Held Hostage

The group assembles outside the door of the solitary, dark room at the end of the hall. This has to be done quickly, and immediately, or there will be no chance at all. They want to avoid a fight.

*

I can hear their whispers. They are outside my room. They keep their voices low, but I can hear one of them saying my name. I know who she is; reminds me of my oldest niece in some ways, but not the ones that matter. It’s dark in here, and I wonder what I might do as they enter. Make no mistake, they come and go as they please, sometimes quietly at night when I pretend to be asleep, sometimes with a sudden pounding on the door. They watch me, and they remind me that they’re always just outside. My brain is foggy—it has been every day since they brought me here—and I fight the drugs they’re pumping into me. I want to resist, but what can I do? It’s just me, alone and captive, as it has been for too many years. 

Is it wrong for an old man to be terrified? I am more afraid than I have been in my entire life, and the only thing I wish is that they would leave. They hurt me, and the bruises and pricks and electricity are beyond humanity. There are more voices now, ones I don’t know, and I can hear metal scraping against the door outside. The handle turns to that horrible door, yet it stays closed. Why? Are they taunting me, or perhaps waiting for the large, young man named Michael, as if I might somehow be able to put up a fight? How far did I get last time? 

I shall close my eyes and make them believe that I’m asleep. I shall close my eyes and remove myself from this place. I hear a slight knock, and even in the dark I know that it’s really happening. They're here, and I close my eyes as I’ve practiced so many times. I have the will and the ability to disregard their words, their presence, even their pain. I can dream; far away; not here; not now. 

I close my eyes and breathe slowly and return to that dream, to my escape.

I hold close to this dream, and I allow my eyes to open inside it. I hear the music and we are dancing. Friends join in, and family—men who would never dance step into the circle and clasp hands, and it grows larger. I’m young, and she sees my future and she laughs. But that’s not the word I want. Laughs is too mundane. Her face is blurry, but she’s so familiar, and she tosses back her head and laughs again. They all do, and the music is louder and the circle spins faster. There’s a word for it, better than laughs, but there isn’t time. Don’t waste this dream on a word. It only matters that she’s happy, and that I can almost see her.

If I close my eyes I can hold onto this dream. I’ve had it before. I’ve had it for four—or is it five?—nights in a row. As a child I dreamed that Christmas would come and there would be no gifts, or that the school bus would drive past me, or that my grandfather was dying and a small devil would fly down from the branches of a June apple tree and carry him away. Then came the nightmares—all awake. College and false friends and jobs that paid me not what I was worth, but a dollar less than what my competition would work for. I have smiled and bowed and given in while my soul was tortured. 

Even now, they’re ready to torture. I roll to my side and I picture her, and the movement of the dance makes her real, more real than she has been in years. That’s it! Her hair is coal black and she has a classic Roman nose. I know her, her name is on my tongue, and she’s beautiful. No, not beautiful! There’s a word for it, better than beautiful. I did know, and I wasted those years as an author, always trying to find the better word, when that’s not what mattered. I can feel her hand in mine, and I hold tight, lest we spin so fast we pull apart.

They don’t understand, outside my room, or they would leave me alone. They are young and fat and stupid and pretend to be my friends. Their hair is blue and pink and they call me by my first name, a familiarity that cannot be exchanged, because I do not know their names. I never knew their names, nor ever cared to. I hate them.

She would tell me to not hate them. She would tell me that I have become old and bitter. I would tell her that a practical man trying to make a living has a right to be bitter, that I have been cheated. She would give me a sad smile, but wouldn’t argue. Her perfect memory takes my hand and the dance continues, my dream survives. I wish only for another moment.

They have pills that dull me and food that disgusts me. They have nothing to help me, yet they will never leave me alone. They don’t care if I die, and on that we just might agree. Would that be a satisfaction for them? Would they pretend to care?  Maybe for a day, my name on a corkboard in the hallway, then another wasted life would be here. Another surname scribed on that cold door, easily replaced.

I roll over to my stomach as if I were a child, and she’s still there, smiling and swaying and running her long fingers slowly through my hair, humming the song, as she would. I know the tune, and there was a time that I knew the words. If I could have just a moment I could remember, but they’re coming back. I’m cold. I squeeze my eyes together as if that will stop the monsters from coming, but that never worked before, and I’m crying, and she’s beautiful and laughing and the dance spins faster and larger than before. Her eyes are gray and smiling, and the brown of her skin reminds me of the hours in her beloved garden. Her satin dress is golden and green, and it spins delightfully from her lean body as her chest rises with a new breath. I call her name, and her ruby lipstick upon my lips is my reward. She is my everything, and she is my nothing. She is my regret.

*

The attendants swarm in, activating the harsh lights, and checking the settings on irrelevant machines. As Michael secures the straps, the lead nurse shouts, “Leave the tubes be, Johnny! Are you just wanting to die?”

*****