Heathens-Joshler

4

 The schedule is strict. Every hour of every day is accounted for on a piece of paper that sits on my bedside table, and is clipped to my chart, in the doctor's possession.

I don't like rigid schedules. I like waking up when I wake up naturally, eating when I'm hungry, sleeping when I'm sleepy, and letting my life be mild chaos organized by my needs and my desires.

But here, I can't do that. Supposedly, I forgot about my needs and desires long ago. I'm exhausted, malnourished, and I have a fever. Because of this, I'm given a few days to stay in bed and sleep and eat and heal. My meals are being carefully monitored by doctors and other professionals and specialists, who make sure I eat plenty of healthy foods. My ribs still stick out like hills and valleys across my torso, but supposedly, the food is helping. I guess I was too busy to eat or sleep before I got here. I had bigger things to worry about.

It's strange, now, that I'm supposed to be so focused on myself and my own feelings, that the actions I'm taking to improve are so small and internal. I'm not robbing stores or burning down buildings or doing whatever I used to do. (I don't quite remember what I used to do for work, if I had a job. I only know my old address because they found it written on a scrap of paper in my wallet, like I was scared I'd forget. But I don't remember my home at all.)

Once I'm deemed healthy enough to walk on my own and leave my room, I decide to take a look around the place.

I walk barefoot. I was given slippers, along with the light grey sweatpants that initially looked white, and a soft white t-shirt, but I decide that I prefer to feel the tile and carpet beneath my feet.

I'm surprised they let me move about the building on my own, but everywhere that's off-limits is locked, and there are members of staff everywhere, keeping an eye on things, so I suppose I'm not unsupervised.

I let my feet take me where they will without paying much attention, and I find myself in a small waiting room near the lobby. The door between this room and the main lobby is locked. A staff member stands by it, keeping watch.

I scan the room. The carpet here isn't white, but a dull yellowish-beige. It's rough and scratchy under my bare feet. The walls are white, and the lights don't flicker, but glow steadily above. There are no windows. A painting of a flower in dull colours hangs on the wall. A few nondescript people sit in white plastic chairs around the room, some reading magazines from the small tables at the ends of each row of chairs. They all wear blank looks on their faces and sensible clothes. This isn't really a place that you dress up before coming to. Nothing there interests me.

I walk around the back of the hospital, to the doors that lead to outside. I show some nurses the card they gave me when I first got here, and one scans it. He looks at the screen of his device for a moment, and then nods and unlocks the door for me.

I step outside into the bright lights. I haven't been outside in days. It feels good to let the sun touch my skin again.

I learned about privileges today. If you want them, you have to work the system, to improve. I don't know how to do that, I don't know what's so wrong with me, but I want the privileges. The privilege to access the art room, or the few musical instruments in the hospital, the privilege to wear your own clothes, which can be sent in by loved ones, the privilege to make cosmetic choices for yourself, such as makeup, dye, and jewelry. That sounds nice. Having control over anything, even such a small thing as what I want to wear, feels like a victory.

Outside, there's a small, fenced-in patio with tables on it, shaded by umbrellas. The tables and chairs are all screwed to the floor, so patients can't throw them. The sun shines through pale grey clouds, but it still feels good on my skin. Friends and family of patients sit around, talking, and some patients sit alone, or in groups. Despite some wearing what they want to wear because of the privileges, it's easy to tell who belongs here and who doesn't. The people who belong here seem more at ease, more relaxed here, and more darkly thoughtful. I've never seen a crazy person with a light twinkle in their eyes before. I wonder if they even exist. I wonder if darkness is all there is on the other side of insanity.

I look around for somewhere to sit. It's reminiscent of high school, wondering where to sit in the cafeteria when there are no empty tables. The minute I think of school, a million different schools fill my mind, schools other people have been to, have suffered through. I can't tell which one is mine. I push them all away.

Someone waves at me from a table at the edge of the patio. He's sitting in patch of shade beneath the umbrella, waving at me like I'm important. I turn and look behind me, but there's nobody else there. I gesture at myself in question, and the guy nods. I go over to sit with him, because it's not like I've gotten any better offers, and he looks interesting.

I sit in the shade, beneath the umbrella with him. He's got privileges, I can tell. He has dyed hair, which is blue, and pokes out from around his black beanie. He's wearing a black tank top that's slit open down the sides, and black jeans with boots. He has a colourful tattoo on one arm, and it transfixes me for a moment.

"I'm Josh." He says. "I don't believe we've met."

I look up from the tattoo and into his dark eyes. He has that dark glimmer behind them. They're beautiful.

He seems like he's waiting for something, so I snap out of my trance. "I'm Tyler." I tell him. "I'm new here."

We shake hands, and he smiles at me. "It's nice to meet you, Tyler." He says. "How are you today?"

"I'm okay." I say, because I can't think of what else to say.

"Tell me if ever that changes, okay?" He asks.

I don't know why he cares, but I nod.

"So, Tyler, tell me about yourself." Josh says casually, leaning back in his chair.

"Well, I got here a little while ago I think, and I burned down a house, and that's about all there is to tell."

He nods, like none of this is that unusual or spectacular, as though people burn down houses and get sent to mental hospitals every day. "That's interesting. It's not what I want to know though. I want to know about you."

"What about me?"

"Who are you, Tyler?

"I'm no one." I say.

"That can't be true." Josh says back.

"Well, I don't know who I am. 'No one' is the closest thing I can find."

"Well then, we'll have to find who you are, now won't we?"

"Who are you?" I ask him.

"I don't know who I am any more than you know who you are, buddy. I'm here trying to figure that out, in a sense."

A nurse walks up to us then, holding a copy of my schedule. "Tyler, it's time for you to see your mental health evaluator." She tells me.

I feel a pang in my chest. I don't want to go. Someone finally cares about what I have to say, someone not holding a DSM manual, trying to evaluate me! Someone wants to get to know me just because they think I'm interesting! I can't remember much, but I sense it's been a long while since that has happened.

I look at Josh, frantic. I can't simply let go. I can't simply say goodbye to someone who actually wants to just sit quietly and have a conversation with me. "When can I see you again?" I ask, not caring how desperate I sound. I am desperate. And Josh is so...he's so indescribably interesting, and even beautiful.

"How about tomorrow? Same time, same place. I have free time then."

My nurse glances at my schedule and nods her approval. I get up from the table and follow her to see my mental health evaluator. I'm torn between sullenness over having to leave Josh, and giddiness that I'll see him again.

I look back over my shoulder, just to get one last look at him. Josh is still looking at me, watching me walk away.