26.
Madness
Days crawl by slowly when imprisoned. In the psychiatric hospital, there is nothing much to do besides watch sadly generic day time television shows, take medication, and have my vitals checked every hour by a bevy of different nurses. No point in mindless chitchat with any of these people or bother trying to convince any one of them of my sanity. Those here neither care nor had the power to grant my freedom.
I would describe the general flavor of the place as bottled hostility. No one, including the employees, wants to be here. Everything I eat or drink leaves a metallic taste in my mouth.
A man in the rec room yelled and threw a chair at me the other day for no apparent reason. What the hell are you looking at? He asked before picking up the chair and screaming at top volume.
I didn’t even flinch during the entire episode, turning back to the TV as soon as the commotion was over. The man was swiftly subdued and carted off, of course. Yet here I remain, ironically, for my own safety.
I did try going outside with my fellow inmates at first, if only to feel some warmth for a little while, but found my sunlight sensitivity had only grown exponentially worse. Instead of the mild aversion I’d felt before my near-death experience, I found on my first day at the lunatic playground that I can no longer tolerate direct sunlight. Imagine what these doctors thought about that? They’re telling me that these symptoms are psychosomatic, that my delusions are somehow actually causing physical manifestations of my psychosis. My skin felt tingly when I first stepped outside, but I soon realized it was actually burning. Skin lesions formed within moments of being in the sunlight... is it possible even those were self-induced? A burning sensation, maybe, but me actually cause skin lesions?
And then there’s the cold, blueness that I live in now. The blue hue of my vision has yet to change. How to describe it? The world is now a kind of grayish blue, the exact color of nothingness, of... death. What comes with that is a feeling of coldness. Or, more accurately, the coldness just never left me after my near-death experience. If I could just warm myself in the sun for a bit, it wouldn’t be so bad, but obviously, that’s out. I so miss the sun. Had I known of this side effect beforehand, I would’ve at least liked the opportunity to enjoy one last final farewell to warmth on the beach.
I’ve slowly learned that they get even more concerned when you stop caring about having a daily routine, or giving up, as I’m fond of calling it. I’ve been off and on different suicide watches and anti-suicide strategies. I think because I’ve stopped speaking, mostly. But what is the point? No one is listening. So a deep and profound sadness has its grip on me now, a feeling of utter aloneness... so what? People aren’t allowed to occasionally just wallow in sadness anymore? In Victorian times and even the early 20th Century people were allowed weeks of recuperation for “brain fever” and nerves. Certainly these things still happen all the time. I mean, people get sad. The only problem is that now your employer will give you a day or two—at best—for an episode of brain fever. After that you’d better have a doctor’s note.
Still, no matter how much technology and society advance, people are not meant to behave as robots.
At least if I had my music...
“Please, I need my music.” Those were the last words I spoke—whispered, imploring.
“No outside music,” was the monotonic reply.
Of course—the one thing I absolutely can’t live without.
Delicacy of emotional state was definitely implied, namely mine, and I don’t appreciate being thought of as delicate. Though I must admit, for once, I actually do feel lonely. Normally I find solace and enjoyment in being alone. Now, though, without anyone to share any of my experiences with, I find it difficult to maintain objectivity.
Oh people tried to visit me in the beginning. Nicky, Simon, Gavin, Chris and my dad. Lyle even brought flowers. But it hurt too much to have them near me.
As soon as I’d finished with this thought, I heard an exaggerated “Pssst!” coming from a nearby room. I turned at the source of this new annoyance. Last time this happened a woman made a big to-do over showing me her collection of tissue ghosts. Each of them had a face drawn on it. I was thinking the faces looked kind of familiar when she pointed at one that resembled me. Aliens, I think is what she told me they were. If I had been speaking then, I would’ve told her they looked more like ghosts, and then would’ve added that her technique really left something to be desired. In my silent state, however, I’d simply turned away from her and resumed my favorite past-time of staring out the window, trying to soak up some degree of comfort and warmth through the glass. All the while thinking: How can they possibly think I am really that crazy?
Quite possibly the most depressing bit of this whole ordeal.
But in the doorway today, instead of a fellow drooling mental patient, there was on oddly dressed gentleman. I say gentleman because he was wearing what I imagine was a late 19th century suit and hat. I could be wrong about the precise era, but it certainly wasn’t from today or any time during the past 100 years. The gentleman was probably middle-aged, though he looked particularly spry.
He was motioning for me to follow him to God knows where. I had lost interest in the television program that was currently on, it seemed to be one out of several dozen such reality programs, about a group of women trying to overcome life’s obstacles by sharing a house and bitching at one another—the exact type of show I would never watch of my own volition. If I had access to any sharp instruments I would surely gouge out my eyes.
The gentleman had successfully piqued my curiosity, so I decided to take a chance and follow him. He led me down the long corridor, and at that precise moment, the orderlies were rushing toward the sound of some new disturbance. The coincidence seemed strange to me, but I wasn’t quite vested enough to give it much thought.
