Beloved Evangeline (30 page)

I could only gape at him; I had no response. My head swirled. Another person dead because of me—worst of all because she was the very one I dedicated my life to save. Just the thought made my stomach lurch, and I felt like I was going to be sick. The doctor, taking advantage of my momentary distraction, stuck a needle in my arm and pushed the plunger. I tried to protest, but my throat burned so badly that only a nightmarish rasping sound came out. Another real-life nightmare to add to my ever growing collection.

26.

Madness

Days crawl by slowly when imprisoned. In the psychiatric hospital, there is nothing much to do besides watch sadly generic day time television shows, take medication, and have my vitals checked every hour by a bevy of different nurses. No point in mindless chitchat with any of these people or bother trying to convince any one of them of my sanity. Those here neither care nor had the power to grant my freedom.

I would describe the general flavor of the place as bottled hostility. No one, including the employees, wants to be here. Everything I eat or drink leaves a metallic taste in my mouth.

A man in the rec room yelled and threw a chair at me the other day for no apparent reason.
What the hell are you looking at?
He asked before picking up the chair and screaming at top volume.

I didn’t even flinch during the entire episode, turning back to the TV as soon as the commotion was over. The man was swiftly subdued and carted off, of course. Yet here
I
remain, ironically, for my own safety.

I did try going outside with my fellow inmates at first, if only to feel some warmth for a little while, but found my sunlight sensitivity had only grown exponentially worse. Instead of the mild aversion I’d felt before my near-death experience, I found on my first day at the lunatic playground that I can no longer tolerate direct sunlight. Imagine what these doctors thought about that? They’re telling me that these symptoms are psychosomatic, that my delusions are somehow actually causing physical manifestations of my psychosis. My skin felt tingly when I first stepped outside, but I soon realized it was actually burning. Skin lesions formed within moments of being in the sunlight... is it possible even
those
were
self-induced? A burning sensation,
maybe
, but me actually
cause
skin lesions?

And then there’s the cold, blueness that I live in now. The blue hue of my vision has yet to change. How to describe it? The world is now a kind of grayish blue, the exact color of nothingness, of... death. What comes with that is a feeling of
coldness
. Or, more accurately, the coldness just never left me after my near-death experience. If I could just warm myself in the sun for a bit, it wouldn’t be so bad, but obviously, that’s out. I so miss the sun. Had I known of this side effect beforehand, I would’ve at least liked the opportunity to enjoy one last final farewell to warmth on the beach.

I’ve slowly learned that they get even more concerned when you stop caring about having a daily routine, or giving up, as I’m fond of calling it. I’ve been off and on different suicide watches and anti-suicide strategies. I think because I’ve stopped speaking, mostly. But what is the point? No one is listening. So a deep and profound sadness has its grip on me now, a feeling of utter aloneness... so what? People aren’t allowed to occasionally just wallow in sadness anymore? In Victorian times and even the early 20
^th
Century people were allowed weeks of recuperation for “brain fever” and nerves. Certainly these things still happen all the time. I mean, people
get
sad. The only problem is that now your employer will give you a day or two—at best—for an episode of brain fever. After that you’d better have a doctor’s note.

Still, no matter how much technology and society advance, people are not meant to behave as robots.

At least if I had my music...

“
Please, I
need
my music.” Those were the last words I spoke—whispered, imploring.

“
No outside music,” was the monotonic reply.

Of course—the one thing I absolutely can’t live without.

Delicacy of emotional state was definitely implied, namely
mine
, and I don’t appreciate being thought of as
delicate
. Though I must admit, for once, I actually do feel lonely. Normally I find solace and enjoyment in being alone. Now, though, without anyone to share any of my experiences with, I find it difficult to maintain objectivity.

Oh people tried to visit me in the beginning. Nicky, Simon, Gavin, Chris and my dad. Lyle even brought flowers. But it hurt too much to have them near me.

As soon as I’d finished with this thought, I heard an exaggerated “
Pssst
!” coming from a nearby room. I turned at the source of this new annoyance. Last time this happened a woman made a big to-do over showing me her collection of tissue ghosts. Each of them had a face drawn on it. I was thinking the faces looked kind of familiar when she pointed at one that resembled
me
. Aliens, I think is what she told me they were. If I had been speaking then, I would’ve told her they looked more like ghosts, and then would’ve added that her technique really left something to be desired. In my silent state, however, I’d simply turned away from her and resumed my favorite past-time of staring out the window, trying to soak up some degree of comfort and warmth through the glass. All the while thinking:
How can they possibly think I am really
that
crazy?

Quite possibly the most depressing bit of this whole ordeal.

But in the doorway today, instead of a fellow drooling mental patient, there was on oddly dressed gentleman. I say gentleman because he was wearing what I imagine was a late 19th century suit and hat. I could be wrong about the precise era, but it certainly wasn’t from today or any time during the past 100 years. The gentleman was probably middle-aged, though he looked particularly spry.

He was motioning for me to follow him to God knows where. I had lost interest in the television program that was currently on, it seemed to be one out of several dozen such reality programs, about a group of women trying to overcome life’s obstacles by sharing a house and bitching at one another—the exact type of show I would never watch of my own volition. If I had access to any sharp instruments I would surely gouge out my eyes.

