A Five-Minute Life

“Let me go and we’ll jump off any bridges when we get to them.”

“I’m afraid I can’t condone that at this time,” she said and made a note in her chart.

Dr. C’s a mom.

“This isn’t a prison,” I said stiffly. “I’m not an inmate. I’m a patient. I should be able to leave whenever I want.”

“I have power of attorney,” Delia said and exchanged glances with Dr. Chen. “And so long as the doctors think you’re safer here, then that’s what I want too.”

“That made sense when I was incapacitated. But I’m not anymore. You can’t keep me here against my will.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Delia crossed her arms. “We have to wait and see—”

“God, Deel. If the medication stops working, it’s all the more reason for me to get out now. I need to live. I’m not sick. I’m me. I’m right here.”

“Is this about the orderly? Is he putting ideas in your head?”

I threw up my hands. “You know what? I’m actually capable of having my own ideas. And dreams. I want to take a trip. To New York.”

“That’s hundreds of miles away.”

“Do they not have hospitals in New York?” I tapped a finger to my chin. “I can’t remember…”

Delia rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come on,” I said, trying to lighten them up with a laugh. “It’s not like I’d be stranded in a desert if something went wrong.”

Delia gave Dr. Chen a pleading look. “Can you reason with her?”

Dr. Chen shifted, looked uncomfortable. “The bottom line, Thea, is that it’s far too early to gauge any long-term side-effects. I’d prefer to keep you under observation.”

“Fine,” I spit the word. “But how long?”

“A month, minimum. Maybe two.”

A month? Holy fuckballs, no way.

“I did two years,” I said, biting out each word, so they wouldn’t put me on watch. “I guess a few more weeks won’t matter.”

But it did matter. Those years were a long, endless reel of sameness. Wake up, eat, watch The Office, take a walk, draw pyramids, scream for help, eat, go to sleep, wash, rinse, repeat. In five-minute increments. Until Jimmy heard my cries and added music and color to my monotone, monochrome existence.

Now I had a real life in all its beautiful, painful, amazing glory, and they wanted to keep me in prison. Seconds ticked away. I could practically count them with the beat of my heart.

Dr. Chen finished her exam and Delia stood up.

“I need to run an errand in Roanoke. I’ll be back later.” She gave me a stiff hug. “Be good.”

“No promises.”

I sat in the quiet of my room. It wasn’t as vast and empty as the horrible silence of the amnesia, but it wasn’t living.

I took my cracked cell phone out of the top drawer of the new dresser they’d given me—taking a peak under a stack of new, lacy underwear that my wallet was still there—and scrolled through iTunes. I put on “Tidal Wave” by a new band who’d come up in the last two years while I dressed in a pair of those new lacy panties, jean shorts, and a pink T-shirt.

I took my phone with me as I headed downstairs. It was technically breakfast time but screw my routine. I needed to paint.

The rec room was deserted, only the empty canvas waiting for me. I squeezed paint dollops onto my palette and reached for a brush. No, a brush wasn’t going to be loud enough.

I put the canvas on the tarp on the floor, and using my hands, scooped a handful of purple acrylic paint. I let a stream of drops fall, like tears, then kneeled and swept my hand over the canvas.