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Dream On
"Hey you
pale and sickly child
You're death and living reconciled,
Been walking home a crooked mile."
~ Depeche Mode "Dream on" ~
The door closed loudly. The final gate in my own
personal hell slammed behind me and the darkness overtook me. What the
hell am I doing here? Why the fuck am I here?
These questions have no answers except those
perhaps the therapists and the fucking psychiatrists can provide. They say
I'm crazy. They say I have issues and I'm a danger to myself. Well, fuck
them. I can deal with it. I've always dealt with it. Dealt with the whole
fucking world.
But, that doesn't get me out of here. That
doesn't keep anyone from saying, "Sorry Orli old boy. You're bloody nuts
and you're going into the loony bin for good! Good riddance." Poor old me
they whisper behind me, like I can't hear. Well, fuck them all.
"Mr. Bloom, please take a seat." I snarl at the
woman who is to be my 'savior'. This woman is going to make me sane again?
Well, good luck for her. She repeats her command and I oblige her this.
It's probably the only thing she'll ever get from me. Her smile is a kind
response and I have to shake myself to remember that she's one of the
bastards that put me in here.
"My name is Dr. Michael and I'll be you
psychiatrist while you're staying with us. Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah, when the fuck can I go home?"
"Now Mr. Bloom, only you can decide that. When
you can join the rest of the world and when you're sound of mind and body
again, you can leave."
I stood quickly at her condescending tone. She
glances hastily at a corner in the room before she controls her momentary
fear. What the fuck is she afraid of anyway? It's not like I could hurt
another human. I'm not that fucked. I follow her gaze. There's a video
camera in the corner. They're watching this as we speak. Great. Just
fucking great. "I feel fine now. I want to go the hell home."
"Please sit back down Mr. Bloom."
I sigh, defeated for now. I haven't the strength
to fight for something right now. All I have is my righteous indignation.
And that won't get me too far.
"We don't think you're ready."
"But you just said that I could leave when I
decided and I've decided that I want to go home now." She's running
circles with her speech and it's confusing the hell out of me and when I
get confused, I get angry.
"Yes, I know, but let's just wait a bit all
right? You'll go home, I promise, just not right now."
I accept this for now. I know I won't get very
far anyway. Damn them all to hell.
The good doctor closes our session and I'm
hustled off to the 'community' room by a large guard person who is
referred to as an orderly. Orderly my ass, this guy is big enough to be a
Roman gladiator. And that is scary. That is very scary for a 5'11" 145
pound man who eats too little and drinks too much. Speaking of drinking, I
could go for some scotch right about now. Or perhaps just some straight
vodka. The thought makes my head hurt. It's yet another result of my over
indulgence.
The 'community' room is quiet at this hour. It's
almost seven at night, and all but a few are at dinner. Those who stay are
quick eaters or anorexics who are fed through a tube. What a charming
thought.
I'm sat in front of a TV and the orderly lumbers
away. I glare after him, then sway a bit. The medication they gave me is
starting to kick in. Damned drugs, always making me tired or slow or
stupid. Yet another over indulgence. Maybe I should have listened to my
friends and stayed on the straight and narrow. Less fun, more safe. What
the fuck is your problem anyway Bloom? Have you no self respect? Oh yes,
it was bleached then shaved then killed. You remember now, right?
I think of Atti suddenly. He's been to one of
these fucking places a few times. How did he last? Did they poke him and
prod him too? Poor Atti. Why did he have to die? Why the fuck did I give
him that bad shit? Why the fuck-
~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~
Old wounds hurt the most when they're re-opened.
I am well versed in this matter. Very well versed. So many have died and
so many come back to say, "Here I am old boy. Here is your future. You're
going to end up dead, like me, or worse. Much much worse because you're a
fuck-up." Sometimes, I just want to stab my brain with something sharp and
narrow. Of course, they don't have those types of things here.
I learned that on day three when I begged for a
simple pencil and paper from one of the nurses. She freaked and they put
me in a straight jacket and drugged me. What a kind woman. Very very nice,
just like the rest of these freaks here. It reminds me of 'One Flew Over
The Kookoo's Nest', only I have no plans to teach the inmates how to live.
They can do that on their own fucking time.
The head nurse calls herself Marge, but I just
know that's short for
'Evil-Heinous-Bitch-Who-Will-Forever-Torment-Orlando-Fucking-Bloom'. Yup,
that's her name and she lives up to it. On my very first day, I got a
forty minute lecture on how it is not okay to throw pillows. Pillows for
fuck's sake. It's not like anyone was using them and I needed to do
something other than space out and sit on a couch.
She had gotten me for several other 'rule
breaking incidents' over my current two week stay at the lovely high-class
Galaman Rehab and Mental Hospital. Oh yes, it was certainly high-class.
Just the other day, I saw a certain washed up Hollywood wonderboy that
looked like he hadn't eaten in a month. And then, I realized that I was
looking into a mirror. Maybe I am a crazy bastard. That damned doctor
seems to think so. She never leaves me alone. An hour a day, every day
except Saturdays and Sundays. Everyday. And she's not even hot either,
which makes it a horrid chore to deal with her.
So, it's been two weeks. No one has come to
visit, although my GOOD friend Billy did call, for about two minutes
before the bitch herself made me hang up. No one else has contacted me,
and it's getting bloody boring. Bloody Fucking God damned boring actually,
and I want out.
There's a scream in the hallway. I poke my head
out of the door, and get promptly slapped in the nose. With a cry, I fall
back and let the orderlies pull a screaming and writhing mass of human
body parts farther down the hall. New patient I assume. She screams
something about the government lying. She says she is not crazy and that
she didn't try to kill herself. The government tried to do it for her. An
orderly laughs and asks her, ' is that's all Mulder?' before shoving her
into solitary. The bars click closed on the door and the hallway falls
silent again. Poor chit. She'll never get out.
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