have no other background that we know of.”

The tiny responses were the ones I noticed. The miniscule shake of his head, bony hands curling into fists. I continued, pretending not to notice the response, trying to coax something – anything – out of the taciturn boy.

“I might even go so far as to say you didn’t really exist until now.” That got his attention. Venom met my eyes from his, and he spoke, the only words I would hear from him for a long while.
“I was never supposed to.”

Process

A Vignette Series
By: Brittany Armstrong