Bright Lights
An excerpt from “Re-Purposed: An Unlikely Redemption Story”
I’m dizzy before I open my eyes. When I do, I’m blinded by florescent bulbs that radiate heat as well as unbearably bright light.
It smells. Simultaneously of shit and antiseptic. The walls are dingy and stained yellow. They visibly bear the years of neglect.
I hear a buzzing, and I remember where I am.
It’s electrical. Pulsating. Relentless.
Like my brain.
Both are infuriating. I want it to end.
The plastic covering on the mattress beneath me is cold and clammy. I can feel the cracks on my bare skin. I’m practically exposed in a the worn, thin hospital gown.
There’s a blanket draped sideways atop me. It is as thick as tissue paper and not nearly long enough to reach my toes. It feels like it is made of brillo pads.
What time is it? I wonder.
What does it even matter? I answer.
And, then I sigh like a melodramatic teenager. This fucking nonsense in my brain. Pulsating. Relentless. A garbage pail, that thing is! Full of irrelevant bullshit swirling around in circles never bothering to slow down.
When I awaken, this is the scene I face: I’m in a hospital bed on the seventh floor. The seventh floor of this particular hospital is the psychiatric ward. Thus, I’m in a psych ward.
What the fucking shit?
I’m a little vague on the events that got me here. A small part of me feels like I need to be here but that doesn’t make me any happier about it. And, now that I’m here, someone ought to be paying attention to me.
Excuse me?
No response. I give my best stage cough and try again:
Excuse me!
The words come out louder than I intend, but I don’t give a shit.
Yes, sir. What is it?
The voice comes from the other side of the room, behind a partition. Must be a nurse, I think.
She sounds annoyed as well, so I do my best not to be a bitchy little brat in response, although I want to.
Is there anything for me to eat in this place?
A hand emerges from behind the partition and points to a sea of identically assembled trays.
Each tray contains a carton of milk, a sandwich of pimento loaf with yellow cheese and cookies that look like they were made from Styrofoam. The chips reflect the florescent light and look plastic-y, like a child’s toy.
A woman emerges, the one belonging to the arm presumably. She grabs one of the green-gray trays and sets it down with a thud next to my bed. I make no comment about her rudeness.
I’m already tearing the wax paper bag, surprising even myself with my haste.
The food fills my stomach and I slither down the mattress as a wave of warmth comes over me. As quickly as I woke, I’m out again.
The scene is almost exactly the same when I wake up. Like I’m stuck in some kind of nightmare Groundhog’s Day.
There are, I notice, also no freaking windows. I can’t tell if it’s day or night.
Right on cue, my mind starts racing, but instead of spitting out the usual laundry list of errands and work stuff, I start thinking about milk cartons on food trays.
I think about elementary school. About the girl who died. I want to go back to time before she died. When we played in the yard and things made sense.
I hope the sandwiches are better this time around, I said.
I remembered the arm that belonged to the woman behind the curtain earlier; maybe they had the audacity to make me share a room. With a crazy person!
Cereal and fruit cups, today, sir.
It’s not a woman’s voice this time. There was an annoying pitch to it, but it was deep, husky. I pictured an overweight balding man who believed he was Jesus or a 10 year old boy.
A grinding rage starts to well up inside me. I don’t appreciate that there is is someone else in my room. My hands start to sweat. I bite my lower lip.
For crying out loud, I’m in a fucking psych ward. Somebody pay attention to me!
And, this fucking guy is a talker, blathering on and on about nothing that matters. None of it makes sense. He’s clearly in the right place because he’s a fucking lunatic.
I’m in the right place, too, but I don’t fucking need it.
This was an excerpt from: Repurposed: An Unlikely Redemption Story, by Jonathan Casey
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