The Placebo Effect

1- Violet

There were approximately two things to do in Manteroreton. One was to marvel at the ridiculous spelling of the name. The other was to dream about leaving. So I did. I left the community college course I was on, quit my job behind the counter of the musty bookshop on the high street, told my mum I was leaving, packed my bags and left in my ancient 1967 Volkswagen Beetle, otherwise known as Violet for no known reason.

I used Google Maps to find the nicest, preferably far away university town I could, and drove the 10 hours to George Station, which had neither a station or a founder named George. It did, however, have a cute, old fashioned high street, with cute, old fashioned cars parked nearby. I patted Violet's dashboard. Maybe this was the place for us.

There was a breeze as I walked away from the car, blowing my hair in my face and making the leaves dance around my ankles. I figured I could somehow find a place at George Station Uni, a neat, bricked building, and start classes there.  Term hadn't started yet, and wouldn't for weeks, and once they saw my grades they might give me a chance to enroll, albeit very, very, late. This was my vague plan as I strolled through the town square and into the park.

The park was a green, sombre affair,  with plenty of tall trees to block out the rapidly diminishing sun. I was pleased to realise the park opened onto the university campus, quelling the 'lost' sensation I had been experiencing.

The lady behind the reception desk was very happy to help. Though she didn't have a name badge, she looked like a Gladys. All helpful old dears are named Gladys.
She agreed, after looking through the references I brought with me, that I deserved a place in the university, though as she explained as if it was a secret, the real reason for the leniency was a lack of pupils this year. She proudly announced that despite this, George Station University was recognised nationwide as one of the best universities available, with a 100% graduation rate and excellent teachers and funding. This sounded good. I could even move into my new room now, and as some students had arrived early, I would not be alone.

There were 74 stairs to the third floor. I discovered this after hauling my suitcase, backpack, carpet bag and 2 medium-sized cardboard boxes up them. Room 39 was at the end of the corridor, next to a wide window that let the sunset in. The room was smallish. If I stood in the centre and stretched my arms out, they almost brushed the walls. The bed was stripped. The walls bore marks of Blu-Tac and pins, and the sink next to the door when I came in  was chipped. The wardrobe was empty, of spiders and dust as well as clothes. The walls were cream, the carpet a dirty dark green colour. The last occupant had left the smell of cigarettes and peppermint in the air and bedsheets, which were folded in a drawer beneath the bed. I sniffed them. They were clean.

After I made the bed, I realised how hungry I was. Gladys had said we could come and go as we pleased until term started, and I was happy to do some after-dark exploring. I brushed my hair (it tangled easily), shrugged on a jacket and walked out, locking the door behind me.

The diner advertised itself as 'Effie's Diner: A Genuine American Experience! Open 24/7!'. They looked like they did good burgers and milkshakes, so that's what I had. The diner was clean, empty, and decorated in '50's merchandise. Elvis played in the background, notifying the patrons (of which there was only me) of the state of his blue suede shoes. If it wasn't for the beaming waitress who kept checking up on me, I would've felt like the only person awake in the entire world. After I finished, I didn't want to sleep. I decided to go to the bar I had seen earlier, for no other reason that to say I had.

The man behind the bar looked incredibly bored. He predicted my order, giving me a beer and a sour look. I wasn't much of a drinker, so I wasn't very sure what to do with the can or whether to chug it down or sip delicately. I copied the bar's other customer, a young-ish guy with a ridiculous haircut and cheap clothes. Halfway through, I realised I detested beer and vowed not to put myself through the experience again. I ordered a lemonade, avoiding the eye of the bartender as he realised I was a weakling when it came to alcohol. I sipped my new drink with more bravado than I had.

I wanred to spend the rest of the evening walking. Hardly any other shops were open, and I didn't have much money left anyway. I walked for hours, through all the small alleyways and suburban streets, admiring the tidy houses, the carefully mowed lawns and perfect flowerbeds. I admired their perfect lives, and wanted to throw up and laugh and cry and crongratulate them on being successful. Most of all I wanted to throw up, though I had hardly drunk anything and hadn't liked it. I found a bin, but could only retch. I could feel myself dissolving into all the broken pieces I had been, so I mentally slapped myself and got myself together. I wasn't sure what had started the mental onslaught, but I has to stop it somehow.

I marched myself away from the houses, back towards the highstreet. I dragged myself past the diner and the bookshop, and pushed myself  past all the comfortable-looking benches. I could feel myself mentally deteriorating, and as hards as I tried to hold together the fragile adhesives that had made all my broken pieces join each other, I felt the facade slipping, the 'happy mask' coming off. My feet were dragging, and I struggled to prevent myself from submerging myself in those memories. I somehow got to the bar, forced myself to enter, and asked for a strong drink. I got a beer and another sour look.