Celtic Memoire

Chapter 1 - Don't Forget!

Chapter 1 - Don't Forget

For the 22nd time this week I'm told 'Don't Forget' by my 'superiors'. There are now two psychologists 'helping' my ward, Ward DA they call it. Is that initials for Death's Angels? The second psychologist's name is Trent. He won't tell us his last name, as if using first name basis will make us like him.

So I've been here for eight days and I already feel like I'm in hell. Is that supposed to happen? I don't know how I'm supposed to feel in this... prison. Sure, I've seen those movies about the 'not insane' ones who end up in an institution only to become insane after a short while. Will I be one of those?

The paranoia is wracking at me. Everyone around here walks around like there's a great metal ball on each of their shoulders. And their eyes are always darting to and fro, even in the solitary of their own privacy. Wait, what privacy? It's lacking here... Even the shadows have no place to go. And even the mice I hear occasionally scurrying through the vents seem to chit about nervously. Makes me wonder if they accidentally ate someone's hidden meds.

There's too many similes, metaphors, and anecdotes that are perfect in my observation and experience here. I write them in my dream journal... the one I hide 'inside' the mattress, not underneath. Then I go to sleep and dream of a world I know will never exist...

"Krishka, breakfast!"

Carmen has a habit of waking me up an hour earlier than we're required too. She always wakes me up 'on the dot'. I am a neat freak myself, don't have a mess on my side of the room. But Carmen, her wall doesn't have a speck of dirt on it, not one wrinkle in her bed after she fixes it, and she brushes her hair over 5 times a day. She gets nervous just looking at my messy braid as I sit up in bed, and she offers to fix it.

I nod in reply. Instead of giddily attacking my hair like a hair stylist would, she merely fixed my hair to keep her calm. Unlike all the other 9 patients who constantly teased her about her OCD, I didn't. I didn't tease, mock, slander, or compliment anyone. I was what you called the 'Neutral' child. I didn't like being this way, I just have to.

After about 150 strokes in my hair my scalp is miraculously relieved, but sitting in this position any longer would cause cramps. Wasn't she done fixing my hair yet? I gesture to her by raising my hand up.

"Hold on," she replied. "Just getting the knots out, you really need to take better care of your hair. I found 376 knots. Majour shame, Tsk tsk." I simply shrugged.

It was another five minutes before she finally started twisting my hair into a perfect french braid, not the regular braid I had before. Her finger movements were very slow and meticulous, like a surgeons. I felt a sense of nervousness from her, as if she made one false move my hair would be terribly ruined and she'd have to start all over again, brushing and all. I wished and wished it wouldn't come to that. With all this extra time I let my thoughts linger to all the week I've been here. I came to one conclusion, I didn't like it here. I came to another conclusion, I would have to suck it up and deal with it. I heard if you get on the doctors' good side you can get released much earlier... but I doubt it.

My shoulders began to tense and I began to roll them when a hiss shot out of Carmen's teeth. I froze in place, my ears waiting for the big blow. "Oh no, the braid's ruined. That strand isn't supposed to be there!" I sighed softly and hunched my shoulders as Carmen undid all the twists in my hair and started brushing.

It was another 10 minutes when she finished. I stood from my bed and wished there was a mirror so I could admire her handiwork, while she tugged the mat of hair from the brush bristles and neatly stacked them in the trash can. After that we both headed to the girl's bathroom together and washed our hands. I took 15 seconds. She took 3 minutes. My eyes watched her curious routine, scrubbing and rinsing until her hands were red from the scalding water. I rose my hand and calmly set it on hers making her gasp and look at me. I gave her a gentle smile that carried to my eyes. She smiled back nervously and turned off the water only to spend another minute wiping her hands vigourously with the tiny 4 inch square hand cloth. I'd once been told by Samantha, another patient, that the reason we don't have towels for the bathrooms is because we might strangle ourselves with them. I would shudder at the thought and frown, turning away.