I awaken in a room with no color. A small room with walls made of concrete blocks painted an ugly shiny beige. I am on a cot. Across the narrow room, a big steel door with a small window reveals that someone is outside. I shuffle to the door and pull the handle. The door is locked. I knock on glass. The person on the outside is wearing a uniform, a policewoman. She turns around to look at me, but does not open the door. I bang the glass. I am weak. Can she hear me?
The officer opens the door.
"Where am I?"
"Stop knocking on the window." She shuts the door.
The badge on her arm says something, something juvenile detention center.
"Wait!" I scream. "You've made a terrible mistake!"
She scowls at me.
"I'm not the kind of person who belongs here!"
The officer walks away.
"They made a mistake," I say quietly.
I go back to the cot and rest my head on a blanket. I am too weak to freak out.
I am looking down at myself. At the ceiling, someone is beside me. I don't know who. Far below, my body is in a bed and it is unconscious. But I am not unconscious. I am here, above, awake.
At the ceiling, I feel peaceful, wise. I gaze at myself below. I appear sickly. I feel a deep sadness for the person on the bed. The person is me.
The person below stirs. There is panic. She pulls.
I go back.
I hear a siren. Lights too bright. Bed is bouncing. Someone holds a plastic mask over my face. I am in an ambulance.
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A Glass of Crazy Page 32