The Asylum (continuation from 'Cold Room')

I walk out of the room with empty
beds and head down the corridor
with the other patients to the
nurses station to get my
morning meds.

Breakfast again,
then group sessions
with the therapists.
We patients sit
and talk about
the things that we
can't tell sane people.

I sit in my chair and
listen to a girl cry,
she's here in this place,
because she wanted to die.

Which leads me to believe,
that the cuts on my arms
are a farce of death.
But I don't want to die.
I want to live.
I just want to kill the pain.
Create pain elsewhere to
kill the pain in my head.

My name is called.
"Karen, share your thoughts."

I haven't been paying attention.
So I say, "I don't know."

A girl who's autistic and
mentally challenged begins
to clap her hands loudly
and shouts repeatedly
after me.
 
The orderlies come in and
take her out of the room.

I suppose she's going into isolation again.

Finally the group sessions are over.
We can return to our rooms.

My room is so cold and lifeless.
Lining the walls are empty beds.
I have no clue why I'm in this room.
It reminds me of a sick room
during the 19th and early 20th centuries.

I lie back down on my bed
and fall asleep, thanks to my psych meds.

The dreams start to come and I'm
alone once again and the nightmares
come and I can't wake up.

No tricks this time, I can't wake up.
I can't wake up!
Help me!
Wake me up!
Please!
I scream, but it comes out like a moan.
This nightmare won't let me go.
This hell that I'm living through
will not cease.

I toss and turn, hoping that will work.

The cloaked figure in my dream
reaches out for me.

I sit straight up in bed and open
my eyes and take a look
at my surroundings.
I'm not at home.
I'm here, in the asylum.
To get better.
Or so I thought.

Copyright © Karen Elizabeth Waters 2012