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Dream On
"I am
color blind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside
I am ready, I am ready, I am ready, I am fine"
~Counting Crows "Color Blind"~
I itch. Oh God I itch everywhere. Something they
gave me, I think. Something to make me be quiet, to make me stop screaming
for justice in this hellhole. I've been here a month and a half, and I'm
no closer to getting out than that first day when they drugged me and
threw me aside.
My hands scratch my forehead, where the itch is
the worst. Must have been the vicoden. Stupid fuck-ups. They should have
asked if I was allergic to anything. No, my family should have told them.
I find out, two days ago, that it was my family that put me here. My dear
sister came and visited me for the first time and dropped that bomb on me.
Told me some shit about everyone being worried about me. What the fuck
for? It's not like they cared when my whole life was blown to pieces.
The door opens and I turn to see my friend, a
girl named Cassia, stumble into the room. They drug her a lot too. They
caught onto the throwing up pretty quick and started using needles for
her. Poor chit.
"Hey Fairyboy. What's new on the medicine chart
for you?"
I laugh at her nickname. "Vicoden my dear Mulder.
For the headache I got last night from banging my head on the door, then
from the chair that fucked up shit head broke over my back yesterday. Can
barely walk."
I can see the gears in her head clicking. I
fought for her honor yesterday and she hasn't even thanked me. "Yeah, that
was a pretty wicked fight you two had. All for little old me." She talks
like she has all the time in the world, drawn out, slow, and slightly
slurred. That's not her fault.
We sit in silence, much as we've done together
for the last three weeks. The TV is just as loud as ever, though the room
around us seems quieter. Four patients/prisoners are sick with the flu and
are in confinement. The rest of us just mill about. Maybe I could write a
movie about life in the mental ward. I smile grimly as I think of the
mental ward movies already out there. Better not ruin that sacred place.
I start slightly as I remember what month it is.
December. Just a year ago, I was in London for ROTK, attending the premier
with Atti on my arm and the cast, my friends, around me supporting me. How
things change when some psycho twelve year old kills your best friend and
your girlfriend just because you're famous. A tear drips from my eye. I
wipe it away. I've spent far too long thinking of Atti and Meg already in
this goddamned place.
I turn to Mulder. "So, we've been here for days
and you still haven't told me why you're here."
She's morose and quietly picking at her
fingernails. "Someone tried to kill me, but everyone thinks that I tried
to kill myself. But I didn't you see. It was them. They're going to kill
me one of these days and I won't be surprised."
"Hmmm, sounds interesting."
"Yeah."
Awkward pause.
"Why are you here?"
"I killed my best friend."
"Sounds interesting."
"Yeah, bloody interesting."
Someone across the room screams out my name. It's
the god damned head nurse, you know, 'She-Who-Is-An-Eternal-Bitch'. She
screams something about therapy time and I glance at the clock. Sure
enough it's 4:00. Time to go. I stand and smile down at the woman sitting
in front of me. "I'll see ya later Mulder. Don't let anyone get to you
while I'm gone."
She nods. "See ya later Fairyboy. Don't tell them
anything about me, okay?"
!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!
"Mr. Bloom, it was reported that you got into a
fight with another patient last night."
"Yeah, and?"
"That type of behavior isn't tolerated in this
institution."
"What are you going to do? Kick me out? Poison me
with more drugs? Kill me?" I glare a little harder at my therapist, trying
to drive the barb home. She doesn't seem intimidated in the least.
"No, I'm recommending that you spend a week in
solitary, then a week with insulin shock therapy. This destructive
behavior has to stop."
I stand quickly, as I often have in this office.
"You can not fucking do that to me! You know I'm sane. I wasn't trying to
hurt him; I was trying to defend my friend. You can't throw me in that
hole for caring about another person!"
Now, she cracks. Her eyes grow slightly wider,
and I can see a tiny fear in those blue depths as she witnesses my
resolute explanation. "You were defending someone?"
"Yes. A patient tried to get a bit too frisky
with another patient, who happens to be my only friend in this place, and
I decided that this wasn't acceptable."
"Got too frisky? You mean cop a feel? Where was
the orderly during all of this."
"Laughing, and watching us fight. I think they
were taking bets until I broke the fucker's nose." I smile bitterly at the
memory of crunching cartilage that must have echoed in his head.
"That sounds plausible. I keep telling them that
we need new orderlies, but they don't listen to me."
"Poor little you."
"Hey, I'm agreeing with you, you don't have to
insult me." I lower my head at her comment. She's right, of course.
Fucking bitch. "Fine, then I change my recommendation for you to be put in
solitary confinement for three days and intensified therapy. We need to
fix these issues you have Orlando. The sooner you're healthy again, the
sooner you can leave. All you have to do is try."
I know she's right. Fuck, I knew she was right
the moment she opened her mouth. I don't want to think about it though.
Damn, I need a cigarette. Weeks, and not one puff. What I wouldn't give .
. .
"Let's start for today Orlando. How are you
feeling?"
I stop my train of thought and just look at her.
How am I feeling? "I feel like an animal that's been trapped and tortured
all because it had the misfortune to wander into the wrong yard. I feel a
sense of helplessness that could only come with complete loss of control.
I feel like I need a smoke and that the only thing in the world that could
help me was if Atti were here. He'd get me out in twenty seconds. You
people wouldn't stand a chance."
She leans forward, her ears picking up every word
as she frantically writes on her little pad. This is the first time she's
ever had a little pad, and she should be glad. That's the most I've given
her the whole time I've been here.
"You said a name. Atti. Who is Atti?"
Why the fuck did I open my mouth?
"Atti is- was my best friend. His real name was
Andre Schneider, but his little sister couldn't say Andre. All she could
get out was Atti." My voice cracks at the thought of Moni. Monique is such
a special little girl in my life. Nearly 12 and all grown up.
"What happened to Atti Orlando? Why is he no
longer your best friend?"
I grow distant as the sounds of shouting and
running feet explode around me, and I'm transported back to the park in
London when that psycho pulled a gun on him . . . and on Meg. God, I was
going to ask her to marry me. We were going to be happy. It's all gone
now. "A fan shot him three times in the chest, before turning the gun on
my girlfriend and killing her too. All to prove her love to me. What a
fucked up world we live in."
She stopped writing, and flipped back through my
file. "It doesn't say anything about the shootings in your file. Is there
a reason for that?"
I look up at her, tears blotting my eyes. "I
asked them not to put anything about either of them in there. It's only
been a few months."
Handing me a Kleenex, she flips back and starts
to scribble again. It hurts like a bitch to hear the name Meg. Such a
simple, elegant, beautiful name. To go with a simple, elegant, beautiful
woman.
"I think we can stop with that today. I've pushed
you pretty hard, and I apologize. We'll talk again tomorrow."
I'm led back to my room, told to pack a few
things, then led down to Solitary. I pass Cassia on the way. She smiles
before the orderly leading her yanks on her straight jacket and she falls
back in step behind him. I hear her hum a few bars to a song I barely
remember, but could never forget. It was Meg's favorite song.
"Everything's gonna be alright. Everything's
gonna be okay."
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