“Sam, I don’t want to have to ask you this again,” Marc loomed over the dirty mustard covers wrinkled around the boy’s body, “it is now five o'clock in the afternoon.”
Sam groaned
and writhed atop the jagged bedsprings that poked at his back through the
mattress. The words were muffled to him, warbling out of a fishbowl as he
lay half unconscious. Marc sighed.
“If you
don’t get up, I’m going to get Adrian and the boys in here to lift you
off. Then we’re going to move this mattress underneath the staircase,
where everyone can see you. You can sleep in the common room from now on
and deal with that noise. Is that what you want?”
If he had to
be honest, he didn’t really care. They could go about their
business. As long as they left him alone.
“Alright, I
see how it is.” Sam opened his eyes to see Marc skeefing him. But
suddenly, he turned and left.
Was he free
now? Was resistance all that was required for his peace of mind?
They want to control you. It
whispered. They don’t understand; they don’t care. Talking to them
is futile. You know you can only get better if you get home. The
thing was burning with rage; it sent hot spikes searing through Sam’s body.
“Shut up,”
he groaned.
There’s only one way out. You’ll see. You don’t want
to get better. You know what you have to do.
“I won’t.”
Pathetic.
Without
weed, he was at the entity’s mercy. It intruded on every waking hour of
his existence. There was no reasoning with it, no bartering. Just a
psychic violation. He had tried everything western, eastern, and
alternative medicine had to offer, but it remained. Even the
antipsychotics didn’t work. But he wasn’t allowed any pills in here; they
didn’t believe in them.
He tried to
flutter back into sleep. Dull pain throbbed at his thighs, riddled with
bedsores, and aching muscles bruised from the tension of sloth. He had
slept too much; there was no more escape into placid dreams.
Suddenly,
icy water descended upon him, shocking him into lucidity. He spluttered as
the liquid ran down his throat and began to choke him. He launched into a
coughing fit; his body electrified into wakefulness.
He bolted
upright to see four men standing around his bed; he could’ve sworn some were
grinning.
They enjoy watching you suffer.
Leave me alone. He mouthed.
“We’re not
going to leave you alone, Sam. You forced our hand,” Marc said. Sam
blinked a few times, wondering if this was for real. “Now get up. You have
duties to attend to.”
Heavy with
spiritual exhaustion, he pulled himself up but said nothing.
Only Lucius
had any semblance of compassion on his features. He towered over the
others, but his shoulders were narrow and his arms were stick-like. Big, but
not menacing.
“Come on,
bud,” he said. “You can help me with the braai, okay? We got some nice pap
and brisket for tonight.”
It’s deceptive. You know he will force his will on
you. Just like the others.
But he had
no choice.
The denizens
watched him keenly.
He nodded
and followed Lucius out of the dorm, head hanging as the floor rolled past,
snaking its way past tiles and grey through the dinge of the mif-trodden
kitchen, then onto the fresh carpets of the hall and the freshly concretized
walls with moist smells, and finally onto the patchy grass outside, where an
enormous fire pit roared and crackled in its unyielding glory.
Watch it flicker; watch how it never wavers but burns until it
consumes all.
Sam took a
seat on a half-broken plastic chair. Lucius wagged his
head. "No, Sammy, there’s a tonne we've got to take care of for the
meal first.”
“Okay,” the
word was laboured.
You are not a tame beast. You cannot let them suffocate
you.
Sam started
to feel as if the world were drawing away from him. As if the voices were
tugging his consciousness back into a box.
No. He fought back. Stay where you are.
Sam half
expected Lucius and the others to hear his own thoughts, or at least see his
expressions as he interacted with the entity. But he could do a good blank
look when he needed to. They would think that there was nothing going on
inside. No raging. No fighting. Everyone had always
misinterpreted him.
They’ve labelled you an imbecile because you don’t know what to
say.
HAVE NOT!
“Okay, Sam,
you just need to hand me the tongs and the trays of meat. You are going to
be my assistant today.
They’ve decided you’re lazy because you have no energy.
But I’m not lazy.
