Insane Love

I'm on a good day today. Too distracted by the cr*** in the ceiling to hear the sound of automatic doors being opened. But not so distracted to be able to ignore the screams of my crazy friends in the isolation rooms on the floor above mine.

They're always screaming.

At first, I thought it was a completely exaggerated reaction, but after spending two whole days trapped in that place, in addition to acquiring the panic of closed and very dark places, I began to feel huge empathy for those who committed some stupidity and were taken there.

It is one thing to be crazy knowing that you are surrounded by so many others, it is another to be thrown into a cage with your demons growling at you.

The door to my room slides smoothly to the left as soon as a whistle resounds through the almost imperceptible opening on the side. One plump hand holds the door and carries a tray with the other.

The red and disheveled hair of the head nurse of the morning shift appears before her plump body goes through the door.

Maisie is a real cow, both in appearance and in customs. Following the clinic's protocols, as long as we behave well, she doesn't get on our feet.

I even try to understand Maisee's grumpiness when I think it must be horrible to work with so many crazy people around him. But the simple idea of feeling any kind of affection for her is so absurd that I laugh out loud.

"I've seen that we're on a great day." Maisee comments bitterly, pushing the door with his foot.

I'm pretty sure that all nurses hate it when we're in a good mood. They like it when we are angry and insane, so they can apply their sedatives to us.

It is so bizarre the satisfaction they feel sedating us that I think it is very likely that they will be able to reach a level of pleasure never before experienced by humanity, just imagining their needles entering our asses.

I feel tickled at the evil part that exists in my brain and I give another bitter laugh.

Maisee approaches my side of the bed, gently placing the tray on my nightstand — which is also nailed to the floor to prevent me from throwing it in a fit of rage — pulls a bunch of keys into his pocket and opens the dark screen that covers the small window.

The fresh morning air invades my room, spreading the sunlight and the citrus smell of eucalyptus.

I recently discovered that the only way to retain some memories is to get attached to the details that most people miss. I can remember some situations if I feel a perfume a second time, although many smells give me a headache because they are too strong for my sensitivity.

I can also remember sensations if I associate them with some characteristic music or sound.

"Today is Monday" announces Maisee, crossing in front of her body the plump arms that protrude from the white coat. The two small slits that are his green eyes are slightly narrow, staring at me with his usual expression of boredom.

Monday. I hate Mondays. Not that this is anything new. I've heard when some nurses said that Mondays are known as the world hate days. But I have one more reason to hate her.

Mondays are the days when my appointments with the psychiatrist are scheduled. Although I miss talking to someone, I can't give my arm to cheer and admit that Mondays are the only days when I have something useful to do.

There is no gap between the standard clinic routine. Patients — except for children — are woken up from eight o'clock to nine in the morning, when everyone should take their medicines, go down to the ground floor, and head towards the bathrooms always supervised by nurses.

We have breakfast from ten thirty until eleven thirty. We are escorted to some recreation room or to the courtyard, where we do nothing but take the medicine once again and wait until the clock sets an hour, and we have until half past two to finish lunch.

Afternoon tea is served at half past four and goes until half past five. The visiting hours are from six to seven. Our second bath is at half past seven. Dinner is served at eight o'clock right after we take our medicine for the third time, and at nine-thirty, we go back to our rooms.

Mondays ruin my routine. I never know what my psychiatrist's plan will be for the day. He has already encouraged me to talk to other crazy people and it was thanks to him that I met a boy from ward three and a girl from the same floor as me.

Since the teachers finished their task of coming to the clinic to teach me what I could not learn in a normal school, he was obsessed with giving me tasks with the excuse that I need to exercise my brain to keep my voice disciplined.

I swallow the two small colored tablets with the help of the glass of water and show my tongue to Maisee. Nurses are always waiting to see if we are going to drink the medicine. Maisee is dissatisfied with just seeing my tongue and holds my chin tightly so that I can collect it and show it under it.

I try to get serious while Maisee approaches her face round and full of wrinkles towards mine, but when her reddish hair half stuck and half loose falls on her face, that shadow of insanity surrounds me again and I start laughing like a five-year-old girl. Maisee hates it when I do that.

"Let's see if the giggles will continue when Dad approves the electroconvulsive therapy."

Smiling ironically, she releases my chin with a start.

I laugh even louder. I don't admit to letting her know my fear of the electroshock. I think of those who have already gone through this type of treatment and who have had their heads shaved and distractedly caress my blond strands that twist into large curls.

My biggest fear is to bring to life other personalities that I will not be able to control.

I accepted my madness with open arms because she was the only thing that no one was able to take away from me, but I don't want her to dominate me.

I still have a false feeling of being under control. Although I know I'm deceiving myself, it's easier than accepting my cruel reality.

I stop laughing and dry the tears that accumulate in the corners of my eyes. I push my blanket and lift in a jump, stretching my arms as if I wanted to imitate the wings of an airplane. Smiling in the most insane way I can, I stretch out. Maisee rolls her eyes.

"Good morning, Mai..." Sly greetings. "You look amazing today!"

"Abigail, do you want to stop making jokes and come soon?" She retorts.

I pretend to be sullied. "Wow."

Maisee moves away towards the door and waits for me, holding her with one of her arms. I stand still and look around the room just to annoy her even more.

The walls of my room are cream, which gives a certain comfort in a place where everything is white and padded. The smooth floor slips through my socks.

Except for the single bed, the nightstand, the ceiling fan, and the camera, there is nothing in this room. When Maisee snorts with frustration, I look in his direction and smile, walking out without the slightest hurry out of the room.

Maisee closes the door with a deaf thud and passes her card to lock it. There is a line of patients being accompanied by nurses to the lobby, where it is our first stop in the bathrooms.

Maisie holds me firmly in my arm and for a moment I feel your anger being discounted in this gesture. She puts me in the last place in line, behind a girl with brown hair spread in the middle and bulging eyes. The girl slowly turns her head and throws me a weak smile.

"A-Bee..." She murmurs. "Good... Day..."

"Good morning, Noelle." I answer, showing a wide smile.

The long line of noisy and laughing patients goes on its way with small steps and I allow myself to float towards a fog of memory, having the perfume of the girl in front of me as a trigger.