His preoccupation with the vague feeling that there was something he should remember lasted through dinner and the remainder of the evening. He tried so hard to remember what was on the fringe of his consciousness that it was painful, the effort so enervating that shortly before the lights were turned out he fell into an exhausted sleep.
The sweat prickling his sides and burning his eyes forced him to rub them and shake his head. He turned slightly and fell back against the door, a fearful cry forced from his throat as his reflection leaped at him from the mirror, the staring eyes burning back at him unfamiliar. Many moments passed before he realized that the sound frightening him came from his throat as he fought to get air in his lungs ... the recognition eventually registering as he stared at his image. He tentatively touched the red spot on his forehead, marked by pressing his head against the window in the door. He leaned against the door, vaguely aware of the leaping shadows and the sound from the flickering night light. Then slowly he became aware of where he was. He stared at the empty bed and crumpled linen - then swiftly turned around, his head hitting the door. Quickly he turned around again, again falling against the door. The sound from the stuttering light more frightening than the spastic shadows rolling through the room. The crawling sweat stung, yet he couldn't move his hand to wipe his eyes. Eventually the pain in his chest and the feeling of suffocation forced an end to his paralysis. He deliberately took a few deep breaths until his breathing was almost normal. Many times he looked at the short space between his bed and where he leaned against the door. He felt sure he was leaning against the door - he must be, he had to be - but the only thing he could remember was sitting on the edge of the bed. Maybe he was still there - somehow - yet he could feel the door against his back. He couldn't be sitting on the bed. Slowly he reached back, his eyes closed, and touched the door. He opened his eyes. He looked at the bed. It was empty. He must be standing here leaning against the door. THE DOOR! THE DOOR!
His body jerked spastically. Something was familiar. He whimpered as a battle screamed in his head and something fought to be remembered. He wanted to get back to his bed, pull the sheet over his head and blank the sound and mayhem from his mind, but movement was impossible. He tried leaning forward to force himself to move, but fear continued to paralyze him. If only he could.
ooohhh ... ooohhh, the whimpering cry wrenched pathetically from his twitching mouth. He stumbled around, fell against the wall and slid to the floor never ceasing his whining as he curled in a corner, the shuffling sound still resounding in his head, trying to disappear in the corner as the memory of the previous night suddenly saturated his mind. A blubbering, simpering NO slobbered from his lips. He wanted to dissolve as he pushed harder into the corner; yet, too, he tried desperately to reach to someone unseen for comfort, but his arms remained wrapped tightly around his chest.
He remained huddled in the corner until the sound stopped reverberating in his head. Then all was silent. All was silent save the flickering light. Even his breathing. The distraction of watching the shadows tumble about the room helped calm him, as did the sound clicking from the light. Time was meaningless, non-existent, as his arms slowly loosened from around him and ended up resting on his crossed legs. He sat thus for many minutes......
Eventually he raised his head and looked up toward the small window in the door. As terrified as he was of standing and looking through the window, he was more terrified of not knowing what might be out there. He continued to sit in the corner weighing his fears - then his eyes brightened slightly with remembrance. He pushed against the door tentatively - looked at it - shoved it again, harder, then leaned his weight against it as he slowly and fearfully raised himself to his feet and approached the window.
Oh please God, Please. Don't let it be there. It _has_ to be silent out there. It just _has_ to be. The shadows mottled his face as he got closer and closer to the window, not stopping until his face was pressed hard against the glass. Sweat continued to trickle and the light flickered noisily.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tighter until they ached. He listened ... listened ...
the only sounds that of the light and his breathing. His lids slowly separated and he became conscious of the gloom of the darkened corridor. Soon his eyes were accustomed to the darkness and familiar objects and the silence eased some of the tension in his body. Maybe he hadn't heard it. Heard what? If he had, what did it sound like? If he couldn't remember anything about the sound then maybe it didn't exist. The empty bed was reflected in the window. It's still empty so he must be leaning against the door. Yeah, he was here looking through the window trying to see down the corridor. But that doesn't mean there's a sound out there. No matter how real this is, it doesn't mean it's out there. But what was he doing here?
