this one appeared and was written in a single sitting.
***
He looks at me like I'm some kind of idiot. He says they are here to help me, but I can see it in their eyes. They think I'm crazy, and maybe, just maybe I am.
I don't like this place. The walls are too white, too devoid of detail. It's the kind of place where they don't want you to get too comfortable or rest too easy. I suppose that's deliberate, although, for my condition, it's probably not going to help much. I'm hooked up to machines, some reading brain function, others reading heart rate. I glance at it and see that it's currently going at seventy-four beats per minute, which under the circumstances isn't too bad. Certainly within normal resting range. I lie on the hospital bed and realize just how exhausted I am. A normal person would sleep it off, but I know for me that's not an option. I glance at the doctor who sits in the chair by the bed, clipboard in hand and know that he's my only hope of help, but also deep down I know there is nothing he can do. Nothing anyone can do. Still, he looks kind and knowledgeable and a small part of me thinks maybe, just maybe, he can help.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks, pushing his glasses back up his face.
I want to say yes but I can't help it. I glance towards the corners of the room, it's well lit and there are no dark places, but that doesn't matter. I'm still nervous, still on edge. I nod. The doctor glances at my heart rate. It's pushed up closer to eighty.
"Just try to relax. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Answer them as fully and honestly as you can, and we'll try to help you, okay?"
I nod again. The voice inside screams at me to tell him there's nothing he can do, nothing anyone can do, but I can't do that. If I do it will be a psyche evaluation and they will lock me up and throw away the key.
"Alright," the doctor says, adjusting his position and poising his pen over his clipboard. "Name?"
"Lauriette Hutzler," I say, hating how weak and afraid I sound.
The doctor scribbles on his clipboard. "Age?"
"Thirty-three."
More scribbles. The doctor looks at me and smiles. It's the smile of a man who is confident in his abilities. He doesn't know it, but it' also the smile of a man who is out of his depth.
"When was the last time you slept?"
It should be a simple answer, an automatic response for most people, but I genuinely can't remember. It feels like forever, but that can't be possible. The human body can only go so long without sleep, and I know I'm straddling that abyss of madness, teetering on the edge of a razor blade on one foot, laughing manically and waiting, always waiting for him to come.
The tempo of my heart rate monitor increases, and we both look at it. Ninety-six.
"Please try to relax," the doctor says, but there is something there in his face, barely visible beneath the warm exterior. The shadow of doubt, the shadow of uncertainty, the shadow of a man who wonders if this particular patient is simply crazy and beyond the extent of his medical ability to help. I nod again. I've learned by now that there is little point trying to convince people anymore. We wait until my heart rate goes back down to a steady seventy-eight, then the doctor speaks again.
"Alright, now I want you to relax and think clearly. Can you do that?"
I tell him I can, and half want to add that I'm not an idiot, but don't. It's not his fault this is happening, he's just trying to do his job. It's also not his fault that I'm scared, so scared. I think that's an indication of real fear. It's easy to be scared when you are alone in the dark and you hear a sound coming from the shadows. Who wouldn't be, but this is a different kind of scared. This kind of fear, in this brightly lit room, is more real. It doesn't matter that the lights are on and that there is someone here with me. I wish it did, but I know it makes no difference at all.
The doctor scribbles something else on his notepad and crosses his
***
He looks at me like I'm some kind of idiot. He says they are here to help me, but I can see it in their eyes. They think I'm crazy, and maybe, just maybe I am.
I don't like this place. The walls are too white, too devoid of detail. It's the kind of place where they don't want you to get too comfortable or rest too easy. I suppose that's deliberate, although, for my condition, it's probably not going to help much. I'm hooked up to machines, some reading brain function, others reading heart rate. I glance at it and see that it's currently going at seventy-four beats per minute, which under the circumstances isn't too bad. Certainly within normal resting range. I lie on the hospital bed and realize just how exhausted I am. A normal person would sleep it off, but I know for me that's not an option. I glance at the doctor who sits in the chair by the bed, clipboard in hand and know that he's my only hope of help, but also deep down I know there is nothing he can do. Nothing anyone can do. Still, he looks kind and knowledgeable and a small part of me thinks maybe, just maybe, he can help.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks, pushing his glasses back up his face.
I want to say yes but I can't help it. I glance towards the corners of the room, it's well lit and there are no dark places, but that doesn't matter. I'm still nervous, still on edge. I nod. The doctor glances at my heart rate. It's pushed up closer to eighty.
"Just try to relax. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Answer them as fully and honestly as you can, and we'll try to help you, okay?"
I nod again. The voice inside screams at me to tell him there's nothing he can do, nothing anyone can do, but I can't do that. If I do it will be a psyche evaluation and they will lock me up and throw away the key.
"Alright," the doctor says, adjusting his position and poising his pen over his clipboard. "Name?"
"Lauriette Hutzler," I say, hating how weak and afraid I sound.
The doctor scribbles on his clipboard. "Age?"
"Thirty-three."
More scribbles. The doctor looks at me and smiles. It's the smile of a man who is confident in his abilities. He doesn't know it, but it' also the smile of a man who is out of his depth.
"When was the last time you slept?"
It should be a simple answer, an automatic response for most people, but I genuinely can't remember. It feels like forever, but that can't be possible. The human body can only go so long without sleep, and I know I'm straddling that abyss of madness, teetering on the edge of a razor blade on one foot, laughing manically and waiting, always waiting for him to come.
The tempo of my heart rate monitor increases, and we both look at it. Ninety-six.
"Please try to relax," the doctor says, but there is something there in his face, barely visible beneath the warm exterior. The shadow of doubt, the shadow of uncertainty, the shadow of a man who wonders if this particular patient is simply crazy and beyond the extent of his medical ability to help. I nod again. I've learned by now that there is little point trying to convince people anymore. We wait until my heart rate goes back down to a steady seventy-eight, then the doctor speaks again.
"Alright, now I want you to relax and think clearly. Can you do that?"
I tell him I can, and half want to add that I'm not an idiot, but don't. It's not his fault this is happening, he's just trying to do his job. It's also not his fault that I'm scared, so scared. I think that's an indication of real fear. It's easy to be scared when you are alone in the dark and you hear a sound coming from the shadows. Who wouldn't be, but this is a different kind of scared. This kind of fear, in this brightly lit room, is more real. It doesn't matter that the lights are on and that there is someone here with me. I wish it did, but I know it makes no difference at all.
The doctor scribbles something else on his notepad and crosses his
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