While I had my attention tuned to the disturbance, however, I’d lost sight of him. I kept following a logical course leading to a private room at the end of the hallway. The room had been empty for some time, I’d heard, since a number of its former occupants had ultimately succumbed to suicide. The last of which had been quite a successful business tycoon, who, again, through hearsay, I’d learned had had difficulty coping with the pressure of his success and suffered a nervous breakdown. He’d leapt to his death just one day before he was to be discharged. I guess the staff had grown superstitious about the room since then.
To my surprise, I found the room empty. My instinct had been wrong. I walked around the room anyway, just to be sure. My eye hung on a pedestal sink with an oval vanity mirror above it that was tucked in the back corner of the room. Worried as they were about any of us having access to sharp instruments, including glass, none of the other rooms I’d seen had mirrors, so I hadn’t seen one since I’d arrived here. I was drawn toward the mirror for a look inside, knowing full well that this was a very bad idea. There was something irrevocably wrong with my eyes, though, and I just had to know how they looked from the other side.
I was holding my breath, and I wouldn’t be able to exhale until I’d looked in mirror. Slowly, I could see in the mirror and.... nothing. Only my own reflection looking back at me, looking much the same as it always had, albeit a bit disheveled. But, given the strange blue hue everything in my world had taken on, it was impossible to determine exact color or shade.
As I continued to stare at my reflection, a terrible feeling came over me. A feeling of utter hopelessness, hopelessness tinged with anger, anger at feeling so helpless. Anger at having feet of clay, having dreams and visions of what I wanted to do, but in reality being powerless, utterly incapable of succeeding at anything I’d ever attempted, and the knowledge that I was forever doomed for it to be that way. Compounding that feeling was the extreme disappointment I felt at having my hopes raised by the vision of the strange gentleman and then so suddenly dashed. Of course there had been no man there. Of course I am every bit as crazy as they say. Of course I am a maladjusted
weirdo, just like Steve said.
I had to admit that what was weighing on me most heavily, though, was the larger disappointment I felt at having my hopes raised at the onset of this ridiculous adventure. I’d allowed myself to hope that things would be different, that the extraordinary was not only possible, but attainable, even for me, if I wanted it badly enough. The only thing extraordinary to me now is just how ludicrous that thought seems. Why would I have ever even imagined I was capable of anything truly extraordinary? My stupid reflection didn’t utter a word in defense and instead, stared back at me blankly, dumbly. How I hated that impotent look on my face. Without a single premeditated thought or even an ounce of hesitation, I pounded my fist into that reflection as hard as I could. It felt so good that I couldn’t stop.
The mirror was completely shattered by the time I’d finished. And despite the utter stupidity of what I’d just done, I felt a bit better, I bit relieved, but... now what? Surely someone would’ve heard the clamor, and in a few short moments, they’d be in here to drag me away. I decided to wait for it, to soak up this moment of peace, such moments being so rare to me these days. So I just stood there, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, watching the blood flowing down the drain, as shards of the shattered mirror continued to fall.
“Feel better?”
It took me a moment to realize the voice hadn’t come from my own head. I whirled toward the sound of it and found myself starting in shock at the sight of the gentleman, who was standing right behind me.
He had been waiting for me after all, remaining silent during my tantrum, waiting in this sinister room with its beautiful view of the surrounding forest.
The gentleman walked around me to the mirror, examining my handiwork. “How’d you like to get out of here?” he finally said, turning to me with his eyes sparkling, apparently at the mere thought of such mischief.
I eyed him suspiciously. “You a doctor?”
The gentleman laughed hysterically. “No, no, no. Silly girl. Where would the fun be in that be? I want to... get... you... out.” He acted out this sentence with his hands, gesturing for me, apparently, to get out. “That, for me, would be quite a lot of fun, indeed. Besides, if I were a doctor, I’d feel nothing short of obliged to treat your wounds at this very moment,” he said, gesturing to my bloodied hands, “and I feel no such obligation.”
He spoke with a peculiar annunciation. Maybe he just had a peculiar manner of speaking. Or maybe, he was trying his best to sound young and modern, but it came out a bit awkward, in an unexpectedly charming way. I instinctively liked him, though I couldn’t say why, exactly. I’m usually very slow and measured in warming up to anyone.
It definitely wasn’t his physical appearance that was so disarming. His features were a bit odd. His eyes were a little big for his face. They were either a brilliant blue or completely lacking pigment. I really couldn’t say which. They sparkled with life. He was a very vivacious individual—that much was clear. He was definitely no doctor.
“So, whaddaya say, princess? Are we ready to blow this vegetable stand, or what?”
A laugh burst free, the first one in ages.
He had a little bit of a Bronx accent, maybe? I decided he was definitely charming. Maybe I was just starved for life and vivacity, who knows? Whatever the reason, I felt a great appreciation for him, and I smiled despite the lunacy of the situation, and shook my head fervently.
“Nice. Okay. Down to brass tacks here. Two weeks from Friday, is what?”
