HANGING BY A THREAD - Need Feedback
Semi-autobiographical piece. I need suggestions on how to transition from reality to dreamland so readers can follow. Please help. Thanks.
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EXIT LIFE/ENTER NIGHT
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…
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
…the line outside the bar extended for two blocks, then around the corner to Burgundy Street, and consisted mostly of statuesque, post high school women with skinny bodies and artificial enhancements. “Bimbos” Christine muttered cynically to herself, but she had anticipated nothing less with his presence, the most beautiful man in the world. Luckily she was on the guest list, and wouldn’t have to wait for the bouncers or management to choose her as the “funky club kid” before she could enter.
She grinned at the notion of being designated the “funky club kid”. “Former funky club kid” maybe, but she was an old woman now - at least in her 30’s - and no longer fit the profile. Still, she had never relied upon her looks to gain entry anywhere, but instead had chosen the timelessness of style to issue her in otherwise closed doors. Despite one‘s age, she pondered , in the world of superficial nightlife--where image is everything--fashion still reigns supreme.
Christine gave her name to the bouncer and walked up the stairs.
The colossal club stood two stories and was swamped with a surfeit of young, pretty blondes and brunettes who flittered from table to table, twittering in popular colloquialisms about their level of intoxication the night before or the gentleman who kept them company during that time. Christine rolled her eyes subconsciously at their jejune platitudes, wondering how she had managed for so many years to tolerate the fatuous conversations without running out the door screaming into the night. Then she remembered the quantity of alcohol she had consumed to descend to their cognitive levels, and the amount of time she spent dancing in order to avoid conversation, and realized she had never bore it; the whole artifice had almost destroyed her. Had she not had a moment of clarity when, one evening in the midst of studying the dance floor, it had struck her that the entire building was brimming with fashionable and cool Barbie and Ken dolls? All of her society had become transparent in that instant, and drunk as she was, she still hadn’t been able to thrust the idea out of her imagination.
She cringed at the reflection, but strengthened herself with the knowledge that it was only one night - for him - before approaching the bouncer to the second flight of stairs.
“Christine Campbell,” she mumbled to him.
After reviewing his list, the bouncer placed a check-mark beside her name, stamped her hand and unleashed the rope. At last she had gained entry to him. She stood for a moment at the bottom stair, questioning what awaited her when she reached the top. Oh why had she come? She was too far along her journey to go back in time; to enter into the world of glossy phoniness without consequences. Nothing good could come of this enterprise, she mused; nothing positive ever came from such endeavors, so why had she requested it, and more importantly, why had he conceded? Furthermore, why was she ascending the stairs when she knew she walked a path that led to catastrophe?
Christine willed her legs to stop but they did not obey. Looking down at them, she spat quietly “Rebellious teenagers,” before checking around to see if anyone had spotted her strange behavior and was relieved to discover she was safe.
He was seated at a small table in the corner diagonal the stairs, drinking a caramel-colored liquor from a tumbler. This is the part I hate, she thought, but I will get through it. Approaching the table she glanced down shyly and smiled with a nervous giggle when she saw he had caught sight of her. Stop acting like an idiot, she ordered herself, then pressed her lips tightly in an act of bravery. Be normal.
“Hi!” she chirped.
He immediately rose and hugged her affectionately. “Hey! How are you?” he inquired.
“I’m fine. And yourself?” she asked, sitting next to him at the table.
“Oh, I’m great. Things are going well with the film.”
“Good!” she enthused before falling silent. Several awkward moments passed without either of them saying a word. Christine analyzed the room, studying the various individuals in cliques, pondering their occupation and life habits by their dress and the vigor or decay of their features.
“So, where are you staying?” he asked at last.
She smiled graciously at him; he had given her an entrance. “Does it matter?” she responded.
His brown puppy eyes creased from grinning. “No, I don’t suppose it does.”
“We’ve gotten past this point, don’t you think? You know, the idle chit-chat of guarded people? I mean, the whole purpose of meeting is to move forward in some way. You and I - we always converse on deep topics; it’s difficult to transition back to the shallow.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed as both of them watched a young man dressed in Indie-wear approach the table, followed by two beautiful women. Oh no! she thought. Other people. Friends or fans, they would ruin everything!
