Yiska One Morning 1967

A woman wakes up in a mental asylum in 1967.

It had begun, the day, and you saw the hint of daylight come through the sides of the curtains. You lay there aware you were awake. Night had brought you dreams of an unknown quality, but they seemed so real, so actual, that you were sucked in. Now it had gone, evaporated into the night and darkness. You gradually recalled where you were. It was the reality of that place that began to seep in. The smell of bodies and the sounds of others waking up too. The morning broke into your consciousness. Voices came; sounds of people moving about; a few passed at the end of your bed. You wanted to turn over and return to sleep, but they would shake you soon, the nurse with the whisky smelling breath, her harsh words, hard pushes against your shoulder.  You sat up and took in the reality of the morning and the sight of others moving from beds and going off to the washroom. Abby stood at the foot of her bed making signs of the cross over her floppy breasts. You got up and taking the towel from the rail at the side of your bed. You walked towards the washroom. Betty stood at the foot of her bed staring into space with that usual blankness on her plump face. You tugged her sleeve and she followed you, a old towel in her hand. The washroom smelt of urine and waste and bodies woken from sleep. You entered a cubicle and closed the door and kept the door shut with a hand. Sounds came and surrounded you and embraced you as you emptied yourself of the waste and unwanted wealth.