Young Writers Society

I awoke to my cold room. It’s always cold in here- to the point where I’m surprised that icicles aren’t hanging from the ceiling. I wrap myself in my light brown, overly-fuzzy blanket and feel my body begin to thaw out. For once, my short brown hair isn’t stuck to my head with sweat. I guess I didn’t have any nightmares again. That’s a good sign. Despite my blanket, I’m still freezing. I pull plaid, flannel pajama pants over my boxers and throw on a black muscle shirt. I hear the click of the analog clock that seems to always be two minutes behind; one hundred and thirty seconds behind to be exact, but who’s counting?

It’s March 26, 2012; I’ve officially been here one year. The beginning months were rough: it was the typical “I don’t belong here!” screams and refusals to take my medicine. But, the days dragged on, I was forced to take my medicine “whether I wanted to or not,” and I was forced into the “community activities” that took place every Tuesday and Thursday evening. I guess it was kind of comforting that there were a dozen or so people that were as eternally screwed up as I am. On the other hand, it’s probably extremely risky to put so many schizophrenics in one white-walled room together. God help the poor girl that had to monitor these community activities.

I walk to the entrance of my room; I peek outside to see the faces I’ve become far too accustomed with. The first person I spot is Alyssa, going through her normal morning routine of talking to herself while tears stream down her face. Kathy, an older nurse, is sitting by her, rubbing her shoulders and whispering comforting words to her. Melissa is doing her morning rounds- she distributes the appropriate medicine to each patient, including myself. She beams at me as I down my pills with the cup of water she hands me; I’m sure she recalls the days when I’d insist that the voices told me not to take anything from her. John walks by my door, his eyes blank as he scratches obsessively at his scarred arm. I look at my own arms: the scars are old and chalky.

The smell of rubbing alcohol and the taste of metallic blood hits me like a brick. I crinkle my nose and quickly go back to my bed.

“Thomas! Time to go talk to Doctor Simmons,” George shouts into my open door. George is another one of the nurses here; he reminds me of those nurses that you see on television, meaning that he is much too handsome to be a nurse in a mental hospital.

Normally, this daily command would make me moan and groan. Today is different. Today is the day that Doctor Simmons would decide if I truly am ready to go home, to my loving mother and my outstandingly beautiful girlfriend. I feel like I am ready.

Doctor Simmons narrowed her eyes at my entrance, watchful of how I was looking, acting, moving, and even breathing. She had to be absolutely positive that I was ready to go home before she signed the official piece of paper saying that I was “stable for society.”

The young, pretty doctor asked me thousands of questions (or so it seemed). I answered truthfully, and a smile began to crack on her face with each answer. I talked more than I normally did, but it was about good things- my mother, my girlfriend, my aspirations when I get out, my good mood the past couple days. Doctor Simmons was obviously pleased with my progress, and she was signing that official piece of paper within thirty minutes.

What an incredible feeling it was to leave Northwest Psychiatric Hospital. The whisper of the warm breeze on my face was the most comforting touch I had felt in a long time. I heard the musical tune of birds; I hadn’t heard a bird’s song in forever. I gazed at a mother and her daughter getting ice cream from the brightly colored ice cream truck. I couldn’t help myself- my face broke into a genuine, heart-felt grin.

The next morning, I began the short walk from my tiny, comfortable apartment to my mother’s home. Although I was slightly nervous to see my mother again after such a long time, I knew she would still welcome me home with open arms. I was right. She hugged me tightly and told me over and over again that she loved me to the ends of the Earth. Her heart was beating fast and her piercing blue eyes were glassy with tears. Her house was the same as it had been when I left one year ago- warm, bright, and drowning in the most exquisite flowers that the Earth had to offer. “I have a surprise for you,” my mother whispered.

As I habitually strided to my familiar Lazy Boy leather chair, I started to ask her what it was. I stopped short in my tracks and my eyes met Lorraine. My mother smiled and put her hand over her heart; she had always adored Lorraine. Lorraine’s long black hair was wrapped into a fishtail braid, leaving her soft eyes and cheeks revealed for the world to see. Her caramel eyes took in me- all of me. Lorraine reached out her delicate hand towards me; our fingers touched and it seemed like lightning shot through my body. My God, I missed this woman.

Days passed, even weeks, and Lorraine and I were inseparable, besides those days when she went to work. The bad thing about Lorraine’s career, a nurse, was that when she was needed for work, she was needed for the whole day. But the moments we spent together were infinite, and I felt like we fell in love all over again.

Without warning, something terrible happened. My mother seemed to be coming down with something; she grew paler each hour and coughs would erupt from her fragile body each minute. Her skin was constantly burning hot, and she winced in pain at the smallest touch. She insisted that she was okay, “Just a cold, my love. Don’t you worry about me, now.”

But it wasn’t just a cold. An ambulance swept her away at exactly three o’clock in the morning. I hyperventilated as I followed the ambulance closely. I couldn’t lose my mother… not now, not when I was finally getting better. My hands gripped tight on the steering wheel, turning my knuckles a ghostly white.

