I am Perfectly Healthy

Sensitive Content: The story could contain graphic descriptions of burns, injuries, or death.

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I am perfectly healthy.

I don’t understand why my family seems to think otherwise. Despite my age, I still lead an active life. Every day, I cook, make my bed, and run errands without any assistance. I am fully capable of taking care of myself, but this didn’t stop her.

The strong smell of disinfectant and stale air filled my nostrils as I entered this dreary place. My daughter had insisted on admitting me here, to what felt like a prison for the elderly. The walls were painted a dull blue, and the floors were scuffed and worn, adding to the overall drabness of the room. I couldn't understand why she would want to subject me to such a pungent, boring environment.

“I am perfectly healthy,” I assured my daughter, Martha, yet she remained silent and smoked her cigarette.

Even as a child, Martha was always convinced that she knew best; and even now, that hasn't changed. Just the other day, she proudly showed me her new sweater, made of thick, suffocating blue wool with a garish flower pattern sewn into it. (See, I can remember things!) It was truly an eyesore. But Martha wouldn't listen to my opinion; she was convinced it was charming and even compared the flowers to those in my garden. However, I know for a fact that my garden would never produce such ugly flowers.

The nurse gestured towards the miserable excuse of a room and spoke, "This will be your living quarters."

The bed looked like it was plucked from a hospital room, with stark white sheets and a thin, scratchy blanket stretched over the thin mattress. The sink was dingy and dull, with cracks and rust around the edges. The bathroom was tiny, with barely enough space to turn around in, and the window was streaked with dirt, offering a depressing view of the crowded parking lot and the looming supermarket sign.

I quickly looked around the tiny room, refusing to accept that this would be my new reality. "Where is the kitchen?" I asked Martha, my frustration rising. Without my morning tea, it was going to be a rough day.

She shook her head. "Residents are not permitted to have their own kitchens. However, we do have a communal kitchen available for use under supervision," she explained.

Frustration and disbelief swirled within me. What kind of place was this? I couldn't even have access to a simple kitchen.

"I can't even make myself a damn cup of tea? This is ridiculous," I muttered under my breath. "I am perfectly capable of using a kitchen by myself."

Before Martha could respond, the nurse who had been standing nearby, chimed in. "Well, then, it seems like you'll have no problem using our communal kitchen."

Her soft smile did little to ease my annoyance as she turned and walked away. I clenched my fists and muttered curses under my breath, watching as Martha, with her head hung low, trailed behind the brisk nurse with her pamphlet. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.

As the days stretched on, my room began to feel smaller and smaller, suffocating me in its dreary walls. Seeking solace and human interaction, I found myself spending more time in the main room with the other guests. Each day at exactly 3pm, June, Susan, and I gathered around a worn card table and played a game of Rummy. June was a quiet presence, rarely uttering a word. I learned later that she had been admitted on the same day as me. In contrast, Susan was more talkative, though her memories seemed to slip away like sand through her fingers. Oh, poor thing, always forgetting the place, the time, and once even her own name!

The next week, Susan and I gathered in the assisted living facility's common room for our daily card game. Today, June's absence weighed heavily on me, leaving a palpable void in our new routine. As Susan furrowed her brow and stared intently at her hand, I realized my mind had wandered off again. "Whose turn is it?" Susan asked, snapping me back to reality. "Honey, it's just you and me. If it’s not you, it’s me," I said with a chuckle as I placed my card down. "Right, right. Sorry about that," she replied sheepishly. I couldn't help but wonder where June was.

"Where is that girl anyway?" I mumbled to myself.

“What girl?” Susan mumbled back.

“June.”

"Who's June?" Susan asked, looking confused. Irritated, I called over the nurse.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where June is today?" The nurse smiled kindly and replied, "Hello, Ms. Johnson. Your friend June has shown significant improvement in her memory and has been discharged to continue her recovery at home." Surprised and relieved, I asked, "So we could do this at home now?"

"Yes, if the caretaker and staff feel it is best for you."

“Well, who’s my damn caretaker?”

“Your daughter, ma’am.”

My daughter. Where the hell was she?! It had been two weeks since she last saw me. Suddenly, it hit me. My plan. How clever would it be to prove to her that I don't belong here—that I am perfectly capable and sane.

"Excuse me, Susan. I need to return to my room for a moment to contemplate some things."

She frowned, “Who’s Susan?”

Sitting in my dimly lit room, I fixated on the bottle of medication prescribed to me by this Control Complex. With a determined flick of my wrist, I threw each pill away and replaced them with colorful mints.

Oh, how they looked almost identical!

Then, picking up a worn journal, I began to meticulously document every event and detail that would occur in my life. It was my way of proving to myself and others that I was capable of remembering and holding onto the moments that made up my existence. Every little detail, no matter how insignificant, would be etched into these pages for safekeeping. The weight of responsibility and determination settled heavily on my shoulders as I frantically began to write.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. My daily routine remained the same – breakfast at 7:30 am, Rummy with Susan at 3 pm, and journaling in my room before bed. The only thing missing was any sign of Martha's presence. She had not visited me once since that fateful day she left me in this place. I could feel a mix of anger and hurt bubbling beneath the surface, but I pushed it aside, focusing instead on my mission to show everyone that I belonged elsewhere.