“Hey Drew,” the stranger said, then, extending his hand down, he shook her friend’s hand.
“This is Lola and Shannon.”
Barbie and Midge go to LA. Christine glanced away and fought the urge to flee the room.
Drew greeted each one with a smile and handshake. “James, this is a friend of mine, Christine.”
Friend. Christine. My life is over, she thought, and pondered the closest exit. How long would a mad dash to the stairs take? 3 seconds? 5 seconds? How fast was her sprint these days?
She had short legs with which to run, but Barbie and Midge had long legs that seemed to go on for miles. All aglow with deep tans and shiny bronzer, they extended from beneath short mini-skirts that barely covered the modesty of life.
“I like this VIP section,” James commented, pulling out the closest chair and sitting down in it; the two women followed suit. “It beats the crowd below.”
Drew took another swig from his tumbler and grinned mischievously at James. “Yeah, it’s a nice change of pace. I can actually take a piss without being hounded.”
Piss. She despised that word. All of his decadence was wrapped up in the moment: cigarettes, booze and vulgarity. She wished she could place them in a care package and mail it to Zimbabwe.
Christine sighed and assessed her companions: two bimbos, an Indie-boy and her inebriated, cigarette-smoking, piss-swearing friend. If she could eliminate the threat - real or perceived - the women posed, then she would have room with which to maneuver the rest of the evening.
“So,” she cleared her throat, “Hypothetical: assuming fate existed and you knew at tomorrow’s battle not only would you lose your life, but you and your comrades would lose the entire battle as well, would you still fight?”
“No, that would be totally stupid,” the femmebot named Lola answered, tossing her hair to one side as she crossed her legs to grant Drew a better viewing.
Christine smiled. We’re sorry but that was not the correct answer. Please see the doorman for your consolation prize and thank you for playing ‘Win a Date with Drew Finlay’.
Shannon knit her brows and frowned. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
What I mean, Christine thought, is that I smell the sweet aroma of victory.
“It’s an issue of free-will versus destiny,” Drew informed her, puffing away on his cancer stick.
Christine flushed. Mind-sex. Was he aware of how seductive he was when he was passionately disposed towards some intellectual topic? His face was beautiful, but had he not had the intellectual capacity and spiritual disposition, she would have never found him attractive.
“I don’t believe in fate or violence,” he continued.
“Oh, well, if you’re going to turn hypotheticals into issues, then I can only assume you would chicken out and stay at home” she retorted.
“I would not chicken out. I’m simply clarifying.”
Christine pouted. “As if I were unaware of your theistic, Benjamin Franklin Watchmaker Theory sympathies. It seems you only play ball when you want to, but at least you play.”
She watched Drew’s face cloud over, and his eyes - usually a deep brown - burned a bright amber. “Of course I would fight,” he countered. “I’d rather die nobly than pass away a coward at an old age.”
To cover her ruddy cheeks, Christine fanned herself with her hand. Had the room grown suddenly hot, or was it him? Were those dynamic duo transmitters - adrenaline and dynorphin - coursing through her veins, sending mating signals through synaptic firings?
She turned to look at James. “How about you?”
“I’d sacrifice my life for a good cause,” he replied, “even if I had prior knowledge of it.”
“Would you like to dance?” Drew interrupted, having noticed her rhythmic squirming in her seat.
“You’re not going to spaz out on me, are you? Hop around like a Mexican jumping bean while waving your arms like a rooster at sunrise?”
Drew’s thin lips parted, revealing perfectly shaped white teeth. “I don’t dance like a chicken!” he giggled.
“Well I’ve heard rumors that say otherwise.”
“They lie. Let me show you,” he said, then grabbing her hand, Drew led her onto the dance floor. At the next beat he began to grind against her, his hands placed securely on her round hips.
