Welcome to the Crazy House

Year 2015: I was a child

A church bell woke me up. I hadn't heard a church bell in years. I didn't even know there was one close to the hospital. I remembered my past life. I used to hate church bells. They had woken me up high and with a headache. But on this day ... it was different. They didn't bother me. Hope. I got on my knees and prayed.

Otče naš, Iže esi na nebeseh!

Da svjatitsja imja Tvoe,

da priidet Carstvie Tvoe,

da budet volja Tvoja,

jako na nebesi i na zemli.

Hleb naš nasuŝnyj dažd' nam dnes';

i ostavi nam dolgi naša,

jakože i my ostavljaem dolžnikom našim;

i ne vvedi nas vo iskušenie,

no izbavi nas ot lukavago.

Amen.

I wished for better tomorrow. I prayed to get healed. I prayed to God that I had never believed in. The church bell stopped singing its song. And in the silence of morning, hope sneaked into the room. It hugged me like the sky hugs a flying bird. Nothing important was there anymore. Everything was opened. All I had to do was open the door, make thirty-two steps, knock the door and talk to Rita. But I didn't do it. No. I couldn't do it. Yes, there was hope and there was light but there was no courage. The fear of being judged for what happened was too strong to talk. Not yet. My whole life I had been a coward and on the day I could save myself ... I was a coward again. Sky darkened and hope fled out the room. A nurse brought my pills. I took one and put two under my bed. I left the room. Breakfast time.

*

In the following month, I invented a new routine. Every morning I ate one pill and put two under the bed. I then went to the diner, ate my breakfast. After that I was allowed to sit on a comfy chair. I did. Sometimes they would bring me coffee and newspaper. Usually a week old. But at least they did. They didn't hate me anymore. At least not as much as they used to. Afternoons were the same as always. Pointless talks with Rita and sleep.

On a rainy February day, I read an article written on the front page. I read it slowly and with much trouble, as my hands were shaking and my eyes burnt.

"It has been more than a month since Marco Sebastian Garis, son of Mary Garis, successful shop owner, disappeared. He is a 183 cm high man in his middle twenties. He is usually dressed in a check-patterned shirt and jeans. His hair is light brown with curls and his eyes are green. His family is deeply worried about his disappearance, as all that had been left after him is a suicide note. If you have seen this man, please contact the following telephone number ..." Article continued.

Next to the article a picture was placed. Marco was a lovely guy, with darker skin, much darker that mine. Tanned. Mine is very pale. Almost green. His hair was just as messy as mine and his eyes just as lonely as mine. Suddenly I felt bad for him. Where was he? Was he dead? Did he run away or really commit suicide? Maybe he was murdered? "It is not that hard to fake a suicide letter," I thought. But if he ran away, I understood why. He wanted to be alone, free. He wanted to have a better life. I hoped he had found his peace. But as hard as I tried to forget the article, I couldn't. All I could think of was his suicide letter. I wondered what he had written and why he had written it. And I thought of his maman. She must have been destroyed. Her son was dead. But maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe his letter was just a piece of art and they misunderstood it. That happens a lot. Marco confused me and as much as I tried to conceal it, his possible suicide stayed on my mind.

I followed his story for the next five months until they announced that he was dead even though hadn't found the body. I felt sad. Another story of destroyed hope. They then stopped giving me newspaper. Rude.

*

Stories of other people made me forget about mine. I chose to ignore it. I hoped it would go away but it didn't. Sunny smell of August reminded me of the taken freedom and the pile of pills of the mess I had made of myself. Not taking pills had taken its toll on me. I was weak, my mind was blurry and my hands were shaking. They were drugging me the whole time. I begged them for my old pills not realizing they were giving them to me. Just in another form. They called them medicine.

The routine of my days made the year 2015 pass fast. Before I took another breath there was December. Snow. White. Oh, my Russia. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be at home so bad. I wanted to visit papa's grave. I wanted to cry. I missed my old bed, my town, people. I missed everything that I didn't have here. I didn't appreciate the little things in my Novosibirsk until we moved here. I had always complained about the cold in my village, and now ... I'd kill to have a cup of tea, a blanket and cold nights. Yes, I missed everything I didn't have here. And I hated everything I had. That was the young past. I thought of my life here in England. Yes, five years in the crazy house were bad, but nothing was as bad as the year in Lex's arms. Red. White. Red. White. Red. White. Red. White. Memories filled my mind. Everything was there. Red. White. Red. White. Red. White. Red. White. I had enough. Red. White. Red. White. Red. White. Red. White. I wanted to be free. I felt strong. "I will be free!" I put the cross of past on my back, opened the doors and made ten steps. My mind collapsed. Everything was red. I rose. I made another ten steps. Collapse. Red. The cross is too heavy. I rose again. Only twelve more steps. I made seven. And I fall down for the third time. This time, everything in me turned black. Nothing was there anymore. Only the wish of liberating myself made me stand up. One, two, three, four, five. I knocked. White.

"Enter. Oh, hey Evgeni. What brought you here? Are you okay? You look devastated. Evgeni, what happened?"

"I ... I ... I need to tell you something."

"Okay. Sit down, Evgeni. Do you want some water?"

"I am sorry ... I was a child. I didn't know how to defend. I was a child and he was a grown up ..."

*

I returned into the room after two hours. I was empty. For the first time the puzzle of my life was complete. The picture was clear. It was finished. And I was empty. Nothing bad or good was left in me. I looked in the mirror. My face, white. My mouth, purple. And my eyes, red. There was no papa in my eyes anymore. There was no hope, no sadness, no Evgeni in this eyes anymore. They were empty. My chest was burning. I was on fire. I couldn't breathe. Screams, trapped in my lungs tried to come out but they couldn't. Tears, none. This was not freedom. I took a pile of pills in my hands. They were so white. So white, white as everything in my life. I looked in the mirror and mumbled the question: Did I tell what happened when I was eighteen?

Da.