On a crisp autumn morning, I sat by the window in my room, clutching the ingredients to make myself a cup of tea. Just as I was about to leave for the communal kitchen, the door swung open, and the nurse appeared at my threshold. "You have a visitor," she announced. My heart leaped with joy—could it be my daughter finally paying me a visit?

But as I set down the tea ingredients, disappointment washed over me as I realized the woman in front of me was not my daughter. "What do you want?" I asked curtly.

"I am here to check your progress," she replied calmly.

A glimmer of hope sparked within me - perhaps I could use this opportunity to convince the doctor that I was well enough to go home.

"Have you been taking your pills?" the woman inquired.

With determination, I blurted out, "No."

The nurse's eyebrows raised in confusion. "Then what have you been taking?"

I couldn't help but feel smug as I replied, "I replaced them with mints and I am perfectly healthy! See, I don’t belong here. I can remember on my own!"

But instead of scolding me or shaking her head in disapproval, the woman simply frowned and said softly, "Then I think I am done here."

My heart sank. This can't be happening. I haven't even had a chance to show her my journal—my last piece of damning evidence!

“Wait!” I yelled, but I was too late. She was gone. That woman. That damn woman. She is the reason I cannot leave. Months of endless labor, tedious recordings, and endless games of Rummy with Susan have led to this moment. The fire burning in my chest grew within seconds, driving me towards one goal: revenge. And I will not rest until I have it, even if it means destroying everything in my path.

Weeks have dragged by without a single glimpse of her. And still no visit from my daughter. My heart clenches in agony, aching for the sight of my daughter's face. Instead, I am left with the mocking company of my captor, the only visitor to grace my cell in over a year. The irony is not lost on me, as I am held captive by one woman while longing for another.

As the sun rose, I gathered the delicate leaves and fragrant herbs to make my morning tea. But before I could finish preparing it, a sharp knock echoed through my small cottage. My heart skipped a beat as I cautiously approached the door, only to be greeted by my nurse.

The nurse stood there, her tight-lipped smile making me cringe. “You have a visitor,” she announced, her tone betraying her discomfort. And as I figured, it was not my daughter, but the woman who is keeping me hostage.

A seething anger bubbled in my chest, burning and boiling until it consumed every rational thought. Fueled by the fire of betrayal, a new sinister plan materialized in my mind.

The woman tiptoed into my room, her voice laced with apprehension. "Hello, how are you feeling today?"

I grit my teeth and force a twisted smile. "I'm fine."

Her condescending tone grated on my nerves as she asked, "Have you been good and taken your pills?"

I scoffed and rolled my eyes, resisting the urge to lash out at her like a rabid animal. She treated me like a disobedient child. None of those details held any significance; there was only one way to escape.

“Yes.” I lied.

The woman grinned, "Would you mind a conversation in the common room?"

"I need to prep my tea first."

"That's okay, I can wait."

As I flicked on the gas stove to start boiling the water, the woman sat in the common room with her arms tightly crossed. As soon as I returned to the common room, the pungent scent of smoke hit me like a wall.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm, glancing at the woman.

“Well, we didn't have much time to talk last time we met. How has this place been treating you?” The woman's voice was calm and collected, but her eyes lied with concern.

"It's been hell," I replied with a sharp edge to my voice. But she just flicked her cigarette ash to the side and met my gaze with an infuriating smirk.

"How so," she cooed, ", this building is home to some of the best nurses and staff in the nation?"

I couldn't take it anymore. In a fit of rage, I slammed my wrinkled hands down on the table.

"You need to get me out of here, or I will do it myself," I growled at her.

Her smirk turned into a pretentious expression as she coolly responded, "You can't do that."

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to prove her wrong and show her just how capable I still was. But instead, I took a deep breath and composed myself. I sat back down in my seat, forced a smile onto my face, and said, "You're right. I apologize for my outburst."

To my surprise, the woman's expression softened, and she returned my smile. "Thank you," she replied simply. Even though it went against every instinct in me, I chose to play nice for now and bide my time until an opportunity presented itself for escape.

And now is that time.

I furrowed my brow and put on a confused expression, hoping to divert her attention.

"Oh, I seemed to have forgotten about the water on the stove," I said with a hint of innocence in my voice. "Could you be a dear and help me with it?" Her features softened from their previous state of anxiety as she replied, "Of course!"

I slowly guided her towards the kitchen, my heart pounding with anticipation. As she reached over to grab the water, I saw my chance. In one calculated motion, I fell to the ground, knocking her cigarette into the nearby fire. The cigarette burst into an explosion of flames that spread across the room like wildfire.

Without wasting any time, I quickly rolled towards the adjacent room, watching through the open doorframe as the inferno I had ignited raged on. However, it wasn't really me who had caused this fire—it was her.

She screamed for help, but her voice sounded muffled and distant, as if underwater.

Now is my chance to finally escape.

I sprinted out of the building and towards home, where my daughter was waiting for me. Before leaving completely, I glanced back at the complex through a window and saw my enemy lying on the ground, her body engulfed by flames. Her hair burned like blazing embers. Her once soft features were now distorted and disfigured by agony and heat. And that hideous blue wool sweater she wore with its garish flower pattern was now nothing but ash and smoke. I have to make it back to her. This was my chance to prove to my daughter that I am perfectly healthy.