He knew he had been in the bed. Of this he was certain. Of course he was. Just look at the way the linen was all messed up. Yeah, it's only a few feet, a few steps, from the side of the bed to the door, but that doesn't mean anything either.
But how - Uhhh - Pain shocked him as the sound once again reached his ears and his body stiffened. Then all was silent. Not even the clicking of the light could be heard. Holding his breath he remained pressed against the door, conscious of nothing, not even the pain in his stiffened body. He listened intently, his body starting to twitch. His vision blurred as his head vibrated violently. His muscles cramped so painfully that he instinctively forced his body to relax before it shattered from the tension.
Then it came again, a little louder. And a little closer? It seemed to be. His body trembled as he tried to figure just how close it was. Or how far away. Yes. Away. He would think of it as far away. But that would mean it was huge if it was far away and he could still hear it so plainly. No matter how he thought of it, he could find no comfort. His whimpering was louder than the flickering light.
He stood petrified against the door. Again time was suspended until it was moved by the sound piercing the dark silence. Tears dropped from his eyes and he clutched at the door. This time there was no doubt about its being louder. And too he started to recognize it, but he fought desperately against this recognition. His head was shaking as he continued to fight and blubber. He tried to speak, but only an incoherent groan was agonizingly wrenched from his throat.
The glass in the window was wet with his tears as the sound shuffled closer and louder, his pleading increasing in intensity and volume in his mind, only a wet blubbering coming from his mouth.
His arms were stretched above him, his hands still tapping pathetically against the door as he slowly, still whimpering, folded to the floor, slowly stretching out on his back as tears rolled down his cheeks, spittle dribbling from his mouth. He fell into the release of unconsciousness.
Light stabbed his eyes and he moved slightly and smiled for a moment. Then he frowned as the sun failed to warm him. And why was the ground so hard and bare of grass? And the sounds that should be floating through the air were missing.The silence was startling.
He opened his eyes, then closed them immediately as they focused on the ceiling light. He turned his head and opened his eyes again. His vision was filled with the grayness of the door. He looked up and saw the sink. He could feel the coolness of the concrete floor and understanding slowly seeped into his mind. He sat up, hesitated for a second as he looked at the bed, then stood up. He looked all around the room - once, twice, then satisfied he sat on the edge of the bed. He shook his head ... shook it again, harder, as if shaking off a blow. Yeah, this was his room. He remembered it. Yet something was wrong. But what? He remembered being in the room and it hadn't changed. But he had been on the floor ...
The hell with it. He had awakened so many times in unfamiliar places with no memory of how he had gotten there that he just shook it off. Yet he felt something was different this time. What in the hell was it that kept nagging at him???? It couldn't be anything. He was in a locked room and he wasn't drunk. No, there couldn't be anything wrong. He went to the sink and sp
lashed cold water on his face. He wiped at his face with a towel, then sat back on the edge of the bed until the door was opened and he went to the dining room.
All through the day he responded automatically and un-questioningly to the calls for medication and food. In between he sat on his bed still feeling uneasy about something. Usually his mind was blank, or at least he couldn't remember thinking about anything. But now there was something bothering him. O hell, it's nothing. Better to concentrate on the goddamn itch that was bugging him. He looked at the red streaks and blotches on his hands and arms. He looked at his legs covered with the same angry red streaks. He examined them carefully. Ain't a damn bug anywhere. The sound of his voice startled him for a second, but he simply shrugged and continued speaking aloud, as if he were talking to someone sitting opposite him. Again and again he tried to find the lice that he knew were crawling all over him, always without success. He scratched - hands, arms, chest, every part of his body he could reach. He scratched so hard he drew blood from the back of his hand. What the hell is that? The sons of bitches bit me so hard I'm bleeding - looking at the small drop of blood. Ain't never had nothing like this before. Can't even see the bastards. Go ahead you bastards, crawl your asses off. I don't give a good goddamn. And what the hell you laughing at you lousy bastard? Yeah, that's it. You better leave I dont need any of your shit. At least I know what a clean bed is. That's more than you can say ... Oh bullshit. Go on. Get the hell out of here -waving his arm. Wise ass. It's just an itch. That's all. Just a damn itch - scratching and scratching, the back of one hand smeared with blood. He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing hard on his burning eyes, and shook his head.
