II.

“I should have waited until Monday.” I mutter to myself while I stare out the window. I am not sure how much time has passed, but I can see soldiers heading home for the day. Shifts are over. “Must be 5 o’clock.” I continue muttering.

This room is disturbingly quiet – except for the air conditioner’s motor and the loud click of the seconds hand on the mounted clock. I might have been feeling confused, frustrated, or annoyed recently, but this room feels like a prison, in which I am trapped. Thus my loneliness grows exponentially with each click emitted from the clock. I want to get out of here. While my mind is wandering I unintentionally lean my forehead against the security glass window. My breath is fogging up the glass near my face so with each expelled breath I repeatedly write ‘HELP!’ and an infinity sign with my finger in the fogged glass.

I fantasize how this scene probably appears to an observer and start to chuckle. How tragic can I behave? I feel like the main character in a dreadful seventies’ after-school TV show. I portray a ‘mentally unstable’ teenager who has been shipped off to a nuthouse because he cannot act ‘normal’ and his parents have given up all hope. I picture the psych-ward doctor coming to my rescue like a white knight on his steed. I imagine scenes where I confront my troubles and tribulations. There are fights and tantrums, false starts and regressions, and eventually sobbing huge tears as my forehead is pressed against the doctor’s as I experience my first little honest triumph. W-A-T-E-R!

Of course, meanwhile, I’ve become close friends with the tragic character in the nuthouse who, to create even more cloying pathos, commits an unsurprising suicide in an unremarkable way. Her sacrifice forces me to see the error of my way. A lame montage with shots of rain falling upon a sealed window with its white-painted stool that is slowly pealing and staining with rust from the iron bars that guard the window from patients’ outbursts. Sentimental and saccharine music accompanies these and other brief clips on the screen for a few minutes. I will have one more break down before I finally succeed in finding my self. The doors to the asylum open in slo-mo to reveal a spring morning’s crisp light from the rising sun. I walk out to an awaiting Checker cab with my ridiculously small suitcase in hand. The screen fades to white as the camera pans to the sun in the sky.

The End.

“Private Congdon?” pause, “Private Congdon?” A voice breaks through the veil of my day dream. I turn to see an army officer in BDU’s standing at the doorway with a manilla file wedged between his upper arm and his chest. I instinctively jump and stand at attention.

“Sir.” I salute while wearing my hospital blue pajamas.

“At ease, private.” He states while waving his hand at me with a disdainful look, as if to say, That behavior is utterly unnecessary right now. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I had some paperwork to fill out.”

The heavy door swings shut as he walks in the room. “My name is Captain Ross.” He continues while reading the information in the manilla folder. I notice he does not bother to look up or make eye contact with me. “It says here in your file that you tried to commit suicide. Your Staff Sergeant Ottman brought in a noose along with a book filled with your writings that he found while searching through your locker.”

I try to play this off positively. “Oh that. Well, yes I have been feeling rather down lately. I’ve been trying to find someone with whom I could talk. I think that my writings are private. They are a pressure valve and nothing else.” I smile and put on the most cheerful face I can muster.

“Clearly, Ottman, felt that you had the potential to damage military property.” He still hasn’t looked up at me. I haven’t had a clear view of Captain Ross’ face. I begin to feel like a case number – a statistic. I must only assume that because Captain Ross referred to me as military property I will not have any sympathy in here.

“No, sir. The only thing Staff Sergeant Ottman saw was an opportunity to dump me onto someone else.” My voice changes from outgoing and upbeat to flat, terse, and resolute. I look out the window again. Big, grey storm clouds are distant, a light wind is tugging at the remaining yellow leaves which are grasping hold of their places on the mostly barren tree branches. I am finished talking. I want a cigarette. I am cold. I am hungry. I want to sleep for a long time. I want to shut down.

“That may be.” Captain Ross acknowledges the reasonable possibility of my viewpoint. “Regardless, I want to keep you here a few days so we can observe your behavior.”

“Oh.” I state flatly.

“Is there anything you might need that we can have your Staff Sergeant Ottman bring you?” Captain Ross perfunctorily asked.

“Yes sir. Please tell Ottman, I want my damn cigarettes and lighter from my room.” I angrily blurt out.

“Hmm … Anything else?” He asks me.

“Sir, nope.” I hostilely respond.

“Alright then, private. The nurse will be in to grab your remaining clothes shortly. I will see you on Monday.” Finally looking at me, I see his eyes reflect pale in the window. I look back at him. His face is dull, bland, pinkish-white. I cannot find a trace of emotion in his visage. The military has done a number on him. He is between 25 and 45 years old. I shiver. I play it off as I am cold, but it truly comes from looking into his blank eyes. They share nothing. Captain Ross is already dead inside.

I continue watching him as he heads to the nurses’ station ten feet from my room. While there, he jots down something in the manilla folder. Shortly, Nurse Ratchet returns to my room. She collects my clothes and informs me that we will be heading down to the mess hall in a few minutes.

I can hear the pre-recorded bugle playing Evening Colors through the speakers outside. In theory, I am supposed to stand at attention and, if possible, salute.

I sit down on my bed and wait for something to happen. I’ve been in the military long enough to know I am being subjected to the hurry up and wait game. That I can deal with, but what I cannot abide is the silent treatment I am receiving. What the fuck is going on? No one has been forthcoming with me. I’ve been fed pills, dressed in ignorant looking baby blue hospital pajamas and booties, and left in a cold empty room without a chair. When was this indignity going to end?

