Death.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living in an internal graveyard. Sometimes I feel like the patients roaming the halls are just souls that haven’t found their way into heaven. There are days where I find comfort in the tortured screams that echo down the corridors because they remind me that I’m not dead…
Yet.
I keep my eyes glued to the floor as two burly orderlies escort me to my doctor’s appointment. I watch our three shadows as they dance along the tan tiles and think to myself that these weekly appointments are pointless.
Useless.
Dull.
Not educational.
I can’t remember my past. And the parts I do remember only bring on memories that are painful, destructive, heartbreaking, and miserable. I think of Damien in these moments. I think of the way I held him while he took his last breaths. The way I felt the warmth slowly pour out of his skin as my fingers skimmed across his cheek.
How I gazed into his sapphire eyes with will and determination in my own, urging him in a silent way to fight for his life.
But it was too much.
It was too late.
And I had to realize that guns have more power that love, hope, or prayer ever will.
The thought of this always saddens me to the point where tears well up in my eyes and I have to raise my chin and blink them back to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks. I have moments where I have to tense up because if I don’t, I know that I’ll collapse into an emotional heap onto the floor and sob and shake and sob and shake until my limbs are like putty and my tear-ducts are all dried out.
I snap to attention when the orderlies on each side of me come to an abrupt halt. Lifting my head, I stare straight-forward as they escort me through the double doors of my doctor’s office. The walls are white and bare. There’s no clutter on the desk. No pictures.
Just four plain white walls that remind me of the walls in my cell.
Two chairs with black cushioned seats.
A large rectangular cherry colored desk.
And a chai
r with wheels behind it.
I’m shoved into one the black cushioned chairs and I gawk up at the orderly to my left when he says, “Wait here.”
My eyes scour over him and then I look at the orderly to my right. He’s staring straight ahead with a sour look on his pudgy face. These two are my usual escorts anytime I have to come here. They never speak. They’re like robots and it’s almost if their creator opened them up and wired them with purpose so they wouldn’t.
Don’t talk to the nut jobs.
You can’t.
You mustn’t.
If you do it’s a crime…
And I’m sure they’ve been told they’d be penalized if they do.
My eyes drop to the floor when the orderlies turn to leave and the sound of their plodding footsteps against the hardwood floor throbs in my ears. It’s right before they get out the door that I hear one of them mumble, “God help that one.” And at that moment, I think about jumping up from my chair, racing toward him, tackling him, and showing him what the real meaning of crazy is all about.
But I don’t.
I remain seated and lift my head, my eyes drilling into the plain white walls. I think to myself; what a simple minded asshole.
But they’re not the only ones that do it….