“You’re going to be dancing with yourself if you don’t quit,” she announced, pulling away from him. She had always considered dirty dancing improper and utterly humiliating, the last resort for people who otherwise lacked all sense of rhythm and flow. “Look, let me show you some moves. First, you want to drive with the hips, but in order to do that, you have to bend your knee and step to one side, see?” Christine demonstrated the technique.
Drew attempted to imitate her, but his failure was complete.
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” she declared, thrusting her knee between his legs. “I will teach you, then you’re on your own.” Placing her hands on the small of his back, she began to sway to the music as Drew moved in cadence with her. His soft flesh burned warmly from underneath his shirt. He’s out of shape, she thought, and the idea pleased her. All of his physical flaws were endearing, from his crooked nose and weak chin to the soft belly that occasionally rubbed against hers. He was ‘imperfectly perfect’ as she had told herself many times, like a sculpture or a work of art.
Mere inches separated their faces now, and Christine felt herself trembling, intoxicated from the combined fragrance of his cologne, deodorant and natural scent. Quickly she shoved him away. “I think you’re ready now.”
Drew stood and looked at her. “I can’t dance without you,” he said at last.
“Oh yes you can, you just like my knee between your legs,” she argued, then gasped in horror at her own words.
Drew appeared not to notice her reaction. “I’d like it better if I were between your legs.”
What had she done? She felt herself hurling through space towards the cataclysmic event she had tried to will herself not to want. Will and want, she thought, were forever at odds with each other.
“You’re full of ****e. Truth is, you’re accustomed to easily manipulated femmebots, not real women. You wouldn’t even know what to do with me.”
Oh, the terror! Her mouth spoke words she did not wish to say, and her body had thrown a coup d’etat. Who was this other person who had suddenly sprung up from within her, like some hidden imp biding his time until the right moment when he could make the most mischief?
Drew’s eyes had returned to their dark, sultry state and were gazing into hers, smoldering with sexuality. “I think it’s the other way around, Christine.”
Stop. Now. She ordered herself. This is insane. She hated him for the power he wielded over her, for causing her to lose self-control, throw caution to the wind, and embark on a mad journey of angst.
“There’s only one way to find out, but you’re a craven, so why don’t we sit down and have a discussion?” she offered weakly.
“I’m not a coward. Let’s go,” he said, nodding towards the steps leading downstairs and out into the night.
He has lost his mind and I have lost mine, she mused. The table conversation had been torture, but the dance floor had meant death. “Okay, but first let me get a drink.”
*******************************************
The room was a penthouse suite located on the top floor of a luxurious Marriot Hotel, and included a living room, bedroom, a small kitchen and a lavish bath area with a large hot tub mounted on a riser. Christine had never been inside such accommodations before, and was amazed by the extravagant satin sheets and tapestry curtains.
Sauntering over to the couch, she plopped down in it and gazed up at Drew, who stood beside her. Her pulse was racing and the frog in her throat had suddenly grown to epic proportions, making every breath laborious and painful.
“I have a confession to make,” she admitted.
“What’s that?”
“You’re right: I don’t know what to do with you. It’s been so long that I hardly know where to begin, so you win, okay?”
Drew smiled down at her sympathetically, then took a seat adjacent to hers. “Would it help you at all if I pretended to be Jules?”
Christine burst out laughing. Although, as a novelist, she had certainly based her fictional character - Jules - on Drew, the notion that he would assume the role in the current situation seemed preposterous.
“Jules? And what do you know about Jules? You haven’t even rehearsed.”
“I don’t need to practice,” he countered. “I’ve read your book and know the part. Wait here, just a moment.”
With that, her friend disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. What the heck is he doing in there? she wondered, and tried to imagine what person would greet her when he finally exited it. She heard the water run briefly, and then the knob chinked and the door opened, revealing a new Drew: one who was now leaning against the wall adjacent to the bathroom while gazing seductively at her.
Jules Vercini in all his glory she thought as she sat staring at the beautiful, cascading brunette hair that had previously been secured behind his head. He is beautiful - radiant really, like an angel and a devil all at once.
“Jules” pranced over to the couch, plumped down beside her, crossed his legs and pretended to file his fingernails. “So what do you think?” he asked, presenting the finished manicure to her.
