The Color of Mind
It was just a pile of clothes; the kind that builds up after you've thrown several outfits over a chair. The chair was high-backed, covered in tapestry, with old, wooden arms. Like the kind of chair that sat at the head of a dining room set. I lay there looking at it in the dark. The walls were alive with the reflections from passing cars. I knew that the walls were not alive. I had sat in the doctor's office that day and told him so. I had told him that the new medication was working and that I no longer saw things in the dark, or, more to the point and what he wanted to hear, that even when I did see something out there, that I could talk myself down from it now.
The chair was across the room, partially blocking my T.V. The sleeve on my red shirt moved, but I pretended not to notice.
The sleeping pills I had taken were not working-they usually didn't. Neither did a hot shower or a cup of tea or anything else the doctor had suggested. In the past I would've gotten up and went for a long walk, but I knew it was no longer safe out there after the sun had gone down. That's what I was trying to tell the people in the park. It's not my fault they wouldn't listen to me, and then look what happened.
Since I was no longer allowed outside at night, I lay on my back, one hand behind my head and both feet securely under the blankets, staring at the cord on the ceiling that ran from the fan hanging overhead. The pile of clothes moved again. I caught it out of the corner of my eye. Just a little bit. Just enough to remind me that they hadn't forgotten. Getting up, turning on the light, and moving the clothes were not an option. It wouldn't do any good. Wouldn't change a thing. I sighed loudly and rolled over; facing the wall, accepting it. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. I don't know how long I lay there, perhaps twenty minutes, perhaps just a few. I don't know. One of the first things that they took was my sense of time.
I decided it would be safe to get up and get some water, and when I rolled back over the chair of clothes had moved- Just a few inches-closer to the bed. I sat up and watched, waiting for it to move again, looking at it from under the slits in my eyes, so that it wouldn't know. A large, black beetle skittered over my covers and dropped to the floor. It scurried toward the chair leg. Oh little bug, that's not a good idea I thought. The bug disappeared under the chair and didn't come back out. I knew it wouldn't. Nothing ever comes back out once they've got you. Nothing that ever escaped is the same as when it went in. I know.
The doctor wants me to go to a support group. He thinks it will be good for me to interact with others like me. Other people that were there- went through what I went through. He always says it like that. What I went through. He can't just come right out and say-
But I needed that drink of water. I rose and went slowly-stealthily if you will-across the room and past the chair. I crept out into the kitchen and felt my way around for the right cupboard and a glass. (You can't turn the lights back on once you've turned them out, that's one of the rules.) I knew my way to the sink and drank three glasses. The medication makes me thirsty. They said it would. (The real doctors, not the other ones.)
When I got back to the bedroom the chair was halfway across the rug. The sleeve of my red shirt flapped a little at me as I sat back down on the edge of the bed. I ignored it. It flapped at little harder, trying to get my attention, and then slipped off onto the floor. Good for it, serves it right. It can just spend the rest of the night crumpled up on the floor. I giggled a little at the red shirts misfortune, and then got back into bed and shut my eyes against the streaks of light coming into my window. Like I said, the good doctor would tell me they were from the cars, but I knew better. They were lights from the shelling, and although I wasn't sure how they had made them so quiet, technology has improved so much. In fact, I was sure it was the shelling because I could hear my little sister crying down the hall as they came for her. One never forgets that sound.
She was beautiful, an angel with curls on either side of her round little face. She was always smiling, teasing me. She loved to play. We probably fought as much as any brother and sister did, but now it seems as though I can no longer remember fighting with her ever...
I did know that if I got up to check on her that she would not be there. Whether it's because she was never there to begin with or they had already taken her, I'll never know. I'll never know, so why bother getting up? The doctor says that when I hear her crying, that's it's from a long time ago and that there's nothing that I can do for her now. They came and took her away and she cried and screamed and called for me but I was frightened and didn't dare leave my hiding place. If only she had stayed with me and listened to me and not insisted on going back to get her doll. That's all I found of her the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, was her doll.
She might be down the hall. I see her sometimes, I do. When I'm sitting in the park (In the morning when its daylight and I can see all around me.) I see her flit past me, just out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes she giggles and hides behind a tree but when I go to look she's not there. They've come and taken her again. They come so quickly that she doesn't have time to call my name, but sometimes she does. Sometimes she sits in the hallway on the wooden floor and peaks at me from around the door jam. She never talks to me when I see her, only calls to me when I'm in the other room.
I get tired of thinking about this and glance over toward the T.V. set. Maybe I'll watch some late night-
The red shirt is back up on the chair.
I am suddenly cold. It has never moved that far before. As I watch, it shakes a little, laughing at me. The red sleeve rises up and waves at me. I move back against the wall on my bed, sitting up, drawing my covers around me.
Then I hear her down the hall.
"Martin, Martin where are you? I'm scared, come get me," It is Caroline's voice. Her high pitched child's voice.
"Bring me my doll, Martin."
I keep her doll on the mantle in the living room. I've kept it there this whole time. I call out.
"Caroline?"
"Why did you leave me, Martin? Why did you let them have me? They did terrible things, Martin, terrible things."
My chest hurts, I start to cry.
"You're not real. You're not real."
The mantra my doctor taught me.
"How could you say that, Martin? I'm as real as you are. Please bring me my doll. Please?" Her voice wavers in and out, like she is far away, like a train going past her and I can only hear thought the breaks between the cars. The train is getting louder; the red shirt begins to wave frantically.
I realize the only way to stop it is to get her the doll. That's why she keeps coming back. She only wants her doll.
"Martin, can you hear me, Martin?"
"I'm coming, Caroline, I'm coming," I scramble off the bed and move toward the door.
"Martin...Martin...Martin."
The red sleeve reaches out for me as I pass it on the way to the door.
"I have your doll, Caroline, its right here," but her voice does not calm down. It gets louder, taunting.
"Martin, why did you leave me? Why did you hide when I needed you? Bring me my doll, Martin."
I am screaming her name, now. Crying, I can't find the door. The chair takes one big lurch toward me. I start to pound on the wall, where the entrance to the kitchen was a moment ago. It's not there. I pound and scream and cry for her. I can't get out. I can't get to the mantle to get her doll. She will call to me for eternity, and I'll never be able to give her the doll. I feel the sleeves of my red shirt come up behind me, start to fold around me. The arms circle my neck, pulling tighter and tighter. The last thought that I have is that I deserve this.
"The patient in E32 is banging on his door again; go check it out, willya?"
The orderly nods and walks down the hall. The night has been relatively quiet until this. As he nears Martin's door, he notices something lying on the floor in front of it.
"That's funny," hethinks, "what would a rag doll be doing in an asylum wing?"