The gentleman had successfully piqued my curiosity, so I decided to take a chance and follow him. He led me down the long corridor, and at that precise moment, the orderlies were rushing toward the sound of some new disturbance. The coincidence seemed strange to me, but I wasn’t quite vested enough to give it much thought.

While I had my attention tuned to the disturbance, however, I’d lost sight of him. I kept following a logical course leading to a private room at the end of the hallway. The room had been empty for some time, I’d heard, since a number of its former occupants had ultimately succumbed to suicide. The last of which had been quite a successful business tycoon, who, again, through hearsay, I’d learned had had difficulty coping with the pressure of his success and suffered a nervous breakdown. He’d leapt to his death just one day before he was to be discharged. I guess the staff had grown superstitious about the room since then.

To my surprise, I found the room empty. My instinct had been wrong. I walked around the room anyway, just to be sure. My eye hung on a pedestal sink with an oval vanity mirror above it that was tucked in the back corner of the room. Worried as they were about any of us having access to sharp instruments, including glass, none of the other rooms I’d seen had mirrors, so I hadn’t seen one since I’d arrived here. I was drawn toward the mirror for a look inside, knowing full well that this was a very bad idea. There was something irrevocably wrong with my eyes, though, and I just had to know how they looked from the other side.

I was holding my breath, and I wouldn’t be able to exhale until I’d looked in mirror. Slowly, I could see in the mirror and.... nothing. Only my own reflection looking back at me, looking much the same as it always had, albeit a bit disheveled. But, given the strange blue hue everything in my world had taken on, it was impossible to determine exact color or shade.

As I continued to stare at my reflection, a terrible feeling came over me. A feeling of utter hopelessness, hopelessness tinged with anger, anger at feeling so helpless. Anger at having feet of clay, having dreams and visions of what I wanted to do, but in reality being powerless, utterly incapable of succeeding at anything I’d ever attempted, and the knowledge that I was forever doomed for it to be that way. Compounding that feeling was the extreme disappointment I felt at having my hopes raised by the vision of the strange gentleman and then so suddenly dashed. Of course there had been no man there. Of course I am every bit as crazy as they say. Of course I am a maladjusted weirdo, just like Steve said.

I had to admit that what was weighing on me most heavily, though, was the larger disappointment I felt at having my hopes raised at the onset of this ridiculous adventure. I’d allowed myself to hope that things would be different, that the extraordinary was not only possible, but attainable, even for me, if I wanted it badly enough. The only thing extraordinary to me now is just how ludicrous that thought seems. Why would I have ever even imagined I was capable of anything truly extraordinary? My stupid reflection didn’t utter a word in defense and instead, stared back at me blankly, dumbly. How I hated that impotent look on my face. Without a single premeditated thought or even an ounce of hesitation, I pounded my fist into that reflection as hard as I could. It felt so good that I couldn’t stop.

The mirror was completely shattered by the time I’d finished. And despite the utter stupidity of what I’d just done, I felt a bit better, I bit relieved, but... now what? Surely someone would’ve heard the clamor, and in a few short moments, they’d be in here to drag me away. I decided to wait for it, to soak up this moment of peace, such moments being so rare to me these days. So I just stood there, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, watching the blood flowing down the drain, as shards of the shattered mirror continued to fall.

“
Feel better?”

It took me a moment to realize the voice hadn’t come from my own head. I whirled toward the sound of it and found myself starting in shock at the sight of the gentleman, who was standing right behind me.

He had been waiting for me after all, remaining silent during my tantrum, waiting in this sinister room with its beautiful view of the surrounding forest.

The gentleman walked around me to the mirror, examining my handiwork. “How’d you like to get out of here?” he finally said, turning to me with his eyes sparkling, apparently at the mere thought of such mischief.

I eyed him suspiciously. “You a doctor?”

The gentleman laughed hysterically. “No, no, no. Silly girl. Where would the fun be in that be? I want to... get...
you
...
out
.” He acted out this sentence with his hands, gesturing for me, apparently, to get out. “That, for me, would be quite a lot of fun, indeed. Besides, if I were a doctor, I’d feel nothing short of obliged to treat your wounds at this very moment,” he said, gesturing to my bloodied hands, “and I feel no such obligation.”

He spoke with a peculiar annunciation. Maybe he just had a peculiar manner of speaking. Or maybe, he was trying his best to sound young and modern, but it came out a bit awkward, in an unexpectedly charming way. I instinctively liked him, though I couldn’t say why, exactly. I’m usually very slow and measured in warming up to anyone.

It definitely wasn’t his physical appearance that was so disarming. His features were a bit
odd
. His eyes were a little big for his face. They were either a brilliant blue or completely lacking pigment. I really couldn’t say which. They sparkled with
life
. He was a very vivacious individual—that much was clear. He was definitely no doctor.

“
So, whaddaya say, princess? Are we ready to blow this vegetable stand, or what?”

A laugh burst free, the first one in ages.

He had a little bit of a Bronx accent, maybe? I decided he was definitely charming. Maybe I was just starved for life and vivacity, who knows? Whatever the reason, I felt a great appreciation for him, and I smiled despite the lunacy of the situation, and shook my head fervently.