Join Date: Oct 2008
Location: upstate NY
Posts: 59
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Charlotte: Short Story
The following is the first short story I had published in my college's literary magazine. Since it was requested in my Intro that I post some of my short stories here, well, here you go!
Back story: I wrote "Charlotte" for my science fiction writing class two years ago. It is a combination of my real life experience with a play on my favorite short story "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. My professor insisted I submit it for the literary magazine and bam, published. Hope you enjoy.
****
Charlotte
I’m not quite sure when the panic attack happened, or even the suicide attempt, but it was suddenly Tuesday morning and I was mostly zombified by high doses of what seemed like Ativan, possibly even Valium inside some clinic. A stark white room, sterile, alone. Beeping. Pale blue thin blanket on my bed, thin paper dress covering my body. I noticed the giant bandages covering most of my arms. My eyes felt heavy and hurt. My head pounded, and the sound of a nurse walking in with her squeaky nurse-like shoes only added to the pain. My vision blurred. The figure moved to me.
“We’re transferring you to someplace for rest, upon your request and the consent form you signed.”
Someplace? I barely remembered how I got here, much less any papers to sign. The last 24 hours moved in my memory like a speeding train through a tunnel. But somehow it ended up here.
*****
The security guards went through what little items I had on me. I sat in the tiny waiting room, and saw them pour my life out onto a table. The straps on my bag were detachable, and thus were confiscated, along with my keys, any pins I had, and hair clips. They were locked up in a cabinet in the front room. I was allowed to keep my driver’s license, my credit card, a pack of cigarettes but no lighter. All phone calls had to be placed at the front desk. If I wanted to break for a smoke in the clinic’s smoke room, I had to borrow a light at the front desk. My life was reduced to a few small items, some medications, and cigarettes. Allen was there, my only life support. He kissed me goodbye. I missed him already.
After dealing with health insurance and other paperwork stuff, I was placed in a room with a few other beds, separated by a screen for “privacy” [although in a mental health clinic, no one really has privacy. Privacy leads to isolation, which leads to .. well, see my story above]. “Community and medication will help you” said the nurse with the lazy eye. “It is successful in treating depressed people.”
*****
I found myself wandering around the community building. The floors had that squeaky clean to it, which added to the noise from the nurse’s shoes. I hid whenever I heard a nurse coming. The squeaky echoed in my brain. I couldn’t sleep at night because of the squeaky.
At dinner time in the community hall, I sat with a tray of food with about 30 other patients. I heard them smacking their food. I heard talking, some people rambling on about the government, others talking about their depression rituals, the suicidal ones fumbling around with their sporks to shove food around on their plates to make it look as if they had gotten their appetite back. I was on par with the suicidal ones and shoved my food around. Although I apparently attempted suicide (the details of the attempt not remembered, only the results) , my lack of appetite was not from my illness. Rather it was because the smacking people made when they chewed their food stabbed me in the temple like a pencil. I hated watching and hearing other people eat. It dug into my nerves, and my hands began shaking. I left.
A door marked Private was left suspiciously ajar. I ducked in for some much needed privacy. I couldn’t handle being in the community situation and craved my isolation time. I sat on the floor in the darkened room, curled up and resting as I celebrated my silence.
I closed my eyes tight, and breathed. I opened them again. There was a yellow swirl in the wall. It wasn’t bigger than a quarter. It just kept swirling, like a whirlpool. I sat there and watched it, mesmerized for a moment, until my world came crashing down as the lazy eyed nurse poked her head in. “There you are! It’s community therapy time, unless you want to join some of us in the smoke room?”
I scooted out for a chance to smoke.
*****
The door marked “Private” was closed. But not locked. I went in there that night to get away from the snoring I could hear floating around me over the screens. The smacking of Old Man Obsessive Compulsive in the screened-off territory next to me hurt.
I wanted to see if the yellow swirl was there. Indeed it was. Still the size of a quarter. I reached out with morbid curiosity. It wavered a little as I touched the swirl. Of course it didn’t suck me into a new dimension or anything. It was just there. I had a headache. So I lay down.
I guess I left the door ajar. And I slept too long on the floor. It was just a broom closet. The housekeeper found me. Apparently it was early morning. My yellow swirling friend was gone. I took a cigarette as my breakfast and sat in the smoke room, waiting for medication time.
*****
Lorazepam makes me excessively goofy when I haven't eaten. My therapist was worried about my lack of appetite. I told her I would be better if I ate alone. Except that wasn’t possible here, so there I was in the community hall. A man who hadn’t showered in a few months plopped himself down next to me, and dug into his pile of warm scrambled eggs. I sat there and watched. I didn’t want to know why he was here. But he inhaled the eggs, and I nearly threw up. I moved to a different table with the anorexic patients and watched them scrape food around. One anorexic was crying and talking about her abusive father. She scraped her food around. The open emotions wrangled around in my brain as a therapist sat down and hugged her, gave her some Relaxation Pills [I’m not sure what they were, probably THC or something since she requested it]. I wondered if maybe she was faking her symptoms for free pot here. I don’t know.
The yellow swirl friend was still there after the loud supper and evening Art Therapy. I hate painting. But today I had painted my yellow swirl. I named her Charlotte.
I touched the yellow swirl again. A good feeling, better than any Valium, rushed through me. Charlotte didn’t talk or really do anything. She was my silent friend. I threw a cotton ball that was lying around in the broom closet at it. She took it and put it in her pocket. I think I made her happy.
Charlotte was still there that night. She was close to me. I had a dream about her. She was beautiful, like a swirl of blonde hair floating in the breeze. She was a translucent gaze. I went to the yellow swirl to try and make contact. I placed my right cheek up next to her. She sparked and I was given a rush of happiness. Charlotte grew from a quarter to the size of a small hubcap. I was feeding her and she grew. I was in a mental health clinic and found solace in a hole in the wall. Or was it a hole? I can’t be sure. I wanted to take her out and show everyone. But I was afraid she would be tainted by the diseases of loud noise, squeaky shoes, and all the pills we were being fed. There was so much community here, but I felt close to no one. I was hugged by every nurse and patient here during therapy sessions, but the touch of other people made me feel as if I was being held by corpses. Not rotting, smelly corpses, just cold and dead inside. I didn’t want the medication because I wanted to be alive. It rotted me out from the inside, and I didn’t want to become an emotional vacuum. Charlotte was my link to emotions. I felt more alive than ever.
rest of story below
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