Psychosis

Patient 1244

Room 301. My room. Doesn't feel like it though. Feels foreign, almost unearthly.

Six by eight feet, like a prison cell. Ceiling hanging low and weathered. Flickering bulbs with defective tungsten filaments. Walls drab with minimal cream coloured paint. Cracks in them, cracks everywhere. A leak in the corner? Due to plumbing issues? Possibly. Or possibly not. Could be my paranoia, as they say. Rats? None that I've seen. Wouldn't be surprised if there were a few, however. Especially, with the insalubrious ambience. 'Black death' seems glamorous at this point. Wondering if fourteenth century Eurasia felt the same.

No doors, no windows. No view of the outside world. No fresh air; only the pungent odour of disinfectant. No raindrops on my palms. No muddy aroma of the earth. Can't tell what season it is. Summer? Monsoon? Maybe Monsoon. Air feels heavy and stifling. Makes my breathing labored. No Sun or Moon. Can't tell if it's night or day, for the most part. Pills are my indication. Blue pill for the morning. Red pill for the night. White pill sometimes, whenever they feel like it.

It'll make me feel better. That's what I'm told. By the doctors and nurses, of course. The skinny nurses in their glossy white apparel. The doctors with their exquisitely fancy stethoscopes. Stomach churns when I see them. Like something's not right. Like they're being deceitful. A victim of an accident, I am, apparently. Was hit by a car, and suffered neurological damage, they say. Sporadic amnesia, hallucinations, intermittent psychosis, and paranoid delusions. Keep mentioning these symptoms repeatedly, as if it were a nursery rhyme.

Twinkle, twinkle little star.

How I wonder where you are!

Is Armageddon truly nigh?

I don't give a fuck anymore. Goodbye.

Solitary times call for skewed ditties. Singing helps pass the time. Mutilating a lullaby gives a perverse pleasure of sorts. Cathartic in nature; helps me vent my angst. Drowns out the voices as well. That's all I have. The voices, and nothing else. No one else, to keep me company, in this borderline asphyxiating cell. The voices are fickle. Come and go, they do.

They aren't real; the nurses say.

Messing with my mind, are they?

The capsules will make them go away.

After that, they'll take me out to play.

Want to believe them. Want to go home; don't remember what my home looks like, though. No memories of family or friends. Only a blank slate. An orphan, am I? Or a bastard child? One with no name? 

Left hand itching. Leather cuff's too restraining. Can't rotate much of my left palm.

One arm tied to the bedstead for my own good.

Only un-cuffed when they bring me my insipid food.

Am a plausible danger to myself, they say.

Self-harm being a measly price to pay.

To get out, I might just resort to it, I may.

Right arm is free. Rubbing my finger tips on the marks etched on the wall. Ten straight lines. Been here ten days. Feels like ten long years, instead. Picking up the tiny stone I usually hide under my pillow. Beginning to carve a new line on the wall.

Day eleven's friction creates a glimmer and crackle.

The new line mars the decrepit wall's already mitigating sparkle.

Hear the clanging of the metallic door. Time for the medicines, I guess. Door opens and a nurse steps inside. The one with the extra rouge on her face; making her appearance geisha-like.

"Patient 1244?" She asks in a raspy voice.

Not going to turn around. Don't want to be called that. Just a number, and nothing else.

"Time for your meds." She barks.

"No." Say I, shaking my head.

"It's for your recovery. The sooner you take them, the sooner you'll get out. Remember?" Says she, fluttering her lashes.

"No." I reiterate.

"Well, honey. I'm done playing nice." She spits.

Forcing pills down my throat in the next instant, she is. Coughing and struggling to spit them out. Head's being held back, aggressively, to make me swallow. Sphincters cave and pills go down my gullet involuntarily.

"That's a good girl." She says, eyes glowing.

Makes me drink some much needed water. Was starting to feel dehydrated. Muscles starting to feel loose and relaxed. It's the white pill, I think. Helps me sleep sometimes. Stops the voices for a bit.

Maybe...Maybe, I really did need help. Maybe they really did want to help me. Maybe I really was cra-

You are not crazy.

The voice again. One last aphorism of sorts before it disappears for a while.

The nurse, she moves away pretty easily.

Edging towards the door to leave me be.

So that I get a good night's sleep, hopefully...

"Hey 1244. Think someone's coming to see you, tomorrow." Says she, scratching her chin.

Heart beating faster in my chest, with every word coming out of her mouth.

"Who?" I ask, gleefully.

"Don't know who. Just heard someone is." She huffs, closing the door rather violently.

Heart leaping with joy at the thought of seeing 'someone'. Anyone apart from the doctors, nurses, and voices, of course. Family, friends or maybe...Him?

Could it? Could it really be?

The only name imprinted in my memory.

That I carved in the wall oh-so meticulously.

The only face I yearn to recall every day.

Staring straight at the letters; M-A-N-I-K.

*****