I’ve been sitting here for the past hour trying to figure out what to blog for today. I’ve decided that I’m going throw caution into the wind and do some free writing. The below words are unknown to me at this point and I have no idea what is going to come onto the page within the next few minutes. I figure the words I put down may be interesting but may be boring. I’d love to know what you guys think, even if it’s crap! 🙂
Anger corsed through my veins. My fists were clenched and my teeth pushed up against one another to the point of my gums going numb. The glass before my eyes was clear and showed me the world outside the operating room where I was barred from entering. I had gone through the halls of Mercy Medical plenty of times but since my last outbreak more than three years ago, I was unofficially admitted permanently.
On the other side of the window stood Jennifer, my wife of ten years along with a lawyer. As she focused on the small specs of dirt on the floor intently, documents were pressed to the glass and removed as I read the pages of the divorse papers being served to me. She felt if she was there when I read them that it would soften the blow. She should have known it only enraged me further.
Ten years sounds like a long time to be married but let me tell you it wasn’t a walk in the park. I was up-front with her when we met in letting her know I had uncontrollable blackouts that spun me into fits of rage. It was her calming voice that brought the outbursts from a daily occurance to something that happened only once every few months. The natural smell of her soft light skin eased my stress. Her green eyes hypnotized me into a calm state. Her gentile kisses washed the world away.
For many years we went to professionals to attempt to get a diagnosis for my rage and one by one the doctors were stumped. Some believed I was abused as a child while others chalked it up to being just plain old homocidal. Either way, the problem didn’t go away.
Seeing the word divorse on a paper makes things much harder than the idea of someone leaving. The small green tiles that lined the hospital room I stood in reminded me of Jennifer each and every day. I longed to be with her again. The head doctors thought otherwise since that day three years ago when they were escorting me down a hallway. One of them was shorter than me and seemed to be struggling to keep up with the tall, blonde on my right. He caught my eye a few times and I saw what looked like fear in his eyes. It was then that I knew, well, I should stop here. It isn’t import what I think or thought at the time. His widow has already won her conviction.
Jennifer had tried her best to help me through the confinement at Mercy and spend weeks on end, sitting on the opposite side of the glass, bringing me up to speed on what was happening in our lives. The weeks turned into every other day visits and before long they waned into once a week if I was lucky. Mercy didn’t care that I didn’t have a TV, newspaper, computer, or anything else to take up my time. I was allowed to select books from the community bookshelf and borrow them for three days. The concept of shitty books never became so apparent to me and I am still thoroughly convinced to this day that all hospital patients are lonely, horny, desperate women who want Fabio to hold them on a mountain top or cliff or some absurd situation like that. The lone copy of 1984 was my only salvation and I made it a point to borrow it bi-monthly.
The pages of conspiracy did no help for my perdicament and eventually I felt like Winston Smith and afraid of the world. It wasn’t until I realized the world was only a 15 x 9 room that I didn’t care about her coming to see me. The world I knew of had ceased to exist and I knew it was over.
My only reason for living was to black out one last time and never wake up.