{this was a story I wrote as a result of drinking coffee too late and scribbling in my notebook at 1:30 in the morning. Enjoy}

It’s too quiet. It’s always quiet. They think I’m crazy. The doctors. Words like manic and schizophrenic are used. But that was when i could be with them. Now I sit in my room. Soft white cushions cover every inch. They used the word solitary. They think I’m alone. I’m not.

I make a silly face or do a funny dance and different pills are to be taken the next day. They think I’m mental, but they don’t see the crying child in the corner. I made him laugh, once. It cost me to have to take many more pills, but it was worth it.

I smile and they think I’m loony. But they don’t see the man who showed me the card I chose. That trick is my favorite. Sometimes he makes coins disappear. Other times, he disappears. The doctors like that trick best.

I rock back and forth and I’m labeled unstable, but the sweet family family of ducks does it too. Sometimes i think being a duck would be nice. Maybe then I wouldn’t be here.

I bang my head against the padded wall. The doctors worry about something called masochism, but they don’t hear the terrible screeching sounds.

One day, I tried to bend over backwards, like the beautiful dancer. Masked people ran in and held me to the floor. I tried to explain, but they shushed me, whispering things that are meant to soothe. How do I tell them I’m not afraid?

Sometimes I scream and scream for the longest time, until my voice can’t talk anymore and my insides feel better, just because I wonder if anyone can hear me. There’s a needle after that and it makes me feel heavy. Weighed down. As if I’m not trapped enough.

The doctors come to give me food; I eat alone. Some days I don’t eat, because the homeless man on the floor needs it more. When the doctors ask why I didn’t eat, I explain about Henry. That makes them purse their lips and write on their note pads.

One time I wondered what they wrote about. When I asked, they told me they wrote about me. I tried to grab to read it. Yelling started and another needle, body heavy again.

Some days I leave the room. They tie my hands together with cold, hard bracelets. Then I sit in a brightly colored room with a clear divider between me and the woman who talks to me. One time I asked them why I couldn’t seperate my hands. They told me it was for the safety of other. I told them I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone. They respond with head shakes that look sad.

The woman who talks to me is nice. The man is mean. They both ask what I see. The man tells me I’m wrong. The woman asks me more about it. The woman learned Henry’s favorite color is purple and the names I gave the duck family. The man told me they weren’t real. I asked the man if he was blind. He laughed at me. I asked the woman why she couldn’t see the things I saw. She sighed and said my brain was different. She told me the things I see don’t exist for anyone else. That made my stomach feel bad and I began to cry. She looked sad but I went back to my room.

A ghost floated over to me and wrapped his misty arms around me. Somehow, they felt solid and warm. He told me everything was ok and that help was coming. I told him I didn’t need help, but he hugged me harder. I felt more invisible hands on me and I tried to run away. I didn’t want their touch, their reassuring words. But I couldn’t get away. Someone is calling my name. Hands I can’t see are shaking me gently. I’m crying again; I shout for them to get off. I close my eyes tight, but I still hear my name being called.

Then there’s a bright light and I’m laying on… a floor? A man I recognize and masked people I don’t crouch over me. I blink my eyes wider open. My…husband. And…EMTs. Why? My husbands arm is scratched and one of the EMTs eyes looks swollen.

“Shhhh honey it’s okay. You had another episode. Did you forget your meds this morning?”

I try to talk but it won’t work. Wordlessly, I point shakily to his scratch with question in my eyes.

“Yes, you… were kind of flailing and screaming and you tried to grab something and accidentally scratched me. It’s okay it doesn’t hurt.”

I know he’s lying. I drop my head back onto the carpet and sigh as the EMTs poke, prod and ask questions about the President and my birthday. I glance over to my right. The magic man is standing in the corner and he produces a bouquet of flowers from inside his vest with a flourish and a smile. I laugh quietly and close my eyes. He’s not real.