I Know Something You Don't Know...
Chapter Three
Wednesday,
The light in the cafeteria couldn't make up its mind. It flickered on and off, buzzing and pulsating in my head, my lips bloody from biting them in tune.
A tune you can only hear in this place. It's a sick sounding scream that echoes off the ugly puke green walls in this hell hole.
Hell you can touch, hell you can feel. It surrounds you like a blanket and chokes the life out of you. This is every sane person's dream vacation and every crazy person's hell. I suppose they don't know the reality of this place.
Which doesn't say much, since this place isn't much of a reality. They do a damn good job of shutting out the real world and hiding us from the world's sweeping eyes. It's almost scary.
But I won't scream.
Thursday,
I'm sick. Funny, I know. But I'm sick nonetheless. My fingers are bloody, just like my eyes. And I'm not able to sleep anymore. I can barely think these days. They make me hurt. And this man, this new man, he screams at me for no reason.
Reason. It's something that's lacking here. I feel okay without it. But for how long? Soon, it'll fly out the window like a free bird.
But what'll become of me?
Friday,
I can't stand this, my insides itch. Father came to see me again.
"Hey Kiddo," he looks at me and, for a second, I feel like throwing up. He blinks awkwardly at me and I return it.
"Doc said you've been writing, but they can't find the notebook they gave you. So I figured you maybe want some more." He pulls three basic spiral notebooks from his case. They're primary colors and have my name written on them in my father's big block handwriting. I almost don't want to look up from them, but his voice commands my attention.
"Anyway, I thought I'd tell you the divorce went through. Your mother should be coming see you soon. She'll fill you in on all the details. But I gotta go now, Kid." He stood, placing the notebooks on my bed and nodding at the disorderly.
"Jeeze Joe, you think it'll ever get any better?" I could hear a muffled grunt and a quick maybe from Joe the Disorderly before my father left completely. I returned the favor.
But there are things no one can return. There are no rebates for what my father stole.
No one wants damaged goods.
Saturday,
Segments of her mind are missing. She's everywhere though, fluttering 'round my melted mind, absorbing what she's misplaced. She's kissing my memories and taking what she pleases. She's a child, tossed to the side. She's the baby in the corner.
Which is where they put me, the almost comatose "catatonic" schizophrenic who got tossed out with the bathwater.
But I'm not catatonic. I'm merely ignoring the rest of the world. It must be the O.D.D.
They're lucky they want me to talk.
Sunday,
We have a new resident. His name is Dylan Haleigh and he's 17 years old. He has that mind munching STD that Hitler had. But I can't spell it and I won't try. He's allergic to penicillin, but apparently, not to bullshit.
He's spewing his today. He's trying to get my attention and he's succeeding in getting me upset. But I guess it's okay when you're going brain dead. And everyone here is crazy enough that they don't really see much more than another face. They disregard the name because, who are they to label him anyway?
He's telling stories, lots of lies. Tall tales from short guys, it's irony of being alive. He can make up anything he pleases now, but soon he'll say nothing.
Dead men tell no tales.
