The Pleas of Patient No. 9

He's not crazy. He's a man. He's a man trapped in a world he doesn't feel he belongs, and when his pleas fall short of the people around him he turns to God.

I’m not crazy.

I don’t care what others think, what they say, or where they put me.

I’m not crazy.

They think that just because I have different ideas than them that I am crazy. Well I’m not. I swear. I see things that they don’t see and they think I’m crazy.

But I’m not.

 

 

The rain beat heavily against the window he sat near, creating for him a mosaic of grey light that the dreary day issued forth. He rest his head against the cold glass, watching as his gentle breath produced a fog of condensation around his face.

Coming from within his skull was an agonizing pain, a headache running rampant. It hurt so much, in fact, that the pain reverberated throughout his entire body, sending shots of torment pulsing through his every vein and artery. His head always started hurting after they gave him his morning pills.

A nurse came by and asked him if he wanted to join the other “patients” for board games. He waved her off. He didn’t want to play games. He hated games.

He hated a lot of things, actually. He hated the window he sat next to. He even hated the fog that he was creating on its glass. In fact, he hated the whole damn building he was stuck in.  He hated the nurses, he hated the doctors, he hated the “patients,” and he hated the games. He hated the pills they made him take, he hated the shots they gave if you didn’t take those pills, and he hated the bed they would strap him into if he “caused too much of a fuss.” He hated everything about that “hospital.” He just wanted to go home.

Home was bright. Home was happy. Home was the place where people weren’t strangers, where people didn’t force him to do things he didn’t want to or judge him for doing the things that made him content. The nurses tried to tell him that the prison he was now trapped in was home, but it was anything but. He was confined in hell, forced to sleep in a bed that wasn’t his and call men and women his friends when they were nothing more than strained acquaintances.

 

 

 

 

I miss home. I miss my brother. My brother always knew what was best for me.

Maybe he doesn’t know what’s best for me anymore; after all, he put me in this hell-hole. He shipped me off just like a cow to slaughter. I wonder if he knew that’s what he was doing. My brother was always so good to me. He always knew what was best for me. I swear he did.

I wish I could see Mother again. Mother always loved me. She would say “I love you, forever and for always.” She would say that to me all the time. She’d say that before she put me to bed when I was a kid, and she’d even say it every time after I got in trouble. Whenever father would yell at me, she’d say it.

I don’t miss father. I’ll never miss father. I know I’m supposed to love him because he is my father, but I can’t love a man like that. My back still hurts sometimes. I pray to God to take it away, because the pain hurts so bad, and it makes my head hurt and it makes me cry.

I don’t like to cry.

Every time I cry I’m afraid I’m going to get in trouble again. Crying is why my back hurts now.

Father always said that crying was for boys. I need to be a man.

I am a man. I ask the nurses every day if I’m a man, because I’m afraid that someday I’m not going to be a man anymore. Every day they tell me “yes, you’re a man,” but I don’t always believe them. Men don’t have people feed them like babies and put them to bed at night. I don’t need them to help me, but they tell me they have to.

A man would stand up and fight them, but every time I do they give me those shots and strap me to those beds. A man wouldn’t be afraid, but I am afraid. I’m so afraid.

I’m a boy again, and if father sees that I’m not a man anymore he’s going to hurt me again.

I am a man. I hope I’m a man. Please, dear Lord, let me be a man.

 

 

 

He had been trapped in that institution for three years. Three years he had been awoken every morning by a man named Jordan screaming about his dead wife. Three years he had awoken to monotony, drearily trudging into the cafeteria every morning to get his breakfast and his “medication.” Three years he had spent his afternoon by the same window, staring out at the world that he may never get to set foot in again.  Three years his body had been immersed in an agonizing torture that couldn’t be eradicated for the life of him.

Three years he had been longing for nothing more than death.

He had tried on multiple occasions. Several times he had tried to force death to escort him out of the prison that encompassed him, but every plan was foiled by a nurse who barged into the bathroom and took him away. He would then spend the rest of the day strapped to a bed, injected with shots and cursing out god for forcing upon him this pain. 

He had never felt more burdened with life than he had within those last three years.

He may have never exactly been happy -or at least not in the conventional sense- but he was far happier back home than he ever was in that hellhole.  Every day at least he felt loved; he felt that there was someone there that cared about him on more than a “patient” level.

 

 

The day was four years earlier. It was the beginning of the end. He continued to live with his mother and father, a 20-year-old man who wasn’t yet ready to leave, yet unable to stand the confines of his childhood.

He was awoken that morning to the angry screams of his father. Something had upset him again, and he was taking his anger out on the poor woman he had called his wife for 26 years.

