I Know Something You Don't Know...
Chapter Two
Sunday,
There are hands that reach for me in the darkness. They try to catch me, I am their play thing. They like to use me, they grab at my wrists and ankles and I want out.
That's why I like the white room. It keeps the demons out. I like the quiet it allows me to enjoy.
But no one else in this place understands my joy. It's "anti-social," and it makes me "uncooperative." But that's okay by me, I like the attention.
Sometimes I don't need it though. The attention. I just need air.
Air which penetrates my lungs and silences the naysayers of my dreams. But like they say,
There's no rest for the wicked.
Wednesday,
I forget to write when They scream at me. You can understand that, can't you? They take hold of me and scream while I sleep and when I wake, They come again with new vengeance and start screaming. And keep screaming. Until I can't hear anything but the noise.
So They locked me in the white room. It made it all quiet in my head. Nothing but the sweet emptiness of the pretty, padded room. And They put me in a pretty white shirt that wrapped me up oh-so-tightly. I could breathe in there. It was beautiful.
Like the nurse that's pushing me back into my room now. She's older though, with pale skin and wrinkles from worry. And she's pushing the scales at 239, which looks bad on her 5'4" frame.
She carries herself well.
Thursday,
I'm going back to the chapel with the rest of the mindless amongst me. They all sit there, spit dripping from their open mouths. No one is noticing that Mallory Henkle is dead, her eyes have already started to glaze over and lose their shape. Paul Neely is coughing, but it's not a real cough. It's a lie. He's a liar.
A lot like the staff around here. In group, they lie. To your face, they lie. To your attending doctor, they lie. They're much worse than a prostitute when it comes to lying. Wether it's lying on their backs or not, I can't exactly disclose.
But we all have our suspicions, right?
Friday,
I'm hungry right now. I haven't eaten in a few days, too much noise in my head. They tell me I can't eat because They can't eat. It's only fair, right?
Wrong. It's not fair to the children who cannot attend the gauzy, nicotine coated fair. But what do they have to do with it?
It's all innocence as a child. Unless the child is more primal than perfect. Under the fake Kodak moments, you can see how the child longs to escape the falseness.
And did I?
Saturday,
I can't escape the roommate I have now. She follows me, stink on shit. She seems to be more the shit than I am. I can see the runny mess trickle down her leg, but she says nothing.
So neither do I. Why should I? If she wants to stew in her own shit, it's her own business. It's a literal pity party, and everyone else can see it. But she can't, she has on pink glasses that make everything seem peachy-keen.
Which was my mother's favourite line. Everything was always peachy fucking keen. But I'm not into it, not one bit.
You can't fool me with my own bullshit.
