FicWad

Chapter 2
The staff must’ve forgotten to wake me up for lunch, because when I wake up, it’s 8 o’clock at night. My nighttime pills await me by the door. I grin and add them to the others. 38.

Having nothing to do, I flop onto my bed. I spend most of my time in bed or in the library. I feel something hard beneath me. My pencil. I pick it up and a strange feeling of confusion overcomes me. Something’s not right. I look around my room. Everything is in place. The stack of comic books on my bureau is there. My clothes are folded neatly. My basket full of name labels is still beside my bed, questioned by the staff but untouched. What could be causing this sense of confusion?

Then I see my dream journal lying face-down and open on the floor. I remember leaving it under the covers with me when I took my nap. I quickly pick up the journal and open it to my drawing. But my drawing isn’t there. Instead, I find that the page has been carelessly ripped out. A sliver of the original page remains. All that is left of the drawing is the word prisoners. I guess I know the answer to my question now.

I thought the hospital staff didn’t read our dream journals, much less destroy them. Anger fills me. They must have not liked my drawing, I think to myself sarcastically. Then I realize something that makes me even angrier. They searched my room while I was in it, helpless and asleep. Thank God they didn’t find my pills, safely hidden in my pocket.

Being angry is rare for me. You see, patients here go through a process. When you’re first brought here by family or caretakers that don’t want to put up with whatever’s wrong with you anymore, you are PISSED. You refuse to cooperate with the staff, you don’t eat, etc. Some people, like Tammy, stay in that stage for a long time.

The staff will force you to move on from that first stage through electroconvulsive therapy, heavy medication, and punishments. They strip you down to a meek, humbled shell of who you once were. You cry a lot instead of knocking over bookcases. You think maybe pretending to be normal will get you a fastpass out of here. So you feed the therapists lies and feign mental healthiness the best you can.

But then you come to realize, you are never getting out of this place. You will never see, let alone contact your family again. The bare, windowless walls are your new home. Everything and everyone you once held dear are unreachable. You will die within the confinements of the facility.

I suddenly find myself reaching for my bag of pills. I can’t wait anymore. 38 will be enough. I begin to swallow the little white pills one by one, attaching memories to each pill.

This one is for my mother. Swallow.

This one is for my father. Swallow.

This one is for my brother. Swallow.

This one is for all of my old friends. Swallow.

This one is for the all the people I once loved. Swallow.

This one is for all the people I left behind, now reduced to faceless memories. Swallow.

This one is for my childhood. Swallow.

This one is for my teenage years. Swallow.

This one is for the five years of my life I wasted in this hell. Swallow.

The process continued until I was down to twelve and I had nothing left in my mind. Each person and memory from my past had been swallowed. Out of sight and out of mind. The last twelve pills went down all at once.

My heart is racing, but I am numb. I put my hand over my heart, feeling the frantic thumping. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. Calm down, Gerard, I tell myself. There is nothing left to be afraid of. Everything is gone. Nothing exists. No pain, no anger, no sadness… Nothing exists. Nothing exists. Nothing exists.

“Nothing exists,” I whisper. Then I let myself succumb to the welcoming darkness.