Spoiler
Okay, so this is my long short story. It's pretty long, but it's really good. I'll try to post all of it for critique in the next few days. A lot of people who've read this think it' should be in general fiction, but I can't think of it as anything but pure fantasy. There is no way such story could take place anywhere, and if you feel this is a severe case of 'did not do the research', you would be right. I'm sorry if you can't suspend your disbelief, but in this case fact gets set aside for story.
Nightingale, it’s the only thing I let them call me. I tossed my name and origin years ago. They think I’m quite mad, well I am. I’ve livid in this asylum for a number of years, more then the fingers I have on one hand. When Dr. Lord-High-Muckity-Muck comes to question me I can always tell that he’s looking for something. I’m not so stupid as they want to believe. I’m not so sane either, though, as they would wish. This is why I’m here.
I talk to the voices in my head, and play in the little scenes and worlds I make. I can even change myself when I’m off in my own worlds. Of course I know they aren’t real, but it’s always fun to pretend. My worlds belong only to me. There I can play a beggar, but I’m always the king.
When the annoying people here bring me out of my world before I’m ready, I’m not so happy to talk. They think I’m being difficult. I think they’re being difficult, so it all works out. The main problem is that they don’t want to let me go anywhere until I speak to “The Doctor”. I quote this because, while he has degrees enough to be considered a doctor, he has not the brains. Wherever he’s from needs to take him back and get him a real education is all I can say.
Anyway, Doctor Crackpot wants me to come to his office today and speak. I don’t want to. I’m just a psych patient though, so I get no say in the matter. It’s not fair, but it’s life. Dr. C always asks me the same thing, about where I came from, or what my real name is.
I’m told I checked myself in one day, totally a babbling, raving lunatic. They assumed I was homeless, but could tell I was crazy, so they took me in, gave me food and a room. After I got settled in I stared at the wall for a couple of weeks, just staring. One day I simply woke up as me. I have no memory of how I got here. I don’t want any memory.
I get fragments when I’m asleep. I don’t remember them, but it’s enough to know that I broke my own sanity for a reason. Why should I try to fix something that I worked so hard to break? Doesn’t make much sense to me, but Dr. C is trying to fix me.
I don’t want to be fixed. To assimilate into society I need to be fixed. To assimilate into society most people need to be fixed. The people who come here to visit are crazier than the people they’re visiting.
Don’t get me wrong, there are crazy people here, and I’m one of them. I’m just slowly forming the opinion that everyone needs to be in a mental hospital. I think the world would be a much nicer place that way, no more wars and such.
No one wants to be in this place, except the ones who do are definitely crazy. The staff just assumes you have to be crazy to check yourself in. I agree, which is why I belong here. Whoever I was before I broke my mind, I obviously wanted to be in here, so I’m obviously crazy. I should preserve the last will of my old self before it died. Therefore I should just stay here.
To sum up, I’m completely insane, and I like it that way. The people in charge of this place don’t see it that way though. They think I should be sane. They’re trying to package me up as sane and send me out. Some of the nurses even think I’m quite sane. I heard one say if I wasn’t in here she thinks I’d make a good boyfriend.
I keep getting put up in front of the review board. Dr. C wants me out. I’m smarter than him though. I just have to act crazy and they ship me back to my little room. It’s so easy, I don’t even have to work at it, just got to be myself. Simple, no?
Anyway I see the nurses coming; I got an appointment with Dr. Crackpot now. Want to come? Oh, of course I don’t mind. I know you aren’t real, but that doesn’t stop me from being polite. Anyway, hurry up, Nurse Blonde #3 doesn’t have all day.
So, now, we’re following Nurse Blonde #3, she’s nice, but she has a tendency to talk to all of the patients here like we’re five years old. It does get quite annoying. There are very few of us who actually need to be spoken to in soothing tones. I am not one of them. This isn’t a very long walk. I’m pretty close to Dr. C’s office. He keeps me close because he thinks I “need him.” Sometimes I think Dr. C is more delusional then I am.
Here we are at Dr. C’s office. The doctor’s sitting behind his desk; his nice shiny name plate sits out front. He hopes if I see his name in a shiny and impressive enough font that I’ll call him something besides Dr. Crackpot, or Dr. Lord High-Muckity-Muck. I don’t though; it’s much more fun my way.
So, now that we’ve gotten all settled on this super comfy couch—The only good parts of these visits is Dr. C’s super awesome couch. I do love this thing. It’s nice, big, and it looks good too. Dr. C does not decorate gaudy, which I’m thankful for. Most of his colleagues’ offices look like a drunken talking frog with Alzheimer’s and color blindness designed them. I’m sure you can just imagine what those room, and that frog, would look like.
So anyway, I better listen to what His Highness has to say. He does get quite cross when I ignore him. Sometimes I even pretend that I’m talking to invisible people just to annoy him. He knows I’m just trying to make him mad too, which makes the whole scenario much more hilarious.
“Hello Nightingale, how are you feeling?” boy that man can croon! And they call me nightingale? He’s after something today, I can just taste it.
