A Chilly Morning 2008
By April Martin 2008
It was a chilly morning, the kind Emily usually cherished. She loved bundling up in her smoky grey wool peacoat, complemented by a vibrant red scarf and matching gloves. The cold air against her cheeks, the smell of fresh rain, and the crunch of leaves underfoot were comforting. Yet, this morning was different. She found herself wrapped in a blanket, not the familiar warmth of her favorite attire. She didn’t remember putting it on; perhaps one of the people beside her had draped it over her frail shoulders before they left the house.
copyright : April Martin
Emily sat in the car, staring out the window. The world outside seemed distant, surreal, like a forgotten dream. The rain pounded relentlessly on the glass, creating hypnotic patterns as the cars splashed by. She felt lost, her sense of reality slipping away. Her mind drifted back to happier times, but the present's cold, sterile reality quickly pulled her back. This was her first trip to the psych ward, but deep down, she knew it wouldn’t be her last.
Her troubles began at twenty-two, but she couldn't pinpoint the exact cause. Searching for the trigger of her bipolar episodes was like hunting for a needle in a haystack. Each memory was a foggy window she could barely see through. She felt alone, now more than ever. The doctors had tried everything, digging deeper into her mind, prescribing various medications that turned her into a lifeless zombie devoid of passion and drive.
Emily often dreamed of starting a new life, one filled with adventure and excitement, free from the mundane routine that had imprisoned her. She longed to escape, to create a world for herself, not for her husband or her children, just her. But life has a way of catching up, and the dreams she once had were replaced by the expectations of others. At thirty, she felt like she was drifting aimlessly, stuck on a raft in an endless ocean, too scared to venture out and too resigned to fight the current.
The car ride felt like a prelude to a nightmare. She sensed they were nearing their destination as the people around her began to gather their belongings. Emily had seen the psych ward before, but she had never been inside. It wasn’t the ominous, foreboding building often depicted in movies. It was a relatively pleasant place, with thick, lush grass and big iron gates, presumably to keep the patients in. She imagined lying on that grass on a summer day, reading a book. But reality quickly intruded on her fleeting daydream.
As they approached the gates, her throat tightened with anxiety. It felt as if insects were crawling under her skin. She knew what awaited her: confinement, medication, and a sterile room where she would be left to face her demons. Her body bore the evidence of her despair, slashes covering her arms and legs like a grotesque canvas.
copyright : April Martin
A woman dressed in white approached the car, her demeanor clinical and detached. Emily's instinct was to ignore her, to pretend she didn’t exist. But denial was not an option. The woman grabbed her arm and administered a sedative, the needle seeming impossibly long. The drug took effect immediately, slowing time to a crawl. Words flowed like ribbons in a breeze, and colors blurred into a surreal watercolor landscape.
The nurse led her inside, her grip firm yet gentle. Emily couldn’t resist; she couldn’t run. The comforting image of the green grass faded from her mind. She became a puppet, moving wherever she was directed.
Each step felt heavy, each breath a laborious effort. The walls of the ward closed in on her, sterile and cold, yet the clinical detachment of the place felt strangely familiar. It was a place of both dreaded confinement and a twisted form of comfort – a place where the chaos in her mind might finally be quieted, even if only through force.
At least she was safe now. No one could hurt her, and more importantly, she couldn’t hurt herself. She was in for a long stay this time. A very long stay.
copyright : April Martin