5150 by Duncan MacLeod

Author:Duncan MacLeod [MacLeod, Duncan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mental illness, memoir, 1980s, psychiatric disorders, adolescence, psychotic, new wave, psychotic break, goth culture, schizophreniform disorder
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m good. I’m sooo good. It’s arts and crafts, and I’m making a plaque, just like they want me to. I’m cutting beautiful pictures out of a magazine and gluing them to a piece of wood and painting the wood and rubbing shellac over it all. And it’s looking mighty pretty. Boy, what a pretty piece of art I’m making at craft time. Yessir.

“That sure is pretty, Ethan.”

“Thank you, Barbara. I’m making it for my mother. She’s coming to visit later today, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.” Barbara smiles approvingly. She likes the new Ethan, the good Ethan.

“Is it time for medication yet, Barbara?”

“Not until noon.”

“May I have my PRN of Cogentin, please?”

“Oh, is your neck getting stiff again?”

“Yes it is.”

I’ve been carrying on like this for several days now. It’s a miracle, they’re all saying it. I’m getting better. The medicine is working. I join in all the group activities. We had a Fourth of July barbeque on the roof, and I played volleyball. The roof was interesting. It has high walls, and you can’t see anything but the grey foggy sky above you. Yet another example of the huge distance that separates me from earth. Somewhere in that grey sky is my home. I’m going to get there. It’s all covered in my plan.

I love having a plan. It’s my secret, and nobody knows. I’ll be out of here before the month is through. I’ve stopped telling the strangers what’s inside my head. I’m just giving them what they like to hear. They like to hear please and thank you; they like to see me smile. They really like to see me organize the small pile of possessions I have on my table. I spend several minutes each morning just rearranging my razor and toothbrush. I make my bed after every nap. There are hushed whispers “it’s a miracle.” But every once in a while, I let something slip and they look at me disapprovingly. I’ll tell an off-color joke, or burn my hand with a hand-rolled cigarette.

Here comes Jimmy. He’s heading down the hallway. He doesn’t really see me, he just turns around and walks away, talking to himself. Then he wheels around and heads toward me, still talking. It’s not talking, it’s a song. He’s singing. He sees me and stops.

“Ethan, my man, what’s happening?”

“What a lovely song you were just singing.” Why am I bothering with him? I guess they might be observing me.

“I wrote it myself. I’m in a band, you know. Jimmy Simple and the Dead Giveaways. Have you heard of us?”

“Hmmm...no.”

“We’re pretty fucking obscure.”

“Obviously. Who else is in the band?”

“Just me right now.” He pauses, and then laughs. Then he gets a very serious look on his face.

“Ethan, come to my room, I want to talk to you.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I might get in trouble.” I am wearing an angel face mask while I talk to him, in case anyone is watching.

“Fuck them.”

“But I’m on my best behavior.”

“No one is fucking watching, come on.

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