She giggled nervously, then feigned evaluating his fingernails. “I think you’re crazy.”
“You do, do you? And what would you know about that?” he replied casually, setting aside the phony fingernail file. “I have something for you.” Reaching into his imaginary pocket, “Jules” produced some intangible object. “A picture for you.”
“Am I Christine or Ana?” she whispered, wishing not to disrupt his pretense. Drew gave her a disgusted look. “Okay, I was only asking. Now why are you giving me a picture of yourself, “Jules”?”
“How do you know my name is Jules? I haven’t told you that yet,” he miffed. “Oh wait, you’ve seen my modeling ads, haven’t you?”
Christine beamed at him. “No I haven’t, but it was easy enough to guess seeing that on the back of this photo are the words “Jules, had a great time last night. Call me, Jason.”
“Jules” snatched the imaginary picture from her hands. “Oh, I gave you the wrong one. Here, take this one,” he suggested, then gave her another photo.
“Again, why do I want a photo of you?” she asked, pretending to accept the gift.
“Because you were staring at me the entire time I was on the dance floor.”
“You were the only one dancing!” she countered. “What was I supposed to look at - the old, fat guy behind the bar wearing the leprechaun hat?”
“There are other people here. You could have watched them.”
There are ten people here including you and me, and if you’ll notice, the other eight have their backs turned to us.”
“Jules” surveyed the area before his eyes came to rest on a particular spot. “Oh, I think I know that guy over there. Chase! Chase!” Drew called, waiving his hand excitedly in the air.
“How do you know it’s him when he is facing the other direction?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“I’d recognize that tush anywhere.”
Christine chuckled at her friend’s over-the-top performance, but quickly restrained herself, pretending to look at the picture. “Well, it’s a fairly decent photo, considering the subject matter.”
“Thank-you. So, what is your name anyway? You still haven’t told me.”
“Christine.”
“Christine, really?” “Jules” asked as he rubbed his chin with his hand. She had slipped out of character -- again.
“No - I was joking It’s Anastasia.”
“Ana,” he stated.
“No, Anastasia,” she reiterated.
“Ana, yes, I like Ana better. So, Ana, do you have a moment?”
“It depends on why you’re asking. What do you want?”
“Jules” gazed at her with his soulful brown eyes. “Actually, it’s what you want. I have some modeling layouts in my car. Care to join me there for a drink?”
“I don’t drink, but I suppose I’ll go,” she answered, and then the two mimicked a quick jaunt to the automobile. “So, are you really this conceited or is it merely a façade to obscure additional layers of your personality in which, perhaps, you are less confident?”
“I’m this conceited,” he retorted.
“Liar.”
Suddenly, Drew grabbed her shoulders and kissed her. Although under normal circumstances she would have leapt at such an opportunity to smooch him, she was too involved in their shared fantasy to care, and let the chance pass by her.
“Why’d you do that?!” she protested, miming offense at his behavior.
“Jules“ tossed his hair, then tucked it behind one ear. “Because I wanted to.”
“You know what that’s called in Logic, don’t you? It’s called a Red Herring and it occurs when a person attempts to draw attention from one topic by talking about another one.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m not logical, then” he quipped, “because it was one of those logical people who thought that one up.”
Christine stifled another giggle and wondered how anyone could act without losing it or making faces. “So, tell me, why do men like to take pictures with strange women?” It was an honest question, one she hoped “Jules” could answer for her.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, it’s Spring Break, you’re walking down the beach and some guy you don’t know wants to take a picture with you,” she explained, waving her hand demonstrably.
“Oh honey, they’re going to go home and tell everyone they bopped you,” he replied. “If one can’t make fact one makes fiction.”
“Have you ever done that?” she continued. The interview with her own character was growing more fascinating by the moment, and she doubted she could rip herself from it, even if Drew were to strip naked and dance around the room like a satyr in heat.
“No. I haven’t had to. Only the truly desperate use photos to prove their prowess; I’ve never had that problem.”
“That’s because you‘re gay. If you were straight it would be a different story.”
