The uneven shadows sprawled across my prone form as I stared up at the ceiling. They put bars on the windows, but it didn't matter. The windows didn't open. Not this high up. That was a bitch, especially in the summer when the aging building's weary air conditioner labored to cool even the first floor. The second floor was Mumbai. The third floor, Death Valley. The fourth: Hell. I made my home on the fifth floor, so high above the ground that a fall would most certainly be fatal.
The windows didn't open on the fifth floor. And that was okay, really, when all was said and done. I was fine with that, really. Truly. Fine. Fine. Okay. Alright. Fineokayalrightfineokayalirghtfine!
Sorry, it seems I got away from myself for a moment. You'll have to forgive me, they stepped me back. Brought me down. Lowered my dosage – my four-course meal of rainbow pills, as it were, was dropped to three. An appetizer of Haloperidol; a nice, meaty Promazine serves as the main course. Desert is lighter, a nice Lorazepam. Then it's bedtime, and I go to sleep. You have to go to sleep at bed time. They cut your lights and your only company is silence. But I digress… where was I?
Yes. The shadows. The shadows are the sun, really. Can't have one without the other. Shadows and darkness are two different things. That gawking sun peered between the wrought iron bars that framed the sill, mocking. Laughing. Taunting. He's free, you see (more so than me), to shine on every tree and the good doctor says that I should ignore him. Doctor Madison still talks to me, though I know he'd rather not. The fifth floor is for those like me. We're not leaving here. Or so they tell me. Dr. Madison's words, not mine. I know that I'll leave – indeed, I'm working on it as I write this. This is going to be my letter of resignation, my "fare-thee-well" to Our Mother of Grace. My final "fuck you" to the Dr. Madisons of the world.
It's getting cloudy, now. Everything has taken on a soft, fuzzy edge. Could be idealism creeping in, or foolishness on parade. Could be. Should be. But likely not. I know better. I'm not mad. No madder than Sheridan's neighbor who whistled as his wife clawed the dirt. It's getting hard to write, so this must be the end. They said I'd never leave, especially under my own volition. Here I am defying both counts. Here I stand, degenerate son. Here I lay, great and terrible father. Dr. Madison gave me the Lorazepam I kept tucked under my pillow.
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"That which my father hath given me is greater than all: and no one can snatch them out of the hand of my father. I and the father are one." – John 10:29
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Comments
I think my favourite part, however, is the sudden switch to an almost patient rationality, such as:
"Then it's bedtime, and I go to sleep. You have to go to sleep at bed time."
It can be interpreted as an explanation of the rules in the facility, with the emphasis like this:
"You have to go to *sleep* at bed time." As if to say that you cannot stay awake and do what you want.
Or it can be interpreted as sort of stating the obvious, especially when I mentally added the comma:
"You *have* to go to sleep, at bed time."
It strikes me as a sort of unraveling, like someone who patiently explains something to someone who knows nothing. It's this role-reversal, of the "insane" person patiently explaining reason (bed time = sleep) to the reader.
It's unnerving and delicious.
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"Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way. No day but today." - RENT
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