“If you
don’t, Marc is going to be pissed and then it’s going to be the kennels... or
some shit, I don’t want that for you.”
And they think you don’t care because you never show any
emotion.
Do I care?
“But
if you just do this and show a little interest, I’ll tell him you did a good
job, okay?”
Sam handed
him the tongs.
Lucius held
back a laugh. "No, man, not now.”
“Oh, I
thought,” Sam’s words were slow and measured; he felt them plod out his mouth
like boulders escaping down a gradual slope, “you wanted them.”
“I’ll tell
you when I do,” he patted Sam on the back, but Sam showed no sign of the
receipt of affection.
He is kind. Sam told it.
He will turn on you. The second he's behind you, he will
tell ‘Marc’ tales about your incompetency. You will never get home.
“See here,”
Lucius pointed his finger towards the fire, “the wood is still quite thick and
unburned, and the flames are quite strong and high up, close to the
grill.” He turned towards Sam. “Too big and hot to cook, you
see? We’ve got to wait for it to burn down a bit. Then we fry the
brisket on the embers.”
Sam
nodded. He wanted Lucius to be the person he seemed to be.
Lucius eyed
him quietly, then settled his gaze on the fire once more.
“You know,
this is one of the most ancient practices of all time. A tribe standing
around the fire, resting and contemplating the events of the day.” Sam
looked up at him. “There’s something about it that’s in our bones,
right? It’s just so peaceful and soothing. I mean, completely
destructive if you let it out, hey? Given a chance, it’d burn all this
shit to the ground.” Sam wondered if Lucius could see his sudden grin, but
reckoned it was probably nothing but a mental flash. “But we contain it
and use it to our advantage.”
He's trying to get in your head; don’t buy it. He’s trying
to make you talk about the weed. Destructive but
contained? Enjoyable, but uncontrollable? Not even that smart.
Sam frowned
and rubbed his head. I just want to hear him out. Maybe
he’s trying to help.
YOU DON’T NEED HELP. You need to get out of
here. You need to get home. Nothing here is going to work for
you.
Concern
cradled Lucius’ face as he took in the strange expressions on Sam’s. The
battle was raging, and Sam's blankness gave way to tumult. He was aware of
what happened to his face during the times that the discomfort won out. How he
looked to others. And what people thought when they saw him.
They all know that something is wrong with you.
“My first
three weeks were tough,’ Lucius continued, "and the three weeks after were
tougher in a different way. But I had to get to a point where I knew I had
a problem. Then accept that I needed help with it.”
He’s trying to brain-wash you. He doesn’t know what you go
through. None of them do.
Out of the
corner of his eye, he caught short and pudgy Marc, shuffling along the
perimeter, checking them out. His eyes pretended to settle on some blemishes in
the infrastructure, but they actually darted towards Sam and Lucius.
“We all
fought it in the beginning. But it is what it is. In the meantime, we
just focus on this one day and this one moment. Having a
braai. Eating good food. Do you think you can just try to enjoy
that? Just this one thing?”
Sam looked
up at Lucius with trembling eyes. The entity began to squirm and scream
insults, but it was drowned out by a warmness rising in Sam’s
chest. Enjoying something was a foreign concept to him. Something he
hadn’t experienced since childhood. At some point, something robbed him of
it. Was it the voices? The substances he’d started taking to cope
with the psychosis? Was it just a general disillusionment that comes with
age? He felt tears starting to well up.
...FUCK…CONTROL…DON’T
“NO!” He
roared as he flung out his arms to both literally and symbolically push the
entity away. But he was so caught up in these new emotions that he didn’t
realise how close he was to the tray of briskets. It crashed onto the
floor, sending oily meat flying onto the gravel.
“I SAW
THAT!” Marc shouted from the entrance to the building. He began marching
in their direction.
“It’s okay,”
Lucius said. “Don’t fret; we’ll wash them off; don’t worry.”
But in an
instant, Marc was in his face.
“You just
had to ruin it for everyone, hey? I couldn’t stand not getting your
way. How childish!” Sam gawked at him. He shook his head
vigorously. “Until you accept your situation, I’m afraid you’re a bad
influence on everyone here.” Accept what? "I can’t
have this. I’ll see you in the office with Adrian after supper, and we’ll
decide what to do.”
