Ward 21

I am not amused.

I do not enjoy collecting myself to the nurses' station, banging quietly on the glass asking for my pills.
Watching the janitor have to take the back route in order to drag his bulbous mop and bucket with him, disguising his steps because he is not "one of us". 

Eating the cafeteria food which is served up with a heavy dose of arsenic, bubbling from beneath the crumbs and the complimentary beverage.  Looking into the colours of the wall and dreaming dreams I might not have a right to be dreaming.  Examining the closed up sources of power which dwindle from the bodies seated near me, and feeling like I've stepped into the wrong room - again.

Thank god for the doodles I make at night, in the stolen notebook I keep beneath my dirty pillow.
When the lights go out, I make worlds and adventures and pathways that they could never find their way to.  Thing is, I would Want them to, if they really wanted to, but they don't.  WANT to.  The pills, the slanted view, the old soap opera reruns on the rickety old TV near the ceiling, hoisted in the corner.  It plays stories that have happened already, interplay between TV stars who have died, or divorced, or had breakdowns themselves.  Maybe one of them might show their face here, in the "rest home", one day.

Thing is, the beds are pretty comfortable, you get to make the occasional phone call, they let you walk the grounds (supervised of course), even on a weekend day, if it's sunny, there are trips to the nearby museum, where you can see the colours of other people's pretty artworks, and keep doodling in the dark, messing with yourself because you need some kind of release in this place.  The bathrooms are good for that too.  Just don't let the guards catch you doing that.  I think they prefer us to be as pent up as possible and don't realize that making a self imposed stop over the rainbow (it never rains anymore here, like it used to) is good for us; they don't like the glimmer of sexual freedom in our grins when we emerge for a moment, before the afternoon nap settles in.  It's like being in kindergarten for Christ's sake. 

I don't think it matters that much, in the end, if my notebook of doodles is seen by them outside, those not in the ward. Well, it could die as happy as sunshine unbridled, in the shadow beneath my pillow, the sheets never getting changed.  But it must live out there, stand unabashed in the middle of the open field, with the breeze kissing every single page, bringing every word to righteous climax again and again in full step with myself.  And there might be a spectator or two.  People like to watch, even if they know they shouldn't.

The janitor just slinked outside the back door again.  The soaps are over for today...guess we'll have to wait until next time to see if he'll ever find out that "the baby wasn't his".  Granted, the others here love to watch, even though they already know the end to the storyline. 

Sometimes I fold up my doodles and stick them under S's door across the ward.  S had found ways to sneak in contraband to his end of the ward.  Whiskey, cigarettes, magazines....I myself keep a tiny hip flask tucked in the tank behind the corner toilet.  Good to keep all your vices as close to you as you can.  S got busted for his, but he tries and won't be dissuaded so easily.  No one's found me out yet, but I hope that janitor doesn't catch wind of it.  He'll sip it up like there's no tomorrow.  On his salary and with his life, he needs it more than me. 

I know I'll get out, and I hope S does too.  This is no place to grow old, when there are fields to be run miles and miles away, and even just outside the recreation room window.  I can't keep letting the sun set in fanatical colours and me not there to see it, my feet sorted in earth.  Whoops - time for my 5pm medication.  Should kick in by dinner time.  I think it's chicken tonight.

~ M. Lucia