Darla Walters

 I met Darla Walters one a gloomy April morning in an unusual place. It storming outside; a fierce rain fell from boated gray rain clouds - cleaning my murky bedroom windows - and the ward's lights flickered on and off when thunder roared in anguish across the indigo horizon.

I had group therapy that day; a time when us cancer patients would gather together and pour our thoughts out into a spacious room and talk about being cursed with a plague that was killing us every second of the day. The sessions were usually depressing. Most of my fellow patients in St. Francis's cancer treatment ward talked about the likelihood of our impending death and our imminent fear of passing away.

Today, on the other hand, when I rolled out of bed - my hair crumpled and my breathing short - I was not in the mood to listen people ask about heaven, hell, or if there was a God. Sometimes some of my fellow patients would go off on a tangent, talking manically and asking if there was not a God, what would become of them? Would they get sucked into stupor, a black hole? Or, would their souls just be lost, bounding around in a chasm of nothingness for eternity? When these questions were asked, our therapist, Mrs. Brittney, would ensure us that there was a land where Jesus embraced his brothers and sisters. After Mrs. Brittney would reveal this to us for the fifty sixth time (not that I'm counting), Mary Jane would usually burst into tears and Bald Josh would start praying; his hands cradling his cheeks.

I was pleasantly surprised when my nurse informed me that Mrs. Brittney was not able drive to the hospital for group therapy because of the fierce downpour. I was ecstatic for a moment, elated that I would be able to curl back into bed and go back to sleep with the melodic sound of rain hamming against my window, but that dream was quickly terminated. My nurse informed me that the other cancer patients and I were going to attend group therapy on the bottom floor of hospital, which was the Behavior Center. To us cancer patients, the bottom floor was filled crazies, housing people with bipolar and multi-personality disorder. I could only imagine what their therapy session consisted of and I did not believe they spend their whole hour and a half talking about their impending death and cancer rotting them to dust and bones.

I didn't argue with my nurse though. I just slipped on my required lemon yellow scrubs and a Fall Out Boy band t-shirt and filed into the cancer ward's colorful lobby. There, Mary Jane was fiddling with her oxygen tank and Juliet was being rolled around in her wheel chair.

As we all walked to the bottom floor, I learned that to even get into the mental hospital we had to pass through impenetrable doors marked with ten number key codes and guards; men wearing unreadable expressions and carrying guns and tasers.

For a moment, I felt like I left the hospital behind on the fourth floor and walked into a prison that dwelled lethal criminals.

When we crossed over into the crazy house's entryway, we were instantly greeted by more security guards and the thick smell of belch. We just stood in the white walled lobby for a while, examining the chairs that were chained to the floor and the morose gray atmosphere that swathed the countertops and the nurse's scrub.

By the look of this place, it was pretty obvious you were not supposed to be comfortable in this dreary ward that reminded me off of an icy crypt; you were just supposed to get better and leave as quickly as possible.

Even so, I could not have been more relieved when a young man ambled over to us. He had light brown skin and transparent blue eyes that turned white under the faintest light. His body was outlined with thick bulging muscles and I would bet all my money that he could knock a kid unconscious with a single punch. He was not wearing scrubs like the other staff members, just a basic blue t-shirt and jeans that were frayed with holes poking through the seams.