LI | Something Like Normal
❦
There is
something
wrong
with her.
But
there’s no point
telling her that.
To her,
I am an experiment,
I am a game,
I am a serial number on a chart.
My patience should be
endless
because I am
a patient.
I sit in the chair
on other side of her desk—
like I’m supposed to.
So…how are you?
‘I’m better,’ like you said.
The doctor’s
businesslike smile
returns
and she shifts her glasses
slightly up her nose.
But then
she pushes it
back down.
What have you been doing these days?
Is this
a trick question?
She knows.
She’s clicking her mouse,
scrolling through notes
on her computer.
They watch
everything we do.
She already
knows
What I do all day.
It’s like I’m back at
the other hospital
where they ask me these pointless questions
every morning.
‘Painting.’
Some typing.
And excessive nodding.
Why are you painting?
Is she dumb?
Do you think
I’m doing it because I want to?
‘There’s nothing else to do.’
More typing.
More nodding.
Nothing else?
I think about
Tammie’s pole dancing
but that’s not what
I am doing.
‘Nothing.’
Typing. Nodding.
Is there anything you’d like to be able to do?
Die. I want to die.
That’s
the first thing
I think of.
She types
even though
I haven’t said
anything.
The typing continues.
I don’t want
nurses
following me around.
Tammie
will call me
stupid
and tell me to stay
far away
when she’s practising.
‘I want to be normal.’
The typing stops.
She turns
to look at me,
a serious look
on her face.
Was I
mistaken?
Isn’t this
the correct answer
they are looking for?
What do you mean?
I’m careful,
pronouncing each word
slower,
as if it’ll help
sort out the deluge of assumptions
now clouding my mind.
‘Be
‘normal.
‘Like
‘normal
‘people.’
Her smile
(this time)
is faint, uncertain.
I can hear
my heartbeat
echo off
the shiny grey walls.
You can, you know?
I try to read
the printed letter
pinned to the notice board
behind her.
Other than the
header:
WONDERLAND,
all the other words
are too small.
This is your home from now on,
but it doesn’t have to be
your home forever.
Recovery is possible.
I laugh.
I can’t help it.
I laugh
and it echoes
in the empty
obviously-fake
office.
This “doctor”
isn’t
surprised
by my reaction.
She leans her arm
on top of her papers.
They’re blank.
Did I tell you that
when I looked at them earlier?
They’re blank.
You can recover.
You will get better.
Many patients
leave our asylum
and lead
a normal life.
‘I don’t believe you,’ I say,
wiping tears
from my eyes.
She begins typing again,
her businesslike face
covering
the many masks
she’s already wearing.
The eight patient rule.
The people who have disappeared.
Does she think
all of us don’t know about that?
You can be normal.
Be like normal people.
She shifts her glasses
slightly up her nose
and pushes it
back down again.
I leave
even though she hasn’t said I can go
because
I’m starting
to believe her.
You can be normal.
Be like normal people.
❦