“Fine, Dr. C,” I say in a polite voice. Being insane is no reason not to be polite, correct? Dr. C frowns, I know he hates when I call him that. He thinks I should respect him. Not going to happen; but he can think all he wants, it’ll be good exercise for him.
“You know my name is Dr.-“ I tune his name out purposefully.
“Whatever you say Dr. C,” I reply boredly, yawning just to make my point.
“Now Nightingale, how would you like it if I called you something that you didn’t want me to call you?” He asks, trying to fake hurt. He’s come out with the sarcasm early today. Whatever it is he’s got, it must be good.
“I’d ignore you, but then again, you knew that already. Care to just tell me what you want to say so I can return to my room?” I punctuate this by lounging across his psychiatrist’s sofa. I so wish this was in my room; I’d sleep forever, which is probably a good reason for them not to put it in my room.
“You’re not as stupid as the staff would want to believe.” At least someone noticed. “What I have is a picture one of my staff found. They seem to think it’s you.” He hands me the picture.
I study this picture. That’s definitely me, same ice blue eyes, same skin, though much more tan than I am now, same hair, same hair cut even; super short in the back, widow’s peak, long down the side of face, cut in a slant. My hair looks like a black bird died on my head. The me in this picture is the old me. He’s young, in designer jeans and clothes. I’d guess he was in college. He’s sitting on a fountain in a park somewhere. He’s comfortable with birds at his feet, and he’s smiling. He’s smiling and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s not as mature as me.
The old me, in this picture, looks like he’s modeling for something. Whatever it was, the old me, he, probably got paid well, but I know that he’s not happy. I don’t smile a lot, but when I do it’s always real. I bet the old me smiled often, but they were never real.
I’ve been looking at this picture long enough that I’m sure Dr. C thinks I’m having a breakthrough. It’s only a breakthrough if his definition of a breakthrough means that I’m even happier the way I am, safe in this asylum. I hand Dr. C the picture back.
“Yeah, this was me, from before I woke up. I’d guess this wasn’t taken too long before the old me came rambling in. I also guess that I was modeling for something in this photo, I suspect the brand on the shirt. I also can figure that the old me gave the agency a fake name, or else you would have probably called me the name that I used to have. Is any of this wrong?”
Dr. C sighs and puts the photo away. “Yes, you were modeling the jeans, not the shirt. The agency said you insisted on wearing that shirt in the photo.” He sounds disappointed that I figured everything out so fast.
“Then the old me was obviously well off, because that is definitely not a cheap shirt.” Oh, I’m so smug. “What name did the old me gave the agency?”
“Yes, you called yourself Nightingale back then too, I’m afraid. It was probably a stage name you remembered.” Well, I wish my name wasn’t connected to who I used to be, but, oh well! It’s my name, I can’t change it now. “So you want to tell me why you keep referring to the person in the picture as the other you?”
“Not really, but I suspect you’re going to insist aren’t you?” I sound like such a whiny child, but I don’t care much. Dr. C knows this already, this is just a game.
“Yes, I do insist.” He speaks politely. I do prefer it when he speaks politely, and he knows it.
“The person in that picture was who I was before I got here, before I woke up. That person is not me. It’s like they died and I was born from their body, like a phoenix.” I trail off; I really hate having to repeat myself.
“Maybe you should have called yourself Phoenix then.” Yes, Dr. C does have a bit of humor in him. It shows up sometimes, makes this whole process goes a lot easier. He should probably laugh more.
I just roll my eyes in response and keep on talking. “Anyway, so I don’t know who I was before I woke up. The old me shattered his own mind to escape something. Whatever it is, I’m quite content not to know, and I’m quite content to stay here, which was the other me’s last wish.” I sum up the same way every time. I don’t really lie to Dr. C much; I just don’t volunteer new information. If Dr. C wants it, then he can work for it.
Dr. C merely sighs. He’s not as disappointed as he tries to portray, I can tell. I’m not sure what he’s up to, but I’m starting to itch with curiosity. I’m not going to let on though, so I wait, seeming patient, until he speaks. “You know Nightingale, if we are able to find where you came from, then we can turn your care over to your family. You’re no danger to society, or yourself. You really don’t belong here.”
My heart nearly jumps up in my throat. I don’t want to leave! I try to act nonchalant, but Dr. C definitely saw how scared I was. “And what if I have no family? Or I was orphaned, or I’m some crazy serial killer or rapist, or horribly addicted to drugs? Are you just going to let me out then? When I have no one to care for me?”
Dr. C sighs, he’s not too old, only in his late forties, but he looks so old when he’s feeling sympathy for me. “Nightingale, don’t get me wrong, but you’re not as insane as you’d like to believe. You see the world for what it is. You don’t have fits of anger. You aren’t addicted to drugs. I think, aside from some lost memories, you’re quite mentally sane.”
