My name is-

Electricity

        The world around me is grey.  Always shades of grey.  From nearly white, to almost black.  Sometimes I scratch my hands just to see other colors, pinks and purples.  Sometimes I scratch out letters.  But I don't know what they mean.  Letters lost meaning so long ago.  Somewhat like words.  I can speak, speaking is fine.  But I don't find any use for it.  I'm always alone.  So why speak.

           Once upon a time I think I was a normal human being.  But I think, after all the therapy and tests and injections.  I think whatever made me human has been distorted so much mentally that I have become something else altogether.  At least, that's what they say.  The men and woman in white, who occasionally bring me food.  Or injections, or to tests, or talk to me endlessly and meaninglessly.  Or to shoot me through with more electricity because they think it will cure something.  Something that seems to have gone wrong inside me.

           I'm used to the feeling, the burst of pain, the tingling sensation that follows it.  That is what it feels like when it's simple.  When they think I'm having what they call "Improvement"  If I'm not improving they do other things.  I've sat in a bath of lukewarm water, and then the water is shot through with the same electricity.  This is bad.  So very bad.  It stings and makes my limbs jerk on their own.  I feel like if I had more than an inch of hair it would stand on end.  But I don't, so it doesn't.

              Everything before the grey is murky.  Like it's covered in algae from a stagnant frog pond.  It's so colorful, but it always runs together, clarity is beyond my reach.  I don't like that, and I blame the grey.  The grey that surrounds me is leeching away my past.  My memories.  Things I may have held dear.  But I can do nothing.  Of the things I understand when I listen to the people in white, patient stands out most often.  Long term patient.  Star patient.  Like I'm somehow perfect, despite what I apparently lack.  Though what I lack is often up for debate.  Some of them say I lack feelings.  I don't think I do.  Pain is a feeling isn't it.  Oh what I would give to lack pain.  Others say I lack what they call sanity.  I have only vague ideas of what this means.  So perhaps I do lack it.  Still more have said I lack a heart.  I don't know how this could be possible.  Lacking a heart would mean death.  Hearts are important things.  They are vital to continuing.  Even in this grey. 

            And now there seems to be this constant urge inside me.  This twitch I get from sitting still.  From looking at my skeletal limbs and thinking how I almost match the grey.  How someday, I might not even be able to see myself against it.  Someday soon.  But the urge wants to resist, to move, to fight.  So I walk around my room.  Pace.  Around and around.  Only stopping when my breath grows short, or my eyes grow tired.  My breath stays longer now.  But the stinging of my eyes that tells me I need sleep comes without fail.  As do meals.

              I must always be still when meals come.  That is the rule.  Where the rule came from, I have no idea.  Just that when the white light shines above my door, I sit.  Still like a statue.  Like stone.  When the person in white brings it to me, I eat, they take the tray and whatever I'm not hungry for.  Which is often nothing.  I eat everything.  Eggs, toast, chicken, soups of all colors that are my favorite.  So much food.  All so bland.  But the soup is so pretty.  And I think, perhaps, if I take the color from the soup inside me.  Perhaps I will not look so grey. 

            "How do you feel today?" The man in white asked.  I looked up, head turned slightly to the side.  They never spoke to me.  Why was he talking?  I didn't say anything in return.  I wasn't sure what to.  Or how to reply to that question.  How do I feel?  How did I even start to answer that question?

              My legs were sore from the constant walking.  I was tired because I never seemed to sleep long.  I was nervous because I knew it had been three days since my last go with the electric bath.  Which meant that today promised another one.  So I just stared at the man.  He stared back, but only for a few moments, until he decided I wasn't going to say anything.  He picked up my tray and left.  As soon as the door shut I stood up.  Starting my walk again.

             I went against the wall mainly, tracing the room around the sparse furnishings.  The bed that sat longways against the wall.  The end table that held several nondescript belongings I never looked at.  A black and white picture of smiling people I didn't know.  A metal chair in the corner that seldom got used.

          The door opened again.  I jerked in my pace, almost tripping over my own feet.  The two people in white beckoned to me.  I followed.  It was time.  I'd never resisted.  Or maybe I used to.  Perhaps I just don't remember enough anymore.  It doesn't matter really.  They would bring me to the bath either way.

              "Undress." The woman in white instructed.  I pulled off my loose clothing.  The drawstring pants and button-up shirt, the underclothes that matched them.  The woman led me into the next room and helped me into the bath.  It was full of lukewarm water, as always.  The machine in the corner was silent for now.  She and another man attached wires to my skin with medical tape.  One to each arm, leg, and another in the center of my chest.  A sixth occasionally went on my forehead.  But not every time. 

               "Deep, slow breaths, alright?" I nodded.  That would last all of five seconds once the machine was on.  I'd be gasping and twitching like a fish out of water.  The man was going over to it now.  I closed my eyes.  Counting.  I knew how long it took to turn on.  Just fifteen seconds.  He was there now.  One, two, three, four.  Breathe.  Breathe deep while you still can.  Nine, ten, eleven.  Only a few more seconds.  Just-

                    My thought process stopped.  My mind went blank, I could hear the whir of the machine.  The faint crackling noise that was the electricity rushing through the water, and my body.  My left leg jerked.  All the air left my lungs.  Both my arms were twitching now.  Pain.  Please, no more pain.  Why is this necessary?  What does this fix?  My body pitched forward, and got a face-full of electricity charged water.  I came up coughing, gasping, and now completely convulsing.  Ever nerve in my body was screaming because it hurt so much.  Worse than fire.  Worse than acid.  And trust me when I say I know what those feel like too.  

               "Shut it off." The woman in white instructs.  Because they've been doing nothing this whole time.  Nothing but watching.  Watching me twitch and gasp for breath, they see my pain, and record it as data.  Nothing more.  The whirring stops.  But the pain stays.  The pain will stay until tomorrow.  As always.  The sting, the red welts where the wire touched my skin.  The occasional twitch as if I'm still shot full of electric power. 

             I'm given a towel, instructed to dry off and get dressed, and I'm escorted by the man back to my room.  I curl up on the bed.  No more walking today.  Just lying here.  Trying to understand what those baths do.  Why they seem to be important.  Trying again to figure out what seems to be wrong inside me.  What is broken and as of yet, unfixable.

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And so the story begins.

Let me know what you think of it?

Or don't, you know, I'll just, keep writing...

Yeah, bye.

- Firenze