Fiction: part 2

She thought about it for a while. Weighing the pros and cons heavily. It felt like hours as she sat there wondering how she would explain checking herself in to an insitution to friends and family, who have no idea what she's been facing for months. She wondered how her mother would react. A simple woman with mild interest in her daughter's affairs and irresponsible with her own. She would probably encourage the break from society in hopes she would not have to deal with her daughter's detachment from reality herself. She would idly suggest a vacation or a nap. Laughing to herself, Cyrille dismissed the thoughts and decided to make the phone call. Looking at her phone thoughtfully she began to dial the numbers that would hopefully lead her to freedom and tranquility.
"New York State Psychiatric Institute. Beatrice speaking, how may I help you?" Her voice was warm and inviting. Cyrille almost hung up immediately but there was something in Beatrice's voice that made her stay on the line. She wondered if Beatrice was hired for that particular reason.
"Hi. I'm- uh..." She struggled to find words. This was the first time she spoke aloud to anyone about her ailments, "I have a problem. I would like to check myself in and was wondering what the procedure was?"
"Now, there is no reason to be nervous. I will gladly assist you. How are you feeling right now Miss-"
"Temple. Cyrille Temple."
"Yes, Miss Temple. How are you?"
"I feel absolutely insane." She blurted.
"Well, sweetie, where are you?"
"Home."
"I can send a vehicle to pick you up."
"Please." Cyrille was near tears. After exchanging information Cyrille hung up and began packing her belongings. Shortly after putting some jeans in a duffel bag she stopped. Everything seemed so futile. She would be wearing the same thing anyway and the though of changing outfits everyday made her nauseous. Clothing was a reflection of self and she had no idea who she was. A pair of jeans became a threat. A t-shirt was a mocking gathering of fabric and jewelry was diminutive, useless clutter. So she decided to sit and wait in the dark instead. Listening to the wind blow through buildings outside, wishing she felt as free as the air penetrating the city.



to be continued....

I'm out.

Fiction: part 1

She thinks about the decision she made. Mulling over the pros and cons as she sips her hot chocolate staring out her window onto the street. She smiles, realizing that this is what she wanted all along, accepting that this is what needs to be. The sweet, warm drink soothes her throat. After crying for days it is a welcoming sensation. Cars drive by noisily, honking their horns, the drivers yelling profanities. It's music to her ears, a melodious intermingling of mechanical voices and urban salutations. She looks back at the computer screen at listings wondering who wrote them and what the circumstances were that lead to particular job openings. That company lost their marketing manager to a drug habit and an existential crisis, or this company's art director left after realizing his passion for music and nonconformity. The world is constantly changing, a fluidity reminiscent of spilled milk flowing over counter tops and splashing onto the floor, spreading freely, thickly, without calculation, but with purpose. She shifts in her chair. Trying desperately to focus on her task at hand. She closes the classifieds window and opens the page she's been trying to avoid since she sat down. New York State Psychiatric Institute. She looks over the website with terror and contempt, but also understanding and longing. The voices haven't stopped in weeks and her sanity seems to be flickering on and off in her head like fireworks, a burst of clarity and then a slow fade into the unknown. For weeks she's tried to function like everything was okay, going to dinner, going to work, going out, but all with a pang of regret. Happiness was now a distant memory she thought she could recreate by ignoring her incomprehensible feelings and embracing the simplicity of complacency, but her quick-fix emotion betrayed her. Ignorance was most certainly not bliss. She clicked on Looking For Treatment, her hands shook as she scrolled through the information. Filling out the form for clinical studies, she prayed there would be one to fit her needs. She briefly thought about just calling the hospital and checking herself in without telling anyone...



to be continued...


I'm out.

She Is Who She Is

Essence of crushed dreams sprinkle her aura like twinkling stars against a sheet of black hopelessness. She sits back on the bench in the bar, eyes closed, you could almost hear the thoughts wildly spinning in her head. There's an energy that emerges from her person, whipping you in the face- warm... too warm. Her eyes open and she speaks. She says things in rapid succession, you cannot follow everything. The nonsensical becomes a wavering, incoherent medley of sounds that you cannot enjoy or control. Berating listening ears with negativity wrapped tightly in insecurity. Pouring from her lips like liquid fire, her words burned in ways that no one could completely understand. A clusterfuck of self-destruction and malevolent intentions will her to a place unknown to some, relished by others, loathed by the rest. It's a place devoid of reason or reality, a diabolically personal manifestation of horror and disdain. Rapidly overtaking her body, threatening to unleash a fury of inexplicable, unsuspected proportions, alcohol coaxes this volatility with sweet mocking. Encouraging outrageous, perplexing behavior, the molten beverage succeeds in unleashing this incongruous person. Reeking of self-loathing and severe distress, the pungent odor of defeat stings the nostrils and burns as it enters your lungs and screams through your body. Being so close to such a strong energy depletes everyone around her. She is a walking vacuum, sucking positivity out of the air until it becomes stale and stagnant. She has been this way for as long as she can remember. With severe certainty she begins to lash out. She shrieks about her terrible life and her lack of love. She wails about the unfairness of humanity and colossal mistakes that riddle her life, inducing perpetual sadness. Then she begins projecting her insecurities onto others, images of morbid indecency lightly place themselves over the faces of others, altering their true selves, a distorted falsity that has become oh too real for her. Again she speaks with violent conviction, retorting coldly, rambling angrily, name-calling, accusing, belittling all in hopes of deceiving the pain and numbing herself. Of course, this never works and instead forces people to flee. Run away from her innumerable complexities that are divulged with overwhelming intensity when the liquor consumes her. She is someone we all know... maybe ourselves? Continuously struggling in this heartless, selfish society. She is who she is.


I'm out.