I laugh, how can I not? This is why I call him Dr. Crackpot. He doesn’t get it. I’m not curious about who I was before I got here, there was something very wrong for the old me to have become me. I didn’t simply lose memories, a whole personality died. I don’t know what I am from, maybe I was a stage act, or what the old me wanted to be. Whatever I was, whatever I have become, I can’t be fixed. To fix my mind I, Nightingale, would have to die, and whoever I was before would have to be necromanceed back to life. Who I was before killed himself in order to escape something. Again, I’m not keen on finding what the old me was running from. I listed off things I have wondered about who I was.
I do try not to poke at the subject too much, but sometimes it’s hard. I am curious by my nature. I don’t want to know what he broke his mind for so that I was made, but I still feel this un-scratchable itch to find the truth. If I find the answer, though, I know that the person who I am, the person called Nightingale will simply cease to exist. I’m not curious enough to kill myself, which is one way I know I differ from my old self.
We’re quite for a long time. I don’t mind that much. I’ve closed my eyes, and I’m about to settle in for a good nap when Dr. Lord High-Muckity-Muck stands. So annoying, I’d like to have a nap, jeez! “I think we should conclude our session. I’m going to see if maybe I can find a little more about who you were.”
I stand up, rolling my eyes as I stretch out my muscles. Turns out I’ve been sitting for a good two hours. Time sure flies when you’re lost in thought. “Yeah, you do that, Dr. C, I just can’t wait.” I sound like I just got bit by the sarcasm bug.
“My name isn’t Dr. C, it’s-” Whatever, I simply nod and go to the door. Nurse Redhead #1 is there to escort me back. I like her, she’s quiet, the shy type, I feel. She doesn’t belong in here, not to be a nurse or a patient. I don’t think the whole world should be in an insane asylum, just most of it.
Redhead #1 takes me back to my room. I flop down on my bed. I have a nice knitted afghan that a bunch of church ladies made for me. A bunch of the less crazy of us got nice things like this. While I enjoy the blanket, I’m glad the asylum limits the number of gifts the church groups can send, or this place would be covered with doilies and lace.
I lie back down and stare at the ceiling. I close my eyes. I’m going into my world now, you can follow if you want. I let Dr. C slip from my mind and I delve down into my world.
When I open my eyes again I’m sitting at a fountain, posing for a picture. I’ve taken myself for a model, but this doesn’t seem wrong. That picture has knocked on the door of my brain a bit, maybe stuck a letter in the mail slot. It’s got a bit of itself in without having to violate my mind. I like that.
I lean back, staring at the sky. It’s so blue. We have a garden here that I can walk in sometimes, but the sky I normally see is nowhere near so clear as the sky I stare at now. It’s a little weird, actually.
I lean back more, and slip. Ugh! I stuck my hand in the fountain, so annoying. The fountain is surprisingly clean though, so I supposed it can be forgiven for getting me wet.
The camera crew, who have been snapping pictures furiously of me before, now stop to laugh at me. I can only smile shyly as a young woman, I suspect some kind of assistant, comes over and dries my hand off. “You’re doing well, try not to lose focus too much or you’ll end up completely in the fountain.”
Oh! I hate being told what to do! As soon as the young woman fades back into the crowd I slip back into the water. The crew gasps, expected that I hit my head or something, hoping I didn’t pass out from exhaustion or heat; it is rather, no, it is extremely hot out today. I come up out of the water and sit back in my regular position on the fountain’s edge before striking a pose. The crew-people laugh and started taking pictures again.
I laugh as well; I’m in quite a good mood. I didn’t realize it before, but I’d been so depressed, I still feel depressed. I suddenly feel suffocated by it. It’s choking me, stealing my air, invading my lungs. I can’t breathe. The crewmen are still laughing; they think I’m joking again. I fall backwards into the pool of water behind me. I see stars, I’ve hit my head. Everything I see is through a water lens. I inhale water. It’s driving out the depression, but I’m still dying, that’s okay. I can still hear the camera crew laughing.
I jolt awake, sitting upright. I know what that was, it wasn’t my world, it was a memory of the old me. Panic jolts through me, I don’t want to die! I’m not the rightful owner of this body, I am its second inhabitant, but why should that matter? I care for it better than the old me did; he wanted to kill it. I don’t want this body, or myself to die. If the old me comes back, then everything will be killed, all that is this body, and who is in it. My worlds will be destroyed… I can’t let those people in my kingdoms die…
Above all else I can’t tell Dr. C. He’ll think I’m having a breakthrough. I can’t let him know that somewhere inside me the memories of the old me lies dormant; that maybe even the old me lies dormant, in some far-off suspended animation in the back of our mind, hidden off from me where I can’t find him.
I’m tired, exhausted, panting for breath. I had been drowning, but not in water, in who I used to be. I can’t let that happen again. I need to sleep in the refuge of my kingdoms. I need to sleep, have to sleep, have to get to my people.
I close my eyes, concentrating on my kingdom, where I belong. I slip down into the fabric of my worlds. When I open my eyes again, I see nothing. I am the blind man this time. That’s fine, I need a break from seeing things anyway, and I don’t mind hobbling around for a bit.
As disconnected as I am from my body at this moment, I can feel it curling up under the blankets on the bed, and gently lull off to sleep. When I leave this blind man’s body I will return, rested, to the real world.
