Purple Finch Press

Logan Moran-

Manic

Click,

The door shut. 

Around I look around. Where am I? I don’t know where I am. I feel restricted. Tied up but I know I can move around this room. It won’t be a problem… Right?

The room is bright, it burns to look. My eyes hurt, they keep watering. I can’t make them stop. I want to leave. Take me back. Where’s the door?

I can’t find the door. Where do I go? Can I go anywhere? I must be trapped. What should I do? There’s so much around me. But this room is empty. Where is everything? The lights are so blinding, I can’t think, WHY CAN’T I THINK?

What did he say, that doctor, what did he say? 

“Try to count the tiles.”

YES. To count the tiles. Let’s look and see… my eyes are adjusting. I can see, yes I can. Well…where are the tiles? I sink into this flooring. The ugly white floor, it gets dirty so easily. Am I sinking into the floor? Is the floor eating me? There are no tiles? Is there a floor? But there must be, what am I standing on then? It’s soft and squishy. I just can’t tell what this all is. I can’t even tell what’s going on? Do I even know where I am? Is there something I know?

Is there something I can see, at least? Like a door. I very much want to leave I want to go home I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want my meds. They don’t taste good. I don’t like them at all. They taste so bitter, and then they make my head hurt and spin till I get all sick. Even though it’s making me sick now. I shouldn’t keep thinking. I should do something else. What should I do?

Walk around, I should walk around. Keep moving if I can. That way I can clear my head. Take one step, two steps, three steps. Now, what’s this? 

On the floor, why is it wet? The soft floor is wet here. Not all white either. Aged yellow and a slight green. Smells damp. Yes, a damp smell, like old books with an earthy tone. Why is it wet? Oh, there’s a drip!

Drip

Drip 

Drip

I hear it, it’s loud too loud of the echo. It rings in my head. Where is it coming from? Where is it coming from? It hurts my head, where is it? Look up it’s up. IT’S UP on the ceiling. The ceiling, it’s made of stone I think. It’s hard to tell, the lights are blinding. The harsh lights aimed right down. They hurt my eyes. I need to know, though. Where’s the dripping coming from?

Keep on looking and there, yet there. A crack along the ceiling. Dripping down. Probably from a pipe. A broken pipe in the ceiling, that’s what it must be. The cracks are still too small for anything to crawl through. Except maybe a bug. A bedbug, most probably. They would like the soft padding, at least I think so. Though there are no pads on the ceiling for some reason.

But there are walls, I can count those, right? One, two, three, four. But they look like the floor. Or are they the floor? They squish when I poke them with my foot. I want to touch them with my hands, but they can’t move. Why can’t I move my hands? They feel close, they are there. I still have them, but I can’t move them. I want to move my arms. Why are they stuck at my sides? What’s holding my arms together? This ugly white stained binding.

I want to be able to touch the wall… or is it the floor? Does that make the ceiling a wall? Maybe it’s the floor. The floors should be different from the walls and ceiling, right? Or am I wrong? Why don’t I know about this? Why can’t I tell?

Maybe if I run to the wall, floor, ceiling, I can get off the floor, wall, ceiling I’m on. I need to move, JUST MOVE. I’m running at the aging padding. The cushiony old padding. This padding here, it smells like dust. Old dust that’s piled for miles. And then there’s something else. It smells more pungent. Let me move down. It smells stronger. And… a stain. A yellow stain. The smell is bitter. It probably tastes the same. Not like the taste of the air, being all stale. But like old lemonade. Much like it’s color. I think that’s what it is. 

And these walls, the four walls, should have a door. But I can’t find it. What can I find, though? I mean, I found a bed. Wait. A bed? When did that get here? It’s frame is all rusty and dirty, and I wonder what it’s for. Not for me. I won’t be here long enough. I will leave before that. But how? Mabey the metal could help… yes that metal frame…

I should lick it.

It tastes like dirt and metal. Mostly metal. And blood. Like the blood now dripping down my chin. It’s making the cushions I’m sinking in a little bit red with the drops. And this taste hurts my mouth. A lot of blood by the taste. Metal shouldn’t taste like blood.

But there’s also a blanket and a pillow. They look clean. Cleaner than the room. Except for the red drops. Where did they come from? They drip from the ceiling. I want to touch it. My hands, though, I can’t use my hands. Who is holding back my hands? I know that they’re there; I can feel them.

I just want to get out. I know something should happen soon. I don’t want it either. Let me go. Someone let me go. I hate this room. It’s too bright. I sink in the cushions. I want to go home. I don’t want this. Why is this happening? What should I do? What did I do?

Click… I can hear a slit in the floor or ceiling or wall, I don’t know, but a slit I can hear it. It’s open. I can hear a voice coming through.

“It’s time for your meds.”