“Is that, like, a riddle or something? I’m on hardcore medication, so word games at the moment...”
He laughed, “No, you silly girl. Your birthday, is it still coming up a few weeks from Friday, or what?”
How did he know my birthday? And was he going to end every sentence with that, or what?
“How did you know...”
“It’s alright. I heard your answer the first time... in your mind.” He pointed his index finger to his temple with his palm turned outward, with the drawn out word still lingering in the air. “Look, it’s like this, just think of something, the first thing, that pops into your mind, and I’ll guess it for you, alright? We’ll just get this outta the way right here.”
Nothing was popping into my sad, empty head. How depressing. I don’t think I’m interesting enough to be talking with this man.
He was laughing again. “Now that’s what I like to hear! I am very interesting and a little exciting, am I not? And don’t you worry princess, you’re plenty interesting. Just because you’re a little down at dis precise moment, that don’t mean nothin’. This kinda thing—it happens.” He shrugged. “Life is like that sometimes, am I right? You just gotta figure a way to pull yourself through... sort out what’s really important. Tell you what, we’re gonna get through this sweetheart, me and you. I can’t stand to see you like this,” he frowned, “So, we’re gonna be outta here on your birthday, alright?” He put his fist to my chin gently. “Me and you, we can outwit these bozos, am I right? Did they even listen to one word you had to say? And they call themselves doctors. That kinda behavior just don’t sit right with me. Besides... how smart can they be?” He grinned devilishly.
The excitement at the mere possibility of escape filled me with a peculiar mania. Dampening my excitement, however, was the reality that the process itself seemed impossible. How exactly would we be getting out of here?
“Leave that to me, sweetheart, alright?” He turned suddenly, “Oh, we gotta move now. Those idiots, they’re coming back this way...”
Just as he said that, I was assaulted by an ugly thought. Several people had killed themselves in this very room. Maybe they did it on their own, or maybe they had help getting to that point...
“Ha! That is, I don’t know... I’m speechless! Such a great compliment you’ve just given me,” he sniffed and wiped his eye somewhat theatrically, “Ah, you’re killin’ me sweetheart. My heart, is literally breaking...” He clutched his hand to his heart. “Alright... I’ll stay with you, to put your mind at ease, but you gotta do exactly what I say, ya hear?”
What the...? But I found myself nodding, anyway. After all, what was the worst he could ask?
“I’m glad you asked me dat, cowgirl. Da main thing is that you don’t talk to or interact with me while other people are around, ya got it? They can’t see me less I want ‘em to, okay? And we don’t need ‘em seeing me just yet...”
Where could this man have come from? What was his name?
His expression turned serious. “My name, I can give you... Mister Josiah Harland Fernwood, what else?” He shrugged and looked mildly offended, but again, only for a moment. “The other thing—you cannot ask me for this, or you’ll land us both in a lot of trouble, alright?”
“Well, now I have to ask. I mean, you can’t just say something like that...”
Mr. Fernwood held a finger to his lips and inclined his head to the doorway.
“We found her... she’s in the back hallway... talking to herself, looks like,” One of the orderlies was standing in the doorway, talking into a radio, “Oh, and there’s blood—lots of it.”
“Sweetheart, I did warn you. Now there’s gonna be some consequences. I’ll stay but you gotta keep quiet from now on.” Mr. Fernwood raised his eyebrows and held a finger to his lips.
“Johnson 3, everything okay?” The orderly was moving closer, trying to keep me distracted first.
Yeah, apparently there are two other Johnsons here, so I’m known by the security guys as Johnson 3. I know it seems a little offensive at first, but they have to do something to keep from getting too attached, I guess. Understandable considering the success rate here is less than not so good.
I watched and waited for the orderly to show some sign of acknowledgment of Mr. Fernwood’s presence, but none came. Of course he didn’t notice Mr. Fernwood. Why would he? I was still less than convinced of his existence myself.
“Hey, I know this must look... bad, “ I raised my bloodied hands
apologetically, “but it was an accident. I’m feeling much better now...” I tried to reason with him, but of course, I realized that any explanation or rationalization would, to him, sound exactly like what any truly crazy person would say.
“Sure, hon, I know. Lots of accidents happen ‘round here. It’s all good. We’re just gonna get you cleaned up and take ya to see the doc, okay? You’ll be feeling all better in no time, I promise.” His words and tone were very soothing. He’d apparently had lots of practice pacifying the insane.
I could feel myself about to do something very stupid, but I just couldn’t help myself. I turned to Mr. Fernwood, “Couldn’t we please just leave now? Don’t you want to spare me any unnecessary humiliation?”
He shook his head and chuckled. “That’s just not the way these things work, sweetheart. I really can’t take you ‘til All Hallows Eve. That’s just the way it’s gotta be. Anyways, I did warn you. Twice. Now you behave yourself this time and it’ll make things easier-probably.”
Beloved Evangeline (A Dark Paranormal Urban Fantasy Trilogy for Grown-ups - Book 1) Page 22