He lay down, frowning for a moment, thinking, but nothing defined itself so he let his face relax and closed his eyes. He continued scratching as he drifted toward oblivion. He tossed and mumbled as an image started to form in the mist over his head. The features weren't distinct, but he was aware of a full thick beard and felt accusation burning into him. The image started to become more distinct as he gradually penetrated the fringe of unconsciousness. He mumbled louder and struggled back and forth on the bed as he fought the accusing eyes of the image. He screamed again and again, the sound of his terrified voice loud in his head, but no sound passed his lips. He continued to fling his body from side to side, his screaming voice continuing to pierce his mind, until he hit the corner of the bedstand, hard, with the back of his hand, the pain quickly yanking him awake. His breathing was rapid and shallow as he waited for the fear to drain from him.
After many minutes he became aware of the pain in his hand and sat up and started rubbing it. Soon, he didn't know when, he stopped rubbing and was scratching. Later he was still trembling, unaware that he was scratching all over with both hands. There was no attempt at thought, remembering or understanding. Only the sound of his pleading voice preventing a complete collapse. Was it sweat or tears that moistened his face? Or both? He covered his face with his hands, then looked at his moist palms. I don't know why it's raining. Every time I want to do something it rains, the rain suddeny turning into a downpour and roaring from the heavens drowning his screams. He watched as the young boy ran from the brook into the trees. He heard nothing as he ran and stumbled toward the swaying trees. He felt his pounding heart and saw his father vaguely through the cascade of rain, his arms waving and yelling to the fleeing boy to stay away. He continued to run through the trees, then suddenly seemed suspended as lightning cracked and flashed, a huge oak splitting and groaning to the ground, his father disappearing in the fiery flash and smoke.
He rocked back and forth on the side of the bed, face covered with reddened hands, trying to whine away the image. He lowered his hands, still rocking, and stared at the wall until he saw the floating shadows and the sound of rain and lightning faded away. He scratched harder and harder. It's just that my skin's dry, you stupid son of a bitch. I ain't got no damn bugs. And anyway it's none of your damn business. Get lost. He nodded at the wall. He's nothing but a big mouth. I'm not afraid of the rain. I'm not afraid of nothing. You just watch. I'll show them. And anyway, I don't care. Let them say what they want. I don't care. The back of both hands were seeping blood, his head continually nodding, as he rambled on. What do you want... the shadows suddenly started sliding down the wall as the lights went out and the night light flickered. He watched the shadows and faint splotches of light floating from one form into another. He scratched a thigh with one hand, a cheek with the other. Ha -hehehe -hahahahaha - Yeah. That's it. Go getim.
HA HA HA HA HA HA
His laugh dissolved into a giggle as Mickey Mouse butted Donald Duck with his antlers. Then Donald fell to the floor and jumped on a motorcycle and roared under the bed. Mickey leaped from the wall onto his motorcycle, but it wouldn't start. He leaned over, anxiously watching Mickey kicking the starter. Comeon Mickey, comeon, Hurry up. Getim, Getim, bouncing up and down.
BA ROOOMMM
ROORMMMM
BRRUPPPPP
UPPPP
A ROOMMMMM
That's it Mickey. He's under the bed, getim, getim. Mickey roared off with a screech of burning tires. He leaned all the way over, clapping his hands as Mickey disappeared under the bed. Then Donald roared out from under the end of the bed and leaned into a sharp turn, just missing the door. Mickey quickly followed. They raced around the room, under the bedstand, the bed, up one wall, down another, and across the ceiling. He fell back on the bed, twisting in all directions as he watched the pursuit with bouncing glee.