Endocarditis: an infection of the heart valves or inner lining of the heart. The final diagnosis. The doctor shook his head, “It’s not looking good… We have started treatment, but it is a very aggressive infection. She may only have a couple weeks left.”

I began to collect myself, I couldn’t break down right now. My legs were shaking as I rushed to her room. She was laying on a crisp white hospital bed, and the room seemed far too sterile. My mother gave me a weak smile as I held her tiny hand. We didn’t say anything; there was no need for words. I stayed right next to until nine o’clock that night.

My drab watch read 10:17 PM. It was getting late, and just about every light in the city was shutting off, save the street lights. You should’ve stayed in the hospital. You’re the reason she’s dying now. Damn. The voices are back. Raspy and familiar, they told me that this was all my fault, that she’d still be healthy and happy if I wasn’t here.

I began to sweat profusely, my forehead and hands growing clammy as huge drops of sweat rolled down my body. I bolted down the sidewalk. I had to get away from these voices. I made sure to be careful not to let my precious cargo fall out of my pocket. My breath was heavy and labored. Suddenly, I slammed into a tall, lanky man. “Oh, I’m sorry… I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The man brushed himself off, “No worries! I should’ve been paying attention,” he smiled and turned around. My brother stood in front me. “Tho- Thomas?”

His blue eyes that he got from my mother questioned my presence. I guess he wasn’t informed of my release. James circled his arms around me in a hug- the kind of hug that you knew had a lot of love but was still very distant. We were close as children, but he became frightened of me when I started to tell him of the voices in my head.

I told him about mom. James listened quietly, absorbing every piece of information I told him. When I was done, he slowly shook his head. He insisted he’d come visit with me tomorrow, but knowing him, he’d have other plans to cancel first.

“I’m glad you’re doing okay, though. I missed you, Thomas. I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive.” Now, this was a genuine apology. I gave my brother a weak smile and said that I’d call him tomorrow morning.

He gave me another hug, and turned his head towards the apartment in front of him, “Come on, dear!” He called to the woman exiting the brick apartment in front of him. Her dark hair was in a tight bun and I could see that she was wearing dark blue scrubs- the same kind that Lorraine would wear when she had work. This woman looked very familiar…

Lorraine’s eyes met mine, but I did not see, or feel, the passion that had always been there. She seemed almost as shocked to see me as I was to see her. I knew this would happen! She’s always been too good for you. How could you think that she loved you? She is beautiful and intelligent and you are nothing. I stumbled away; she yelled out my name, pleading me to come back, saying that she could explain herself, that it wasn’t what it looked like. I felt the outline of the box in my pocket, now furious at the elegant treasure that it held inside. You bought a ring? You idiot. She would’ve never said yes, even if she didn’t cheat on you! And with your brother? HA! Classic…

I stayed at my mother’s house. There were empty tissue boxes- lots of empty tissue boxes. And lots of dishes that had to be washed, and laundry to be done, and probably bills to paid. Needless to say, the catastrophe with Lorraine that had recently occurred took a dreadful toll on me. You can’t do anything right. I sighed. I hadn’t left the house, except when I went to visit my mother from ten in the morning until seven at night; she looked worse every day. I told her about what happened with Lorraine and James; I think she was more heartbroken than I was. Her dream of me marrying this incredible, once-in-a-lifetime girl had disappeared in a matter of days.

I checked the clock in the kitchen, which was always creepily on time: 9:30. It was time to go to the hospital. I snatched my keys out of the ceramic bowl by the door and left the much-too-empty house.

The nurses and doctors that tended to my mother looked nervous as I entered; I could tell by their empty eyes and trying-to-hold-it-together smiles that today would be the day. Instead of my mother’s sweet voice welcoming me into the rigid room that I had seen too many times now, it was the sound that I used to hear on those medical shows, the sound that every person dreaded- a flat line.

My eyes were red, burning with bitter tears. I couldn’t see anything but the sight of my lifeless mother, her body colorless and somehow empty. Each time I blinked, I saw her face amongst the darkness behind my eyes. My fists were clenched tight around the bar on the hospital bed, and I began to grind my teeth fiercely. I heard the shuffle of feet as nurses came in; whether they came in to try and ease my sorrow or see if I was gone so they could take her body away, I’ll never know. It wasn’t fair.

I rocked myself in the corner of my mother’s room. The house seemed deserted without her sing-song voice filling each room- a voice that I’d do anything to hear again. In place of her voice, I heard the voices that occupied my mind: You’re worthless. You always have been! Stupid boy. What made you think that you were special? That you were better than everyone else? You are trash. There is nothing about you that makes you different, let alone special, from any other used up scum. You’ve never done anything in life but use all of your mommy’s money to make you “better;” and look at you now! You’re worse than before… Who knew that was possible?

The metal felt cool against my sweaty hand. I ran the muzzle along my throat. I wasn’t scared. I ripped open my collared shirt and pressed it to my heart. I heard a banging on the door and Lorraine’s voice: a voice that used to delight my soul.

Do it.

A click. The feeling of thick, hot blood flowing out of my body. My eyes shut steadily. What a peaceful feeling death is.