Sam had only
heard rumours. Locked in the kennels overnight. Forced to stay up for
24 hours writing out recovery literature. Thrown into a trench to be hosed
down. He would have to spend the next few hours with thoughts of torture
running through his head.
You must get out of here. You have to get home. To
your weed, your computer, and your bed.
How?
He felt his
whole being turn towards the braai area.
The flame is a gateway to a new world. It destroys the
barriers of all realities. If you look hard enough, you’ll get the answer.
His eyes
flitted back and forth between Marc’s and Lucius’s. One was furious, the
other worried. But both were alien and terrifying.
He didn’t
belong here. He wasn’t like the other people. They couldn’t help him.
But there
was no way out.
There is. One way.
When it came
to him, there was no fear. It was just a weighing-up of different sorts of
anguish. One spiritual. One physical.
Could he do
it? Did he have the balls?
Anything was
better than here.
In an
instant, he launched himself forward, flinging himself towards the fire.
Lucius
reached out to grab his shoulder, but he was moving with too much
momentum. His fingers slipped over Sam’s arms and over his bony shoulders.
YES. DO IT. The demon said,.
And as the
flames licked his naked skin, he found a strange trance coming on, and his
memory lapsed for some time.
When Sam
woke up, he was in blinding pain.
Thick yellow
gel was dressing deep burns all over his body. They tingled with fury.
“Help,” he
mouthed, and he let out a hoarse moan.
Soon, faces
appeared around him. His mother and father. And someone unfamiliar.
Wearing white. A doctor. He sported a scowl and a raised
eyebrow. But his parent’s expressions were hidden from Sam.
“Pain,” he
said. “Something.”
The doctor
cocked his chin and shook his head. “I’m afraid not,, Sam,” he said,
“we’ve been asked not to prescribe you any narcotics.” He tapped a
clipboard.
He expected
his parents to be upset, perhaps even angry at the rehab for allowing this to
happen. Surely they would understand. They’d let him come
home. They wouldn’t allow this to happen again.
He turned to
look at them. They only looked on; his father’s eyes were distant, his
arms crossed. His mother was crestfallen, her face sagging towards the
floor under an emotional gravity.
“Home,” he
whispered, “please.”
They would
have to, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t put him back there. He would
get better; he’d explain to them. They’d understand.
His parents
looked away.
“I’m afraid
we’ll be keeping you here in the psych wing, Sam. Until we decide, you’re
not a danger to yourself.”
A panic
gripped him.
You’re fucked. You’re going to have even less freedom
here.
And when
would that be? When would he ever be free from the danger of the multiple
villanies of his mind? It had swarmed upon his conscience since he’d
entered what was supposed to be young adulthood. Would they only let
him out when his incurable psychosis abated?
I will never leave you.
He grabbed
his ears with both hands and shook.
His mom let
out a whimper.
She didn’t
understand; none of them understood.
You need me.
“I swear,”
he rasped, “If I can, just get home. I'll...”
His mom fell
into his father’s arms.
“I’m afraid,
not Sam. Your parents are done with you and your drugs,” he said, speaking
as if he knew. On the surface, at least. Deep down, he was completely
unfamiliar with someone like Sam. And he didn’t care. He only saw a
problem. “When you get better, we’ll discuss it.”
In his
heart, Sam knew that would never happen. He didn't know how; nobody did. Or
maybe he didn't want to.
Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
But he saw
in his parents a resignation. They couldn’t even deal. They needed a
representative.
You’re just a thing to him.
He’d be
locked up here forever.
He’s your master now.
There was no
way out.
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3 comments
Wow, very dramatic with powerful imagery. Shows the experiences of suffering of the main character vividly with high impact. Well written!
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I like this. A harrowing account of a dystopian psychiatric system. Am I right in thinking it's set in South Africa?
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Thanks man appreciate the feedback. Yes, it's set in South Africa, based on my own experience and conversations I've had with people about rehabilitation and psychiatric institutions.
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