Something

Let me repeat that: with the Humana drug plan We found ourselves, the eight of us strangers, seated U-shaped in plastic waiting room chairs whose cushions were drenched in a distinct must, the kind that envelops its victim in nostalgia, then gnaws and swallows whole a must that sweetly complements the rancid urine circulating in air. The powdery snowflake remnants of a generic white pill lay abandoned and crushed by its previous owner or the heel of a filing secretary, neither option a better fate for the forlorn symbol. Its the chance youve been waiting for to improve your health the Medicare spokesman reiterates with artificial glee. Was it my first or fifth time hearing this advertisement? In this ticking expanse of time it is difficult to determine whether we are ten minutes behind schedule or twenty minutes ahead. My right-handed companion, a sallow-faced elderly woman sporting the same amount of wrinkles as hairs on her thinning scalp, fidgeted her stick fingers on her lap, then on her temples, then her forehead, then back to her lap, but not before plucking a crummy strand from her eyebrow. Twisting, turning, twisting, turning, I divert my attention back to the flickering fluorescent lights to keep from going mad in this psychiatric asylum we call paradise, but finding the on-off sequence nauseating, expanded my view to encompass the whole room. Two spaces to the left a balding man dozed with legs spread eagle, arms crossed, bearded jawline nestled in a heavy-duty work jacket, one of his jean legs ripped to expose a crossed scar. Along the left wall a little brown-haired boy reached out to draw pasty circles on the beige floor squares from the pills crumby remains. His mother, or perhaps an apparition who resembled his mother she looked so lifeless and pale herself, extra years traced under sullen eyes and bruised arms , held his wrist, mumbled a few words and had him sat back down with the same inattentive side

gaze. Shifting my gaze to right, I saw three more; a copper-skinned teenage girl in tight bottoms and a winter top busy adjusting her wig with the reflective backside of make-up case in one hand and ferociously chewing her cuticles in the other; another elderly person, this time a man, toothless and drooling in his sleep, cane resting by the rim of his chair and glasses hanging on his plaid chest; an amateur business man bent over with head in hands, his wrinkled top and holey socks juxtaposing the fresh suit thrown over. Here were we the eight, we the eight bearing the weight of the utter silence amidst the shuffling of papers and the occasional call the receptionist received. We the eight surrounding that crushed mess of a pill, never touching or glancing at it yet acknowledging its presence in this room, in our lives, in what we were anticipating. They sure are late, arent they? Something was interrupting the silence. Buzzing? Voices? Machines? I strained to listen. Miss? I felt a tap on my shoulder, or a nudge my senses do deceive me more often than not but nonetheless I cocked my throbbing head in to the sounds source, out of a bearded, graying mouth resting on a double-chin. II suppose. Something is here, Something here to imprison we the eight to worship that Something. It was imploring, depriving what was it? This greedy Something? Its presence was almost solid enough to touch, yet too abstract to feel. Want to come with me and ask the receptionist? Im fine. Ill keep waiting. I dont think it would be of any use, anyway. Something was draping an invisible veil over my face, making my eyes lose their acuity. Was it the flickering overhead lights playing tricks to my perception or Something else? What was it?

A harsh clang, followed by a few more. The ceiling exploded into a little fireworks display, and the noise amplified a bit more, but maybe it was the fire alarm. The Something wanted to be noticed, and it was doing a good job of being noticed by me. Could others see it? No, they are still doing what they have always been doing, oblivious to this Something plaguing me. Well, I guess theyre having some electrical outrage. How convenient Im here for angermanagement issues and they pull this kind of act? Its no use, the general public just doesnt understand us. Mom, whats going on? The darkness was beginning to consummate we the eight. The receptionist yelled out a phrase or so but the alarm was deafening, deafening to the point where we could not hear anything but the truth. After all, darkness has a funny way of bringing out the repression in others. We the eight, sitting like sheep, or standing, or even roaming, I could not tell, under this giant, fenced-in canopy. What just happened? Its so dark, Im scared. I rather like the darkness, it doesnt judge us. Its more beautiful than the light that casts the unfit to the ground and elevates the rest. Why? Faster and faster, the sounds and conversations start to blur. A dark, shapeless blur. It was almost as if a searing flashlight was exposing the very crevices of our souls. I still have to take care of some business, hurry up! Like I said, the people here just dont understand. Well, they are still the general public, the folks who tell us to just get over what we can barely control.

Hush, child. Just do what I say. I need help, but I dont need your help. The sound was blinding. Click, click, click, click, I just continue on, waiting for the Somethings steps to stop. Where did my glasses go? Have you seen my happiness? I rather miss it. You might as well give up in this race, well just wait and wait and wait some more. Something was in this room. What does everyone have here? Chronic depression. Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I prefer not to say. Why? You fool, no one but the dark is going to listen. The Something is coming. No, the Something has always been here. What a leech. The teachers always yell at me in school. Bastards, just hide me in a closet and leave me to rot. Its not paranoia, its just being careful. Or so they say. Theres nothing wrong except my own craze. But honestly, its so ironic! Why wont they listen Louder and louder, my ears and eyes and head and mouth are ringing, yet I dont feel a thing. Either way, we are the trash of society. We are taboos. Sometimes I want to kill others, then myself, is that a disorder?

So much for the Constitution. Wonderful America, land of the chained, home of the insane. The other kids sometimes make fun of me for drawing my bs like ds. Just hide us and the mental issues we represent, just cut away at our rights instead of reaching out. I really wish you were there when I needed you The Something was breaking down the walls of this asylum, I could feel it, the tremors in the floor, the swaying. The others were intoxicated by the same Something I was. We were eight. I tell you, the whole situation is so funny, so hypocritical, sometimes I just want to! Lights. Bright lights. We the eight saw the Something straight in the eye, even just for a split second. Or rather, I did. Seven shadows materialized into silhouettes, and in these silhouettes I became lost in a sea of darkness. In this darkness, people, people who looked just like you and I, people who cry and smile and cry and smile, were drowning. Rather, not drowning yet, but submerging into this river with anguished screams and flailing arms. Forgotten, beaten, ignored, normal everyday people. Viviana Lee, please come this way for your follow-up appointment with Dr. Anderson. How is the medication doing? Are you still hearing them? Fine, fine. Someday the Something will go away, but today is not the day. We the eight shall impatiently wait for the day it releases its death grip on our necks. We wait for the day of acceptance into society. We wait for the day people look at us with sympathy rather than disgust. We wait.