“Actually,” “Jules” said, batting his eyelashes prettily at her, “I’ve had a number of women, and I’ve never really had any difficulty there. Besides, I’m not really gay; I like to think of myself as straight with interludes of divergence.”
“Think of yourself however you want,” Christine tittered, amazed by “Jules” bravado. “I happen to know differently.”
Her friend‘s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “And how would you know anything?”
“Because I wrote you, you silly person!” Christine teased. “And I hate to tell you this, but you were a dissolute libertine in your early days.”
“Why, thank-you.”
“Drop the pretense, “Jules”. I know your childhood was difficult - born with a silver spoon in your mouth but your mother was too busy working to give you attention or affection. Your nanny did a good job but it wasn’t the same. And I know your father - well, you didn’t even know who he was until you were 15 and read about it in the papers, and then he didn’t want to know you, did he? That must have hurt you a great deal, but he came around at last and did what he could for you, so everything worked out in the end.”
A single tear made its way from the inner corner of “Jules’” right eye down his high cheekbone and onto his pants, where at last it met with death. She had made her character cry. What kind of writer makes their own character to cry? She wondered, and cringed with guilt over her insensitivity.
“I’m sorry Jules. I’m an inconsiderate ***** and I’d hardly blame you if you are angry with me. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she apologized, then wrapped her arms around “Jules” and hugged him tightly.
“No, you’re right. You understand everything, Ana,” he whispered, returning her embrace and resting his cheek on her shoulder. Christine felt her dress grow damp from his silent weeping. “That’s why I fell in love with you.”
Christine pulled away slightly from “Jules”, then kissed him softly on his forehead, cheek and nose before her lips came to rest on his. At first he timidly returned her affection, but then the dam broke, and his soul - the sweet, gentle nature she knew so well - opened up, flooding her with the ecstasy she knew could only come from him.
*******************************************
“Jules?” she uttered softly at the sound of approaching footsteps. Wrapped only in a sheet, Christine sat out on the penthouse porch, surveying the flickering, variegated lights of the city.
“No.”
“Was that Jules back there, then?”
“Yes. So what was it like for you - with your own character?” Drew asked, seating himself in the chair adjacent to hers. Christine noted he had donned some plaid blue boxers and carried a pack of Marlboros in his hand.
She knit her brows together. “Was that your interpretation of Jules?”
“Yes.”
“Mmmmmm,” she crooned, reflecting back upon the experience. “It was a good interpretation. I think I reached his soft, tender essence - who he really is beneath the palimpsest of personality.”
Drew stared out at the illuminated night sky. “Mind if I smoke?”
Christine gazed at the sliver of white belly that protruded from above the waist of his boxers and remembered the feel of it’s silky texture beneath her hand. “It’s your decision, so I’ll bite my tongue and say no, so long as you stay downwind. My virgin lungs have no tolerance for it.”
Drew grinned at her and Christine felt herself melting into a pool beneath his feet. How was it this man could turn her, a respectable mature woman, into a mushy little girl? It was utterly humiliating, and yet at the same time the most pleasurable sensation in the world.
Drew lit up his cigarette and took a puff, exhaling it away from her. “You know, I was afraid to come here with you. I’m shy.”
“That’s preposterous. I’m a turtle of a human and extremely timid. I couldn’t frighten a flee off a dog.”
“That’s because they’re parasitic,” he retorted, taking another drag off his cigarette before smashing it against the ashtray on the stool beside him. Christine giggled but said nothing.
Reaching over, Drew wrapped his hand around hers and the two sat there for some time in silence, watching the twinkling neon lights of the city. Then standing up, he gently pulled her out of the chair and ushered her back into the darkness of the bedroom.
*******************************************
Christine awoke to the monotonous hum of the air conditioner in her hotel room. A flash of sunlight burst in between the curtain and the wall, illuminating the darkness with its harsh rays and rousing her from her deep sleep. Stupid morning, she thought as she rose to pin the curtain shut against the wall with a chair, but it was useless. The distance between the wall and rod were too great, leaving just enough space for the sunlight above to stream down onto the floor. “Stupid curtain,” she muttered as she considered how her accommodations suddenly seemed cheap compared to the opulence of Drew’s penthouse abode.
