Psychosis

Subconscious

Motors whirring. Engine growling. Gentle, pleasant winds blowing in from a small gap in the window. Rolling it down with a slight press of a button. Fragrance of jasmine in the air. Astoundingly fresh; staleness imperceptible. Less particulate matter; fewer chemicals. Lungs feel reinvigorated.

Light melody of merriment in the background. Dense clumps of trees waver slightly, serenading us, while we race forward.

Looking to the right. Can feel my lips curling into a smile. Facial muscles have their own agency; action seems involuntary, almost innate.

Returns the smile almost immediately, he does. Takes his eyes off the exiguous, undulating street for just a cursory moment. Eyes gleam as he lingers on my face.

Admire his features and contours for the thousandth time, I do. Long, elegant fingers on the steering wheel. Lean arms contracting and relaxing with every stroke. Perky nose rivaling that of Cleopatra's. Messy, unkempt locks falling over his forehead. Soft, smooth skin, I crave to feel on my own. Prickly stubble I ache to nuzzle against. Eyes I wish to drown in for an eternity...

~*~

Bang!

Eyelids snap open. Diabolical sound did serve to ruin a peaceful siesta, it did. Onomatopoeia or an allegory? Latter's quite possible, quite probable. Dream seemed oddly vivid; nearly visceral, if you will. Almost as if I lived it. A thing of the past connected to my present. A present that'll determine my uncertain future. A memory is it? Or a mirage of my overactive, often anarchic imagination?

Vague features I remember from the face in my dream,

Provoke sensations within that are extreme.

Is it the only face I yearn to recall every day?

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

Door clangs open vociferously; the apparition enters. The nurse with the pallid face, devoid of rosiness. A nearly paranormal being of sorts. Fits the morose milieu perfectly well. 

Spirit deflates as I gauge my surroundings.

Still stuck in here, the misery and despair's unending.

Two days it's been since I first met Dhruv.

His lying is a matter I've yet to prove.

"Wake up, 1244. You have a visitor-your fiancée." Says she, smile faux and weary.

1244. Digits irk me even more so, now. Am an orphan and not a bastard child; have a name, a life, an identity. A name that is my own; belongs only to me.

Numbers do not, a person make.

Especially, when their identity's at stake.

Zeroes and ones fed to machines,

Cannot be food for human beings.

"Nandini." Whisper I, gritting my teeth, clenching my fist.

"What?" Exclaims she.

"Have a name. It's Nandini." Say I, stubborn and recalcitrant.

"Right. It's protocol to address patients using their admission number. You're no exception. Now hurry up and swallow these." Says she, red capsules exposed and shimmering in her palm.

Red capsules. The worst of the lot. Aggravates the voices. Gives me a migraine, sometimes. Head throbs incessantly, till I pass out, entering a dreamless sleep for the most part.