My Brain In Pieces

The Hospital

Last night, I dreamt I was in a hospital. I wish the room would change, but it's always the same. Always the same seedy room with cinderblock walls covered in a layer of moss, mold, and grime. I'm strapped down to a gurney with a white mildewed mattress pad with long blue stripes on it looking up at a single glaring lightbulb that hums loudly from the socket it dangles from. The tight corkscrew pattern of the filament inside it burns my eyes through the clear glass bulb.

My hands are palm down and I can feel the layer of dirt on the mattress sticking to my skin and clothes. I don't have a blanket on, but I have a plain white nightgown that goes down just past my knees. At least I think it's a nightgown. It leaves my feet bare, and I always feel the chill of the room.

To my right is an old porcelain sink with a faucet and knobs that have rusted and oxidized into dinginess. Above – for appearance's sake – is a plain white medicine cabinet with a mirror on the front. It's a farce. I know there are no medications in that cabinet. That's where the doctor has the recording equipment.

To my left, there's a small bedside table with a small white vase. There's some kind of floral design, but the cracks in the venire have stolen the exact shape over time. Sitting in a vase is a single white daisy.

Directly in front of me is the door that leads out of there. It's always open. And sometimes there's a plain nurse in a white nun's habit standing in the door. That's the only thing that changes sometimes – the people. The nun is by far the worst.

Her habit is white and starched so stiff, it doesn't move. Her eyes are blue and cold and so big you feel like they're sucking up all the warmth and life in the room. All I can see of her hair is her bangs, which are so pale, they're almost silver. More than once I've believed they are silver.

I can't tell how old she is. Her face is stern and hard, but there's a weight to it, and her skin isn't the fresh new skin of youth, but you'll also find no wrinkles to indicate she's a crone.

She's a nun – of that I'm sure – but deep down I know that she's no saint. I have to suppress my shivering, but she frightens me. I know the shivering will only make it worse. She likes it when we shiver.

We. There's a "we" here. I'm not alone. I can feel it. If I can get off this bed and past her, I can get to the others. Together, we might even make it out of the front door. We're trapped there, but I don't remember how I got here.

I have a sickness. My mother calls it the sleeping sickness. The doctor we saw had another name for it, but it's been so long I can't remember it right.

This hospital is a bad place. The hospital is death.

Just as I'm about to open my mouth to call for help, I wake up.

I've dreamt of this place nearly every night for as long as I can remember. It's always the same room. Sometimes there are doctors with the nun. Sometimes there's a beautiful young man with chestnut hair. Sometimes it's just me alone in the dark with the only light coming from the hallway.

Today when I got up, I tried to put the dream behind me. My father said that he's taking me somewhere special today. I don't know why, but my mother was crying and waving goodbye from the front door.

I asked him why she wasn't coming, but he never answered me, and I'm so afraid.