Abruptly there was silence as they disappeared under the bed. He leaned over and waited for a few minutes, then slid off the bed, kneeled on the floor and looked under it. Come out. Come on fellas. Come on out. He stared into the corner, then slowly scanned the entire area, reaching under the bed as he flattened himself on his stomach. Where are you? What happened, Mickey? Why did you stop? We were having fun. Please come... he froze, his body rigid as he lay motionless on the floor, his head and arms under the bed listening ... listening ...
then he scrambled under the bed as the sound once again shattered the stillness. He huddled under the bed, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. A low wail bubbled in his throat as the sound shuffled closer and closer ... louder and louder. He rolled on the floor trying to compress himself into an invisible ball and disappear into the wall. He scrambled so desperately that he banged his head into the wall again and again and crashed into the underside of the bed, the sound shuffling closer and closer.
Then he heard it. Distinctly. And everything suddenly started strangling him: the previous nights; the dreams; the warm sun and cool brook; the song of birds and gentle breezes; the sudden stinging of the flooding rain, the lightning and the groaning splitting of the tree and the gagging smell of smoke. It all descended on him as the sound threatened to crush the door. And with it a new sound, a pelting sound of rain falling on leafy trees.
The bed bounced wildly as he continued to scramble until he once more froze and just screamed, then suddenly bolted up, the bed falling over on its side, as the sound was no longer one of rain on leaves, but that of dirt falling on a wooden box. His piercing screams grew louder and echoed through the corridors ...
The orderlies and nurse rushed to his room and looked through the window, then quickly opened the door.
His screeching became louder as he saw the sound peering at him through the window. He curled into the corner behind the overturned bed, tears streaming from his eyes as the door opened and the sound started in.
They stood looking at him for a moment, then one of the orderlies rushed away, returning quickly with a restraining sheet.
His feet scratched madly against the floor as he once more screeched hysterically and cringed into the wall as the sound came toward him, partially hidden by a white mist. . .
Then it was silent. Its work accomplished.
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Im Being Good
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Jan. 6 Dear Harold:
we get pills 4 times a day and it makes me very drowsy. I am having trouble writing, we have to stay awake all day and its hard, my eyes hurt all the time. I dont know how long exactly Ive been here but they dont let you lay down during the day. the place is locked where they keep the beds. Its all sort of like a big long room with small rooms, they get us up early in the morning, the trees are bare and there are lots of birds I can see them from the window, they almost look like funny leaves.they make a lot of noise bird noise. I think I saw a doctor sometimes but I dont know, he talked funny, the birds are very noisy I think before daylight they make a lot of noise, when they wake us up a woman comes and yells and I worry the sun wont come up. Im so tired, the sun will come up wont it harold?
Jan. 10 Dear Harold:
I dont think Im so confused today. I wish I didnt have to take the medicine it makes me so tired I feel so sick in my stomach all the time. O I wish I could sleep for a long time, but Im not hungry, but sometimes a little bit I feel like eating but I cant chew it hurts my jaws or something to chew, they ache and the ears. I cant seem to hear so good, was I hearing good when you visited? I hope I was hearing good and heard you and the children together, they looked so nice in their dresses and roberts new clothes. I hope they get nice things for Christmas, they could use some clothes. O it makes me sad they dont have new clothes. I mean brand new clothes for the holidays, but we had a nice visit, but I miss everyone. I wish the children could come and see me. but they wont let them why wont they let them visit me? Im their mother I know I am. they look like me dont they? they call me mommy, but we had a nice talk didnt we harold? it was a nice visit and we talked, and you looked so nice, and I liked the candy bars you brought I think I ate them all already. O harold you did visit? I know my eyes hurt so much and Im so tired but you did visit didnt you harold? didnt you please.