Imported Poems

For you, Kathy (because we're both scared). I may eventually get the nerve up to try and post to the entire forum, but you, MTspur and Andave have made me feel safe here:

Chapter 1 (if you can all it that)

YET ANOTHER ENDING (or so it seemed)

Someone was banging on the door. “Open up! This is the police!”
They must have the wrong address, she thought, staggering towards the noise. I’m no criminal.
Cracking open the door, she started “Yes, how may I…” but was interrupted by a rush of officers, two of which grabbed her arms and began hauling her downstairs. Alarmed by their forcefulness she was preparing to object when she caught sight of the ambulance in the parking lot, and then everything became clear. The phone call - what was it she had said? She struggled to remember the content of the conversation, but could recollect nothing, even the person to whom she had talked. Who had called her, or had she called someone? The questions swirled through her mind in an endless gyre until the ambulance door slammed shut, and then everything went black.
When she came to, she discovered herself in the back of yet another ambulance, this one en route to a different facility. Seated beside her, a very handsome ER technician who resembled Benjamin Bratt was fiddling with some tubes.
“Are you a Christian?” she asked weakly. Although her head was still muddled and her body exhausted, she felt a strange kinship with the man who now watched over her.
He nodded in agreement.
“I used to work in a hospital,” she confessed. “So, how do you deal with it - death? I was never able to get used to seeing people pass away.”
“Well, I see my job as opportunities to help,” he said, bending over slightly to look into her eyes. “And I focus on the successes.”
Easy for you to say, she thought sadly as a tear dropped from her eye, and easy for others to do, but not for me.
The ambulance abruptly came to a stop, and Christine realized they had arrived at her destination. After a few seconds the doors were opened, and she was rolled into the main lobby of an old, white stucco building that appeared to have been built in the 1960s.
Looking around the place, Christine sighed heavily. The Earth Escape Crisis Center wasn’t exactly what she had expected. The dull, blank beige walls coupled with the poor ventilation left the state-funded psychiatric facility cold and dreary. She supposed the atmosphere was intentional with the goal of subduing any bellicose patients rather than a reflection of indifference to color and design, but wasn’t quite sure. All of her previous institutionalizations had been at the expense of her insurance company, while her only experience with state-financed asylums was a single viewing of “One Flew Over the Cuckcoo’s Nest.”
Standing taciturn before the receptionist’s desk, Christine watched a woman dressed in blue hospital scrubs stroll solemnly up and down the hallway, clutching a Bible to her chest as she recited scripture passages. The patient’s vigil reminded her of the prayer walks of Buddhist monks, and she wondered what strong demons tortured the poor lady’s soul.
“That’s your roommate,” one of the nurses informed her, having noted Christine’s studious gaze.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Is she schizophrenic?”
“We’re not allowed to talk about the other patients,” a crone with wiry, grey hair declared, scrutinizing Christine through the reception window pane with her beady, narrow eyes.
She’s schizophrenic, Christi decided to herself. The ritualistic behavior reminded her of obsessive-compulsive disorder, but in this case it appeared to be the woman’s approach to silencing the inner voices, perhaps by drowning them out or by self-exorcism.
A waving hand abruptly blocked her view, rousing her from her thoughts. The beldam had exited the secured area and now stood before her.
“Here are your clothes. Now follow me; I’ll show you to your room.”
She thinks I’m mad as the rest, Christine mused as the old nurse led her to the second door on the left. Not surprisingly, it was as bleak and as dismal as the rest of the center, but much chillier. Boasting only a single, small window for natural light, it housed two small mattresses supported by wood frames, with only a fitted sheet, blanket and pillow for bedding.
Throwing herself down upon the mattress she discovered that it, too, was hard and indifferent like the rest of the place, and for a moment she considered she had chosen this for herself, that there had been *another option*…
…she shuddered at the thought. The notion that she should spend a single night in the psychiatric ward of the hospital that had dismissed her was horrific. No, despite its icy environment, callous staff and thoroughly deranged patients, Earth Escape was infinitely preferable to returning to the place that had, ironically enough, induced the very trauma that had landed her in the unit.
Her breakdown had been slow and painfully obvious to anyone with the ability to see her emaciated frame, slashed arms and gothic attire, but it had been her newly shaved head that had sealed her fate. Confronted with the quandary of crack-addicted babies and the tragedy of premature deaths via drugs and alcohol, she had reacted naturally - with empathy - but under the weight of such grief had succumbed to the pressure. Perhaps if she had not been overworked by an unsupportive management chain the situation would have ended differently, but the new administration had not seemed interested in saving her: instead, they had stood idly by and watched her fall.
Just then her roommate entered and flinging herself down on the bed, rolled over onto her side.
“Hi,” Christine chirped politely, but the woman only grunted and turned away before falling asleep.
Not friendly, she thought to herself, but what else had she expected from such a mentally ill patient? Perhaps she was too afraid to be friendly, too aware of her own illness to feel comfortable displaying any sort of cordiality. Christine sighed, then rolled over onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. She could hardly blame the woman and felt a tinge of sadness over her predicament; she understood all too well how judgmental people could be when it came to those with psychological impairments.
Why had she not developed the obdurate heart they had promised her when she first came to the hospital, save that she was abnormal? Millions of people worked in medical centers daily without carrying around the weight of their patients’ infirmities, yet she seemed unable to get used to pain and death. Although it had not been her responsibility, she had followed up on the crack babies to ensure they were going to be healthy and was relieved when she received positive news. Likewise, she had gone beyond the call of duty to help the family of a young OD, and had assisted several older people who had broken down and cried as she spoke with them. Never once was she able to acclimate herself to the suffering. There seemed to be an endless reservoir of empathy inside so that no matter how much she gave, she always had something left over to help someone else.
I can’t think about this now. It’s enough being jobless and penniless and very soon, insurance-less to buy my medication, she resolved. I need a mental vacation from reality.
Closing her eyes, Christine began to concentrate hard on feeding the fantasy she could contrive in the moment, and at last a vision of him, her heart’s true love - seated at a club - arose from her subconscious. It would be another realistic encounter in her mind, she considered, if fiction could ever be considered realistic…