From the time he was a young child into his early adulthood, his father had calmed down quite a bit. Extreme outrages were becoming less common, broken glass and furniture no longer continuously littered the hallways, and, for the first time in forever, he was able to walk around his own house without being constantly plagued with the terror that had always filled his being.

That morning, however, a blast from the past hit their little house of horror like a wall. The hateful words of his father echoed throughout the confines of those rooms, filling his body with a fear that he had prayed he would never feel again.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he should try to leave or if he should just stay plastered in his bed. His father was entirely unpredictable, and the littlest thing could set him on another rampage that could end in his son’s demise.

The yelling got louder, and the words got meaner. The faint cries of his mother were even audible in the brief bouts of silence his father allotted while he took in another deep breath, readying himself for the rest of battle.

He got out of bed; he couldn’t continue to lie there any longer. For a while he just stood there in his bedroom, staring vacantly at the wall as he listened in dread to the fight that was happening in the hallway.

He may have been a 20-year-old man, but he had never been so scared before in his life, and yet he had no idea as to why. There was impending sense of dread that was welling up inside of him, threatening to be his demise. His hands began to shake, as did his knees, and a part of him was worried that at any moment he was going to collapse into a helpless puddle of inferiority on the floor.

Then all of the tables turned, and the menacing footsteps of his father were echoing throughout the house.

For a brief second he saw his very own death.

What happened thereafter he chooses not to remember. His brain shut off for the next several minutes, allowing him to remember nothing more than screams, yells, and a monstrosity of pain. The one thing he’ll never be able to forget -despite how much his mind tries to hide- it is that pain.

He woke up to the worried face of his brother hovering over him, his eyes filled with tears tinted with rage. Every part of his body hurt, and when he tried to sit up to see what was going on, his head was hit by a wall of agony, forcing him to crumble back down and lay looking up at his brother like a helpless child.  

He was surrounded by walls of white. Doctors came and went, as did nurses. Food was forced down his throat, and every time he tried to voice his agony he was allotted only silence, given nothing more than a sympathetic nod of the head and an assurance that everything was going to be alright.

There was something different about him after that day. His head had been hit so hard that it had left open a crack in his skull, and crawling in was a black millipede, sent by the Devil to wreak havoc on his life. To this day he could still feel it creeping around in his brain, pulling wires and causing suffering, trying to control him with its hundreds of little feet.

He never went home after that. He was transferred straight from the white walls of that hospital to his new “home” out by Oklahoma City. The last words his brother said to him were “I’m sorry.”

He still doesn’t understand why he got shipped off. He didn’t know what he did wrong. The most he had done was beg the doctors to get the bug out of his brain. It was causing him such distress that he was thrashing around like a beast, pleading for someone to take away the pain.

Instead of helping him, they just got rid of him.

 

 

 

 

 

I forgive him. It’s hard, and it hurts, but I forgive him.

My father is an unhappy man. He didn’t mean to hurt me the way he did. No father wants to see his son in pain because of him. He didn’t mean to do it.

Maybe he should be in this place with me.

I want to get out. I will get out and go tell my father that I forgive him. I can’t hate him forever.

I want to be happy again. I want to show my father that I am a man now. I want to show him that I don’t have to cry anymore. Maybe if I show him this, that bug in my head will finally leave.

I felt it crawling around this morning. It was in the front of my brain, biting at it and making me squirm. The nurses asked me what was wrong. I told them it was the bug again. They gave each other a look and tried to get me to go with them somewhere down the hall. I didn’t want to go; I knew what they were going to do to me.

They ended up dragging me. They gave me some shots, and pretty soon I didn’t want to move at all. I just laid there and tried not to cry.

Men don’t cry.

Men aren’t afraid.

Please, God, help me be a man.

 

Author's Note

Please let me know if this is too choppy.

Reviews

[alanwgraham]

This is a very sad story but you have written it well! You have found the voice of the young man. I can identify with bits of it and it has the ring of truth. It is certainly true that many problems emanate from relationships within the family and a difficult relationship with your father can lead to lifelong problems.
Well done!
Alan
Would you like to have a look at my story 'The gardener' if you have some time?

[A. Amos]

You really are one of my favorite writer on this site... Truly enjoyed the read.

[MelissaAndres]

Megan, you are a very good writer! I am highly impressed! I really liked this. You asked if it was too choppy. I wouldn't say choppy but my personal opinion is to have you play with each part a little bit. You could possibly move your second part up to be the first part. But, the way you have it written, I think no matter how you moved the parts around it would still be a fine, wonderful read. Each part is awesome. Bravo!

Feel free to read any of my writings as well.