Was I a fool for putting a rope around my neck? Or was I a fool for staying with him all those years? Does it even matter anymore? I’m here now. In this place, in this “hospital”. Without my books, without my typewriter, without my words. I am not me in the place.
I’m supposed to have a session with my therapist today. These last weeks have been disconnected, vacant, and nightmarish. To prove they are “taking care” of me, they gave me a job. I work on the second floor, in a back room next to a window. The window is barred, but I can open the blinds.
Just outside this room is my supervisor, Vanessa. She’s just as thick in the waist as I am, but younger, brown hair, and dating the head orderly on the floor, Winston, greying blonde beard. They were nice when I first met them, but then I saw them in the darker corners of the building. I saw the scheming smoke filter through their eyes, and lilting whispers of blame surround the space they breathe.
I have to be careful around them. I have to play the game. I have to figure them out before I go insane. Am I insane just because I’m here? Or was I before? Subject matter for the therapist, I suppose.
-M.R.-
Moveka Rame 
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