Perceived Lunacy

Repetition

Repetitive noises are known to upset the mind. The constant drip of a leaky faucet, the creek of an old fan spinning lazily, the distant hums of the ramblings of a fellow inmate, it’s enough to make someone loose their mind. I guess that’s not much of a problem if it’s already gone. The thin lumpy mattress doesn’t protect my tail bone from the hard metal of the springs underneath, but I am used to it. Actually it is kind of comforting to feel something hard again. Everything on the other side of the fence is so easy if you follow the rules, which kind of only makes me want break them that much more. There is nothing to do, but sit. Sitting in the quart yard. Sitting in the day room. Sitting in the evaluation centers. Sitting in the dark.
        I sit with my legs drawn up onto my dingy mattress and trace my marks. I trace the scraps on my hands and knees that I have been used to my whole life. The Wilds aren’t a very forgiving place. I trace the dots on my shoulders and arms that detail the injections and transfusions that I have been subject too. And finally I trace the three raised bumps that lay just behind my ear that brand me as a cured, a defective one at that. Usually if a procedure has proven to be ineffective it is administered again, and again, and again until either it takes or in most cases the subject dies. I suppose I should feel lucky that when my fake procedure had been ruled ineffective I was sent to Abernathy House rather than actually being administered the cure, but I can’t bring my self to feel lucky for being here. I am a lab rat, kept only for research. Research they will use to prefect their unnatural crusading.
        When I was in the Wilds I felt as if I was the essence of natural. There was nothing more wholesome than the rawness of my sense of belonging. Here I am a zombie. Not by procedure, but by the shear breaking of my will. I was cured simply by the taking of what I hold most dear. My empty shell sits and lets the cureds examine her. She plays the part they expect her to play. She falls under the radar and gains the advantage of underestimation. She waits as the rattling of her cell door post cedes the opening of it. She has learned their routine and studied it and she examines them as they her. She has mastered their acting abilities. They act as though there is more to them than logic and she acts the opposite. She has become the epitome of what they are trying to achieve only to snatch it out from under them when she gets her chance. When my superiors in the revolution decided on a name for my cured ID’s they displayed the humor that we as uncureds have kept. Delaney has a Gaelic meaning, it means child of dark defiance and that’s exactly what I intend to do. Defy. The heavy metal door on my prison slowly creaks open revealing one of the most sickening orderlies, Arnold. He has mastered his companionate mask so well that it makes me sick to my stomach knowing that it is fake.
        “Delaney, it’s time for your meeting with Sarah.” He says with a voice that reminds me of the inviting colors of a poisonous frog. He wheels his tray in and begins rifling through the drawers searching for the syringe with my name on it.
        “It really is an incredible bore to talk about my thoughts for hours.” My voice chimes in a monotone as I hold out my arm ready to embrace the impending injection. He gives a chuckle that is the essence of fake and meant to be taken that way.
        “It will help you with your recovery.” Arnold says replaying the lie that I have heard many times before. The only recovery they are interested in is the recovery of control. He pushes the needle further and further into my arm searching my face for any signs of something other than solitude.  
“Well if it must be done.” I say with a small forced smile. Arnold pulls the cold syringe from my vein and quickly dabs a cotton swab at it ready to absorb the coming blood. I don’t know what they have been pushing into me over the past few months, but I’m doing whatever I can to make them think its working.
        “And it must.” Arnold says continuing the small talk. The lack of emotion behind his eyes makes me nauseous as they examine me. It’s unnatural, inhuman, but I don’t let this show on my face. I simply keep the steely expression that I have learned to mimic from them so well.
        Arnold tosses out the cotton swab before returning to his tray and pulling out my pills. He presses them into my palm and watches as I pop them into my mouth one by one. He is only satisfied when I open my mouth and lift my tough so he can be certain they have gone down.
        “I have your change of cloths,” he says pulling my gray sweats and t-shirt from the bottom of his cart. They’re clean and ready for another day’s use, “I’ll give you a minute to change.” He pulls the heavy metal door closed behind him. I wait five seconds like always before throwing myself to the floor. I shove three fingers down my throat as far as they will go holding them there through violent gags until finally the three small lumps raise up and out. I don’t waste any time once the small blue pills are back in my hand wading in a puddle of salvia.  I work my way shoving myself under the hard metal frame of the bed until I can reach the wall. This small rock of concrete had been worked out of its place in the wall long before I got here, but I have made great use of it. I push it aside and place the three pills in the small alcove behind it before quickly shoving it back in place. Promptly I jump to my feet and struggle to remove my t-shirt and replace it with the identical clean one. I do the same with the sweat pants before slipping on the dingy white slippers by the door in preparation for Arnold’s return. It doesn’t take long before he is back to escort me to my session with Sarah. He shoos me out the door and into the oddly light hall. It is obvious by the looks of the facilities that Abernathy house was once used as a residential area, an apartment complex or something. Sometimes in the Wilds we would stumble onto places like this. They were obviously damaged from the bombing, but they made easy shelter for a night. We couldn’t stay long, something like that attracts too much negative attention.
        I walk flanking Arnold down the familiar corridors past the mumblers and the droolers who spend their day sitting in the halls waiting for medications and examinations. We make our way through the day room where the more “successful” cases spend their time and finally we arrive at Dr. Sarah Stafford’s front door. She is waiting inside with the door open and a condescending smile plastered on her thin lips.
        “Good Morning Delaney.” Her dead voice tries to sound welcoming.
        “Good Morning Dr. Stafford,” my forced monotone sounds, “it’s nice to see you.” I say fakely, she knows it’s insincere, but hopefully she thinks so because of their medical efforts with me. If I were like them nothing would be nice.
        “Yes, sit down.” She says motioning to the seat in front of her. I do as told as much as it pains me. “So, how are you feeling this morning?” on this side of the fence feeling is a dead word and when it is said it is weighted with a different meaning, it’s a façade.
        “I’m a little tired. It’s not that easy to get to sleep around here. Some of the other patients can get a little noisy at night.” I say trying to stick to physical states that can be associated with feeling.
        “I can imagine.” She says with a smirk. She could never imagine. She couldn’t even imagine if she still had the ability to use something other then so called logic. “You have made a very big improvement since your first month at Abernathy House.” She says plainly, “do you remember what you were like when you first arrived?” her expression appears judging, but when does it not.
        “Yes, I remember. It’s quite embarrassing looking back.” I say with a forged chuckle. Actually looking back I want to cry. When I first came here I still had the Wilds in me. Now my fierce animal quality has been sucked out just like the love that was sucked out of Dr. Stafford.
        “Do you see how much better your life has gotten? We have removed you from wing C and me and the rest of your doctor are having a meeting today to determine if placement in wing A will be good for you.” Her short brown hair bobs as she says this with falsified enthusiasm. Wing A consists of the patients who they believe they have cured, the ones kept to study their improvements.
        “That would be very nice.” I mimic her enthused gestures while holding down my own. Gaining the advantage of underestimation is my only chance at freedom. I will get one chance and I am about to make it count.