I always hated these streets. Pearly white paving with the crisp scent of lemon flowing from the gaps between the stones. Everyone you meet on these streets are all dressed the same, in their clean white uniforms so bright they burn my retinas.
I can't stand it.
White. White. Everywhere bright and white. Bright and white and certifiably horrid.
Each white street is bordered by rows of little white houses, with white doors and white plaques filled in with the resident's names. And I know that beyond the little white doors, the houses will be filled all in white with whoever's currently renting dressed in white and sometimes, for variation, white with blue polka dots.
I don't understand how these people can choose to live on these lemon streets. Though, most of the residents are here on their last resort, there are others that come here on their own will. And they're different. They don't dress all in white. The don't smile at you when you look at them all falsely kind. And they don't smell like lemon.
That's why I never liked the lemon streets of St. Dymphna's Hospital for the Clinically Insane. I never belonged here. I never liked lemon. I was never clinically insane. Just a healthy amount of non-normalcy.
I'm not insane. I swear it. I don't belong here. I don't like lemon.
When I'm here it's like I'm stuck in a hell disguised as a heaven, a haven to us 'nuts' on this Earth. It's my God, he's punishing me. I'm sure of it. I wasn't a good follower, I have unique thoughts and good followers obey the word of their Lord. But I never did that. So God gave me to St. Dymphna so she could make me a better person, just like Mama wanted me to be.
But I find it hard to be a Christian. Mama was a Christian and Mama was the one who put me in here. She said I needed help. That this place would give me the help I needed. But I've never needed help. I'm completely self-sufficient, confident, competent, independent. And I knew all those without even a Thesaurus.
So I don't know why I'm here so much that I don't need to be. The lemon just proves it. Lemon is meant to be a clean smell, a soothing smell. But I don't like lemon. So I'm not insane, I don't need to be soothed, I don't belong here.
I looked up from my spot in the chaise, comfy though it was, I'd grown more and more uncomfortable over the years under the scrutiny of Miss Duncan. The psychiatrist.
"I don't like lemon," I repeated to her. She looked at me through her thick-framed glasses with the look she had that made the distinctly comfy brown leather become sticky and discomforting.
"And you say you don't know why you're here, April. Is that right?" She asked me, peaking over the infuriating little clipboard that I knew she was writing everything down on.
"No," I replied with a small shake of my head. "I don't belong here. I'm not like these people. I'm not crazy, I promise."
"I believe you," she smiled and sat back in her swingy chair. When I was younger, she used to let me play in it. She doesn't anymore. "But I can't just clear you immediately. I need to be sure your mental state has improved."
"How could it have improved if I never belonged here?" I asked with furrowed brows, shoving a chunk of coppery hair away from my face. "My mental state has never changed but I'm here on false grounds."
"And...how do you know you're of sound mind?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. I scowled. I've always wanted to do that.
"I don't like lemon," I replied simply.
"So that's your reasoning?" she queried pushing her glasses up her nose again.
"I don't like lemon. So I don't belong here. Crazy people belong here. Therefore, I'm not crazy," I replied, I could feel my blood beginning to boil and I stood up from the leather chaise to emphasise my point. I saw Miss Duncan press the buzzer in her hand. The buzzer that called for security.
The security men walked in the door, big and all dressed in white and smelling like lemon.
"Don't let them take me," I bawled, shying away. "I'm not crazy, I don't belong here, I don't like lemon. YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!"
I struggled violently against the security men's holds as they dragged me away from Miss Duncan who scrawled 'extra observation needed' onto her clipboard before flicking the door closed with her heel.
I continued pulling and trying to escape, my weak arms doing nothing and my feet slipping out underneath me in my slippers. I felt a prick in the side of my neck and the white started to dull, fading into a comforting black until I couldn't see anything at all. I fell asleep with my only link to the world being the horrid smell of lemon.
