Crazy

The walls weren’t the right color.

“They’re blue, please, they’re supposed to be blue,” I implored the white-clad women as they ducked in and out of my room. Nobody seemed to pay me any attention; the bustling never stopped or slowed long enough for my words to catch up. I just wanted somebody to listen to me. This was all wrong, everything, the walls and the floors and the noises –

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The room trembled and quaked as a high-pitched wail reverberated off the strange walls and settled in my eardrums. Searing pain ripped through my head like I was being impaled by a hot poker. Suddenly there were hands pressing on my arms, my legs, my forehead, my mouth – oh.

My mouth. That was me. I was screaming.

“Can’t she talk yet?” I heard one of the girls whisper to another. “I’m so fucking tired of all this yelling.” The other girl giggled. What did they mean, couldn’t I talk? Wasn’t anybody listening to me at all?

“Relax, now,” one of the older women said as she cupped my face in her cold hand. I squirmed under her touch. She smelled like bleach and baby powder, and it was churning my stomach to have her so close to me. There were still too many people crowded around my bed. I felt the sting of bile rising in my throat.

“Stop it, please,” I begged, turning my head to the side. “Leave me alone.” My vision blurred as their faces grew closer and closer, until all I could see were faces, eyes, blackness – and then I couldn’t see anything at all.

“This one’s seriously batshit,” a voice echoed as the sound sped further and further into the distance. “She’ll be lucky if we lose her. It’ll save her a lot of pain.”

Lose her?

Laughing. Then nothing.

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7 comments

  1. Hi there, young-soon-to-be-mulit-published-author. Your writing is quite spectacular for a woman with a scant twenty-one years of experience beneath her pen. There’s so much more to say and so much more to live-write, write, write and we can all say we knew her when…
    AnnMarie
    new blogger, old writer

      1. Gwen,
        I wish I’d realized much earlier on that I loved writing-writing was always with me in the background but it became momentarily (20 years) diffused in the shuffle. I was an Art Director for an Educational Publishing Company-great job, hefty salary, but I wasn’t writing or doing my own art-then marriage, kids…you get the picture. It’s fantastic your feet are on your path at this stage and you possess raw talent. I hope my 15 year- old daughter figures out what she’d like to be early on too. So far, so good she’s in accelerated classes and is a terrific teen. Best of luck-truly.
        AnnMarie

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