Eventually, nurse Ratchet comes back in the room and informs me that it’s time for dinner. For the first time since I entered this room nearly three hours ago, I am free from its chilly confines. I am with the other prisoners patients, finally, as we head, surrounded by guards dressed as orderlies, to the mess hall. We are all vastly different. Black, brown, yellow, red, and white, male and female, each has a representative in our little clique of dysfunctionality. Looking around at the rest of the inmates patients, I realize I am surrounded by some seriously fucked up individuals. I don’t belong here at all.

I need to correct this situation promptly.

Dinner passes in silence. Quiet conversations occur but they are clearly private. As soon as some of the other patients finish their meals, they head out a side door for a cigarette. I immediately head toward them in hopes for a smoke. Lucky for me, these patients are female. I have an easier time talking with military women than I do with military, or any for that matter, men.

“Can I perchance bum a smoke from one of you?” I ask politely with a small bashful smile.

“Oooh, I wish I could do that, but newbies in the kookoo ward aren’t allowed to smoke for two days. I am not surprised that no one, as of yet, told you.” She says with sympathy and a bit of contempt toward the nurses and guards orderlies.

“Seriously?” I state completely frustrated. “That completely blows.” I press the palms of my hands against my face. “Sorry, I am not pissed at y’all. I just don’t understand how this tactic is supposed to gain my trust or be forthcoming with personal information.” I look around. I can see our jailers orderlies standing at the doorway to the cafeteria. One of them has his eyes on me and the two female patients. Creepy, much?

“Well, if you don’t comply they will strip away your privileges until you do: no boots, no BDU’s, no smoke breaks, no television, no phone, eventually you can’t leave your room and meals are brought to you. It’s best if you just play the game.” The two women explain at the same time.

“Aurgh!” I state utterly annoyed. “I’m Michael, by the way.” I smile and wave.

“I’m Patricia.” Says the brunette.

“And I’m Stacy.” Responds the redheaded girl with the long gauze bandage on one of her wrists.

“So.” I ask rather awkwardly, “How long have you been in here?”

“I’ve been here since Monday.” Stacy responds while taking a long drag from her cigarette.

“I’ve been trapped here for two weeks now.” States Patricia as she exhales a big cloud of smoke into my face.

I smile and wink at her in thanks for doing that. She makes a sly grin. “The doctor’s keep telling me that I am going to be released soon. Being that today is Friday, nothing will happen until Monday.”

“How long does one stay in here?” I inquire.

“From what I have gathered, that depends on why you are here. The depressives and suicidals stay for one to two weeks. The alcoholics and addicts are here for shorter periods but apparently return on a rather regular basis. The bi-polars? Well they are stuck here until someone can figure out what to do with them. How they made it into the military, I am not sure.” Stacy repeats Patricia’s action and exhales a large cloud of cigarette smoke in my face. My eyes sting, but I am appreciative and nod as if I am now in the know.

“So what brings you both here?” I ask, perhaps inappropriately. “Were you friends before your stint here?”

“Oops.” Stacy over-emphasizes accidentally dropping her partially smoked cigarette on the ground and then uses her eyes to tell me: Get my cigarette for me and take a couple puffs while you’re down there. While I am crouching down and taking a couple long deep inhales, Stacy answers my question. “Clearly, the United States Army is not into cutters.” She shows me her wrists. Pale, bone white scars of tiny cuts going up and down her forearm stand out amongst the freckles.

“Nice! Didn’t they catch those scars during your entry physical?” I hide my shock well and continue the conversation as if we were talking about something as common as swapping recipes.

“The recruiting sergeants turned a blind eye because they wanted to keep the quota up. If they had stopped me, I would never have made it to lovely Fort Hood, Texas.” Stacy grabs her cigarette from me and harumphs over her experience. This is followed by a long deep inhale.

“I like pills.” Patricia states proudly.

“Unfortunately, I overdosed a couple weeks ago. My roommate found me unconscious on my bed choking. Long story short, she told my master sergeant, and he dragged me here two weeks ago.” she explains succinctly. “Oops.” Patricia imitates Stacy’s earlier cigarette mishap.

“Here, let me get that for you.” I smile as I crouch down to pick up her nearly finished smoke.

“You go ahead and have it. I am finished.” Patricia quietly responds. “Hurry up. The orderlies are coming this way. Dinner is over. They need to escort us back to the ward.”

Stacy snubs her cigarette out in the ashtray, I take a final puff and put Patricia’s butt in the ashtray, stand up straight and follow the two of them into the cafeteria. “Thanks for all the information. I hope to see the two of you around later.” I smile.

Once we return to the ward, a new nurse ushers me back into my room. “Since this is your first night here, you will be in isolation. We need to make sure you aren’t going to do anything to harm yourself.” While Nurse Ratchet was very assertive, this nurse is very aggressive. The essence of dyke oozes from every pore. She’s a big ol’ bull dyke.

“You mean I am stuck in this room?” I ask, rather horrified.

“Yup. No visitors, no phone calls, no television.” She starts heading to the door.

“But I am not tired. I have nothing to keep me busy.” I explain, shocked at this present situation.

“Here.” She opens a closet door and tosses a book at me.

“The Bible? Seriously? You are joking right?” I am flummoxed.

“And here.” She hands me a couple pills in a wax paper cup with some water in another paper cup.

“What are these.” I ask.

“They will help you relax.” She states as I down the pills and sip the small amount of water. “Good night.” She turns heads to the door, turns off the light and closes the door behind her.

“What the fuck?” I state to no one in particular. “If I knew trying to kill myself would lead to this amount of frustration, I would not have bothered. Some things are just not worth the effort.” I continued talking to myself as I gingerly crawled under the crepe paper sheet, afraid my thin blue hospital gown would tear it.

I pick up The Biblefrom my bed, look at it, and drop it on the floor.

“Great, apparently I am too lazy to commit suicide the right way.”

 

Original work by Michael Congdon, Hivster Contributor.