Christine did not know why she had spontaneously decided to leave in the middle of the night while Drew was sleeping. She had spent the greater part of her early morning hours wrestling with this question, asking herself over and over again what she had hoped to achieve by such an act , but despite her introspection she could not determine the exact cause of her flight. She only knew that in some way her renewed solitude had provided her with a sense of safety that she hadn’t felt wrapped securely in his arms, and that it was grossly ironic that her source of inspiration was also the source of her greatest fear.
Presently a knock at the door disrupted her thoughts. When she opened it, she discovered Drew standing at the entrance with one hand on each side of the door frame.
“Why did you leave?” he asked, his face wrought with a frown.
Christine stood aside to let him in, then shut the door. “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that all morning.”
Plopping down on the empty bed, Drew sighed and looked over at Christine, who had taken a seat opposite him. Several moments of silence ensued before he finally spoke. “Do you want to get some breakfast somewhere and maybe we can talk?”
“Yes, but no fast food. Maybe a bagel and some coffee. Then we can head to cemetery or something where we can be alone.”
The two departed the hotel room and, after a brief stop at a local bagel and coffee shop, strolled down Green Street to Woodland Cemetery, an old and historical graveyard that covered half a mile of land. An incalculable number of identical white slabs jutted up off to their left while to the right individually erected grey headstones of various shapes, sizes and inscriptions covered the lawn. Strewn throughout the necropolis floral arrangements of every color adorned the graves, infusing the scenery with an impressionistic glow. Christine marveled at the sight: she had always loved the beauty and peace of cemeteries and knew from their conversations Drew appreciated them too.
Settling beneath an old oak tree, Christine and Drew removed their bagels from the wrappers and began to eat them. “I love you; that’s why I left,” she answered at last, taking a sip of coffee as she surveyed the landscape. “I love you, and while I think we have a deep, spiritual connection and are good for one another, I also know that our lives are incongruent right now. You’ve still got a bit of bad boy in you but I’m completely done with that scene and have no desire to return to it. Perhaps one day you’ll be ready to set the nightlife aside, and maybe you’ll find that you love me differently and enough to want a relationship. Then again, maybe you won’t.”
Drew finished his coffee and set the empty container on an exposed tree root. “Christine, I really want to quit but I don’t think I’m ready just yet. I’ve got a lot of soul searching to do and I can’t promise you anything.”
Christine sniggered. “I know. There are no promises in life; only possibilities. When does your flight leave?”
“Within the hour. I have to go but I’ll walk you back to your hotel room, okay?”
Smiling sadly at him, she stood up and brushed herself off. “No. We’ll say good-bye here. This is the way I want to you remember you: beautiful and serene beneath shady branches of a giant oak tree.”
Drew shoved his trash into the white bagel bag, then rose to embrace her. Closing her eyes, Christine concentrated on capturing the moment for posterities sake - the smell of lilacs coupled with the tangy scent of his natural body odor, the touch of his warm flesh up against hers, the sounds of his breath overtop the twittering of birds, the taste of bagels and coffee. Finally she opened her eyes and drank in the lush scenery of the cemetery.
“You know I care about you, right?” he whispered into her ear.
“I know,” she murmured. “You love me as much as you can, and that’s okay with me.”
Pulling slightly back, she took his face in both hands and looked into his eyes, which appeared to be sunken with melancholy. “You will continue to write, yes?”
“Of course,“ he countered, grasping her wrists in his hands. And you too, right?”
Christine beamed. “I can imagine nothing less than our regular correspondence. Good-bye, Drew. Fly safely and send me a message upon your return.”
Once again, the couple hugged each other tightly and then the two parted ways, with Christine returning to her hotel room and Drew heading back to the airport to fly home.
*******************************************
BACK TO REALITY
When she came to, she found herself staring at the ceiling with water streaming down her face, her pillow drenched from the tears she had shed over the union with Drew. Even her fantasies were laced with the pain of her heart, she considered, though she preferred the dream-suffering of love over the agony of emptiness that characterized her real existence.
