Annie and the Lobotomy

What happens when you lose your mind?

Everything the nurses told me made no sense.

“You're going to be okay, but...”

“Everything's going to be fine, but first...”

“You're getting so much better. Well...”

Anyhow, it didn't really occur to me that anything was wrong in the first place. The people that I saw everyday had these empty smiles on their faces that could be erased with the tip of my finger. Sometimes, I'd smile back and they'd jot something down on their clipboard. Probably something along the lines of: “She smiled today.” Fascinating.

It was all like a game to me. The professionals were even funnier. One of them in particular, I can't recall his name, would see me in his office every other day. Each day, he would ask me, “What's wrong? What are you feeling? Do you see any improvement in your condition?”

I'd respond, “Nothing. Nothing. What condition?”

Like it was all a joke. And it worked. He would purse his lips and sigh and write some stuff down. He always wore a suit, as if he were someone respectable and important. He never told me anything about himself, but assured me that everything we spoke of in our meeting would be highly confidential.

When I wasn't feeling like telling him the story of my life every other day, I would stare at his hair. It was jet black and slicked back with probably a whole bottle of gel. It intrigued me because it never moved, not even when he nodded. And he nodded a lot, pretty much at every single thing I said.

I'm sure my staring made him uncomfortable because he would start running his hand against his hair like a madman.

Anyway, he seemed to be particularly interested in my friend, Annie. Every time I mentioned her, he would ask me more and more about her.

“Who is Annie? What's she like? What are her interests? Why doesn't she have any? Why is she always so upset? I see, I see...” And so on and so forth.

Annie had been my friend since childhood and she would visit me occasionally. Recently, she had been visiting me more and more. She always talked to me about her problems, constantly telling me that there was not a drop of life left in her anymore.

I teased her, saying that if that were the case, she would not have tears coming out of her eyes all the time. She was full of life, so full of it that it overflowed from her eyes.

To be honest, sometimes Annie was too difficult to deal with. She had millions of cynical thoughts constantly racing through her mind. She liked to complain about the taste of onions and why the color orange is orange and everything and anything there was to complain about. It appeared to bring her joy, but that definitely wasn't the case because Annie wasn't capable of feeling joy. Each time she told me of her problems, I would stare at her and nod, feeling a little like the professional.

-

Yesterday, the professional took me to a room that wasn't his office. When I entered, Annie was waiting for me. There were a few other boring looking people with empty smiles standing around as well.

“Feeling alright, Annie?” The professional asked.

I knew that Annie wouldn't respond because she only answers questions when she isn't being asked any.

“She only answers questions when she isn't being asked any,” I told the professional matter-of-factly.

The professional pursed his lips and sighed and said, “Okay, let's begin.”

I don't remember much of what happened after that. It feels like a dark patch in my memory, a blind spot that gets blurrier the harder I stare. I see Annie all the time now, but all she does is lay around as a vegetable. Her life does not flow steadily out of her eyes anymore. I remember listening to her heart beat one night, then looking into her eyes, and seeing nothing but emptiness like the smiles all around me.

“You're going to be okay.”

“Everything's going to be fine.”

“You're getting so much better.”

Everything the nurses told me made no sense.