mR.m

Another one for File 13. I keep losing my focus. Anyways, I didn't bother with proper punctuation and/or grammar. Oh and, probably a ew typos there as well. My "F" key is sorta messed up, and I can't be bothered to fix it hehe.

'The life and times'

Part I: Jane of Suburbia

They found her lying dead on the floor. Her wrists poured out crimson regret, staining her dress and her hair.
We gathered around her corpse, patients and doctors alike, united in our grief. The morning light reflected off her pale skin and made the blood shine like a pool of amber. In the back someone started to cry, then everyone joined in.
Except for me. I would not weep. I promised her that.
One of the doctors placed a sheet over her, his tears flowing freely. I stood there staring at the room she had died in. The paper rose I made her was sprayed with a ruby mist.
I went back to my room when they took her away.
In the privacy of my cell, I broke my promise to her. I knelt down, and felt the warm tears roll down my face.
She was on my mind constantly for the next month. Her bright eyes and her sweet smile torturing my every waking moment, and her crsytal laugh pervaded my dreams.
She did not want to be forgotten.

***
The barrel of the gun felt ice cold as I put it against my temple. I was weeping, no, bawling like a baby. I remember exactly how I got to this point.
I ran out of toothpaste.
I know that sounds silly, or down-right stupid, but that's the truth. The smallest things trigger my suicidal impulses. Doctors call it "Manic Depression", but what difference does it make?
I'm going to kill myself for a fucking empty roll of toothpaste.
"Honey for God's sakes open the fucking door!!!"
My mom's voice is punctuated by the banging she made. I barely understood the words I screamed back.
Something about not understanding me, not caring, not buying enough goddamn toothpaste.
I close my eyes and pull the trigger. In the distance I hear more shouting, then a loud crash, then nothing at all.

The first thing that woke me up was the pain. It was a dull, throbbing pain. The kind you usually get with a hangover, only times ten. A flood of white-hot light burns my eyes, and I see a team of men(or women?) with surgical masks crowded around me. Where Am I?
"Scalpel" one of the masks says. I close my eyes, and drift off to sleep.

When I woke up I was already in the hospital.
"A mental health facility" my cousin says, as he sat by my bed, looking at me with a mixture of relief and worry.
"You mean, a loony bin? A nut house?" I say with great effort. For some reason my voice was weak. Hell, I felt weak all over. What the hell happened to me?
"Yeah pretty much"
'What...why am I here?"
He looks at me funny, like I had just made a morbid joke.
"You tried to kill yourself dude."
The frankness in his voice surprises me.
"What?"
"Yeah you...you tried to pop a bullet in your brain. You were yelling something about toothpaste, if I remember correctly"
"...Toothpaste?" He must have heard wrong.
"It's actually kinda funny if you think about it" He says with a playful smile. That's always been his way of coping with a serious situation, making jokes.
I wasn't humored. I shoot him a look that wipes the grin off his face.
"Too early for jokes huh? Figured as much"
"Why the fuck would I try to kill myself?"
"Well, I was hoping you could tell us."
I couldn't.

***

The next day I was carted off into a private room. By then I had regressed into an almost catatonic state, neither thinking or feeling. I was alive, but only in the breathing sense. I'd eat when they'd feed me, go to the bathroom if I had to piss or shit,say "Ow" when they prodded me with a needle, but other than that, I was as dead as could be.
I'd stay awake for weeks at a time, just staring at the wall, not thinking, not feeling.
Just breathing.
They gave me pills to help me sleep, but they rarely ever worked. When they do, I only sleep for about an hour or so.
I didn't like sleeping anymore. The nightmares that came with it, the endless running in the dark, the shapeless monsters in the black corners of my mind chasing me relentlessly, scared me to the core.
My sanity was slipping, whether I was awake or asleep.
On my second month in confinement, I snap. I was in the recreational room at that time when I felt the last vestige of sanity and normality slip.
I screamed, I kicked, I yelled, I wept, I swore. I hit one of the orderlies in the face, I destroyed one of the gurneys, I ripped of my gown, I swept the tv onto the ground.
I had finally gone insane.
And it felt good.
The doctors finally got me under control, slipping a needle filled with sedative into me. I was amazed at how quick these lab coats could be sometimes.
I slept for 3 days.
When I woke up, I was in one of those straight jackets you see in the movies, in a padded room with a small window at the door. It was like living in a giant bed. A literal Bed Room. It was with that thought that I laughed. For the first time in a very long time, I laughed. That was just too funny, for some odd reason. I should do stand-up. Comedy for the mentally unsound.
They finally let me out of confinement after I started talking to the nurses that came in to give me my meds, I even exchanged friendly small-talk with my doctor. I returned to my old room, feeling relaxed and calm. I guess sometimes you really do need to go berserk.
Keeping sane is such a maddening chore.
I requested for pen and paper. They were reluctant at first, and I couldn't blame them. Though I felt normal and calm, I somehow still managed to find suicidal thoughts surfacing every once in a while. Finally they relented. I pushed away all thoughts of my own death and started writing. I wrote feverishly into the night, writing until I started cramping my own fingers.
Pretty soon, my hands were able to keep up with the thoughts that fired in my head. I filled up notebook after notebook with whatever I could think of, rambling on and on to the paper. I found joy and peace with every sentence let loose from the pen. The medical staff found my writing fascinating, some just thought it crazy. It didn't matter. Writing was the best medicine for me, better than any lexapro or stilnox.
I started channeling this joy outwards, talking more and socializing with the other patients. I actually found most of them fascinating. Here were the most sane people I could encounter. People unafraid to say, think, or do whatever they wanted, unbounded by the confines of a rigid society.
I was sitting with my friend Mary, a schizophreniac, talking about flying elephants and underground when she caught my eye. She was sitting there, alone, like I used to be.
She glanced in my direction, and caught me staring. Her smile was slow, but sweet. I approached her and struck up a conversation.
Nothing interesting really, just small talk. Stuff like,

Hey, whatsup?
Yeah, that was a stupid question.
I hope you dont mind me asking but, what are you here for?
Oh, same as me then.
Why, what did you think I was in here for?
Really? I look like the type?
Green Jello? Never been a fan. Always was partial to the red one.

And so on and so forth.

Hers was a face meant to laugh, and she did a lot of it. We talked for hours, in a way, we almost talked ourselves out of our respective dementias. We talked 'til the doctors carted us back into our rooms.
I was outside my door, when I turned and asked,
"Hey uhm, I never did get your name."
She turned back, and gave me another saccharine smile,
"I'm Jane. It's been nice meeting you."
"Yeah...yeah it was."
That night, I knew I was in love. And I knew she was too.
I fell in love with a crazy girl in a nut house.
It never felt this good before. Falling in love comes easier without the barrier of sanity.
I was falling asleep, and the last thing that crossed my mind before I started dreaming of her was that, for the first time in a long time, I was happy.

I had found my Eden, and it was a crazy house.
***

__________________
getting older but getting nowhere...

What do you mean it's last call?! I just got here!