The sun had begun its descent, and the ray of light that had streamed through the single window had faded to a barely perceptible glimmer. Her roommate was still asleep, her snores ricocheting off the walls in stereo. Christine arose and, making her way to the community lounge, flung herself down in the shoddy beige chair closest to her. A respectable looking 30ish woman with curly brown hair sat across from her on the sofa, watching Fox News.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked the woman.
“It’s 5:45; supper is in 15 minutes,” the woman responded. “I’m Barbara by the way. What’s your name?”
“Christine,” she replied shyly. “So, what do we do in here all day? Do we have classes we have to attend - you know, Anger Management, Self-Esteem and what-not?”
Barbara smiled politely at her. “No classes.”
“Really?” she proclaimed, dumb-founded. “So, what do we do?”
“Well, we sit around and watch TV and talk. You’re psychiatrist will probably talk to you tomorrow. If you’re good they’ll discharge you in three days.”
Christine frowned and gazed around at the shabby, stained burgundy carpet and Goodwill furniture. Three days here, she thought, with nothing to do but stare at the walls and other patients. Her previous institutionalizations had required at least a two week stay, and included an intensive therapeutic curriculum of courses intended to rectify faulty thinking and build a social support network. She could not imagine how three days locked up in a dismal facility with nothing to do could be beneficial to her, let alone those severe cases such as her roommate.
At promptly 6:00PM a nurse ushered the small crowd that had gathered into the dining area, which consisted of several portable plastic tables and chairs. The dinner was a typical poor-man’s meal: a sandwich and soup, with a piece of fruit and a few crackers. Christine hadn’t eaten in two days and devoured the food before her, but the awkward silence that permeated the room left her to stew in her thoughts.
Weak Link she mused as she recalled the words the company president had spoken to her during one of his visits. Little did he realize his insouciant remark had confirmed her greatest fear: that she was inferior to other people. For days afterward she had ruminated upon Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest and the theory’s implications in her own life. The weak, she remembered, were consumed first by the predators, enabling the others to survive. Was it any wonder, then, that she had tried to kill herself? What other message could she have possibly gleaned from her dismissal?
And what little comfort it was knowing they had reviewed her files post-termination and discovered that - contrary to expectation - her work had been superior, even outstanding. By then she had already downed a deadly concoction of pharmaceuticals and been rushed to the hospital where the doctors had tried to jam a tube down her throat. She recollected with bitterness waking up with dried blood upon her face from where the intubation had failed, and the uncontrollable bowel movements from consuming charcoal, which had left her utterly mortified. Their rush to judgment had led to her current degradation , and yet she had chosen it for herself. She had decided to let others dictate her worth.
After supper, Christine watched the news for an hour, then retired to her room to rest. The chemicals coupled with dysentery had drained her of all energy, and she immediately drifted off to sleep.
*******************************************
After breakfast the following morning a nurse called Christine in to meet with her new psychiatrist. Inside the conference room she discovered an oversized oblong table with a middle-aged Asian woman seated at the far end. Pulling out the chair farthest from the doctor but closest to the door, Christine sat down and gazed at the woman.
“So, said the psychiatrist, whose name was Dr. Payne, “tell me why you’re here.”
Surely this is a joke, Christine thought, nonplussed by the woman‘s ignorance. “I tried to kill myself.”
“Prescriptions or slashing your wrists?” the doctor inquired.
Christine rolled her eyes. “Prescriptions.”
The psychiatrist scribbled on her notepad. “So, what did you take?”
“Uh, Klonopin, some muscle relaxer, and a barbiturate migraine medicine.”
The doctor jotted additional notes. “So, how long have you been abusing Klonopin?” she asked.
The question took Christine aback. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
Dr. Payne set her pad aside and looked at Christine. “Why were there only 4 tablets left?”
Christine stared back at the woman. Was she dense? Did she not hear what she had just told her? “Because I took them to try to kill myself!”
“So, how many did you take?”
