The Much Wanted Happiness of Charles Reache

A story about a guy who gets put into a mental clinic for drug abuse, but really just wants to be someone that matters.

"Life is a series of choices. The first is to begin the journey."

-Anonymous

"Do it."

"I can't."

"Try." Charles's vision fixated itself on the black of the pavement far below, disintegrating farther down the road into a wonderful ocean: blue, expansive, fulfilling. But too far away. The wind stung. His heart choked him- out of fear or for longing of the ocean he did not know. The sky was a swirling gray, and the tower Charles had built himself to get so high seemed about to crumble. "You have to hurry, or you'll fall." The voice was distant. The wind seemed to carry it away.

"I can't!" he said. He fell.

"Hey, a*****e, don't think you're getting away with this. I'm gonna- are you even listening to me you little-"

"Shut up. Lock me up again, I don't care." Charles grumbled, eyes red with purple rings.

"We don't care too much for you people down at the prison. You're going to where you belong. To the asylum, with the rest of the psycho junkies." The policeman's voice had a tone of grim and malicious satisfaction to it. Charles snapped out of his moment of apathy.

"The Ward?! You can't send me there, you busted me for drugs, that's not enough to get me institutionalized!"

"You trashed the goddamn hospital, for chrissakes, too stoned out of your mind to know what you were doing!"

"Calm DOWN, d****t!" Charles cried, slamming his fist on the table. "You can't send me there!" He was still screaming. His face was red, and the veins in his temples were swollen. His breathing was fast. Thin. He couldn't think. Or he could, but he couldn't. He could see, but didn't see, he could feel but didn't feel, all he knew was anger. The handcuffs drove into Charles's wrists, forming bloody rings.

"I need a tranq," the policeman said, "and fast."

When Charles awoke he was in a padded white room. "Wake up." he heard. He stood, propping himself up with his wrists. He looked at them and saw the scars from when he had been sent to this place a long time ago. How long had it been? It suddenly felt like it had happened only yesterday. But no, he decided, he had been there for years. And he knew that he was miserable. He would never amount to anything. He put himself in a place where his problems would never be fixed. This was supposed to be a place where you solve your issues. It only made Charles's worse.

"It's lunch time." He heard the nurse say from outside. A loud buzzer sounded and he looked out of his room into the long, white, tile hallway. 

In the cafeteria he saw a man sitting alone. Charles sat down next to him.

You couldn't tell but from up close, but the man was shaking violently. He had purple rings around his eyes. He looked at Charles. He grinned with what few rotting teeth he had left and muttered.

"What?" Charles asked.

"Look what I got." The man held out his hand. Enclosed was a bag of the finest  pooch he had ever laid eyes on. "Want a sniff?" He held up his hand and Charles inhaled. Suddenly he was somebody. He was happy. He was important.

"Woah," he stammered. "That's good stuff." He took another shot and was happy, because even if it wasn't real, he felt good. It was the only way he would ever find happiness again, stuck in that horrible place. And with bleary eyes with purple rings, he smiled.

Reviews

[silvitic]

I like the imagery and characterization you give Charles. It's easy to sense that feeling of worthlessness that Charles has. I personally didn't like the part before the very end I wish the solution of him feeling important wasn't drugs. Whenever there is a voice talking to Charles is it always his own? Of is it sometimes a policeman? The beginning is the same as the very end, so this means he technically was reflecting on his past memories he had while in the mental institute and now he's about to commit suicide, right? But how did he escape from the clinic? Was hew released from it?

[A. H. Pinley]

Now is the piece of a bigger story? Needs some reworking to clean it up and help it read smoother, but a good mental hospital story is always welcomed.

[Pamela Pletz]

You conveyed the disjointedness of his mental illness very well. The character made me uncomfortable as well he should. I liked that there was no magic ending or pill. Everything was in his head. Great job!

[Trigorin]

Not bad. There's a bit of room for expansion here, I think, and you definitely ought to take advantage of that - as it stands, this feels like a part of a larger work, but with no larger work to compare it to, it comes across as a little hollow.