“I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t count. I didn’t count them, or the barbiturates or the muscle relaxers. I mean, if you were going to kill yourself, would you count the number of pills you took?!”
Dr. Payne penned some additional comments then handed Christine a questionnaire. “Fill this out. When you’re done, return it to the nurse.”
Scanning the questions, Christine discerned it was some sort of inventory. “Am I free to go now, then?”
When the psychiatrist nodded affirmatively, Christine arose and returned to her room, where she began completing the self-survey. She noted the reoccurrence of several questions - all framed in slightly different ways - and the open-ended essays, which presumed she drank alcohol. By the end of the test, Christine had resorted to using exclamation points to reiterate her sobriety, and her innocence in drug use.
When she was finished she returned to the nurse’s desk, where she discovered her psychiatrist bent over a plethora of papers.
“I’m done,’ she announced.
“Good. Let’s go to the conference room for a moment, shall we?”
Christine followed the doctor in and took a seat opposite hers. For several moments Dr. Payne quietly reviewed the self-survey. “Have you heard of Borderline Personality Disorder?” she said at last.
Christine sighed silently to herself. Of course she had heard of the disorder. Although she had never been diagnosed by a professional, she had recognized herself in the criteria listed in The Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, Version IV. But, for the most part, she had recovered from the traumatic experiences that had produced her poor coping mechanisms, and save for moments of intense stress, she no longer acted out on those impulses.
“Yes, but I’ve also been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,” she informed the doctor, who ignored her.
Reaching on top of a shelf, Dr Payne pulled down a paperback volume. “I have a book I want you to read,” she said.
Christine perused the volume, then shook her head incredulously. She had already completed all the steps required for “healing” and the recommended writing exercises were - to her at least - absurd.
“Thanks,” she muttered, smiling politely through clenched teeth. “Can I have my medication now?”
“No.”
Sitting back in her chair, Christine stared in bewilderment at the woman. Perhaps she doesn’t understand I only want my anti-depressant, she thought. “I don’t want the Klonopin; I just need my Effexor,” she clarified.
“No medication,” the doctor repeated, setting down the survey.
“But I’m not supposed to go off the Effexor,” Christine countered. “Abrupt discontinuation can cause severe side effects.”
“No medication.”
Christine was livid. Slamming her hand down on the desk, she yelled “Fine!” then stormed furiously out of the conference room. ****ing idiots, she seethed. This place is filled with a bunch of idiotic morons who know less about psychiatry than I do - a simple layperson!
Withdrawing to her room, Christine hurled herself upon the bed and crossed her arms petulantly. Several moments later, a nurse appeared at her door.
“Christine?” the nurse called. “Can you come with me? We have some medication for you to take.”
At once Christine felt a flood of rage depart from her body. She would not have to endure the endless panic attacks, migraine headaches and brain shivers after all.
Following the woman back to the nurses’ station, she observed Dr. Payne re-shelving a book before disappearing behind a curtain. She looked it up, she mused to herself. She looked it up and realized I was right. What does it mean, she wondered, when a psychiatric institution is so opposed to drugs, that it sacrifices patient welfare to maintain what it views as sobriety? If she had to fight for her Effexor, what about her roommate? What about the manic episode down the hall? Who else was not receiving the medication they desperately needed to live? And who else had the tools and knowledge she did to prove the doctor wrong? Christine shuddered at the possibilities, and considered the other hospital. But I’d rather be here, she resolved. I’d rather deal with ignorant medical practitioners than malicious evil people.
After swallowing her pill, Christine meandered down the hall to the common area to watch TV, but was disappointed to discover the station tuned to Bloomburg Television. A few moments of observing the stock listings fly by on the lower screen as the analyst discussed the plummeting drop in the Dow Jones Industrial Average proved intolerable to her sensibilities, and so she returned to her room, where once again she was confronted with insufferable boredom.
Laying down, Christine turned her attention to the scene outside her window. Dim sunlight streamed from between several bare branches, which protruded from below the window sill. No breeze blew to move them, and yet they soon began to wriggle like unearthed worms, then intermingled until the entire image was blurred…
