The Hospital by Brett Burland

The Hospital by Brett Burland

I used to talk a lot, but I don’t say much anymore. People don’t take the time to listen to me or anyone, as far as I can tell. Most people are too easily distracted by things inside and outside themselves to pay attention to anyone else. Not me. I listen to everything. Today, I heard the moon cry.

I’m sitting on a bench on the campus of the hospital where I live. Right now, I am watching birds and thinking about what I heard this morning. There are lots of birds hopping around near me. The birds are attracted to me because I usually bring bread for them. Birds are more focused than people. They eat, chase each other, especially in the spring, and they run away from things that scare them. I understand them. I get hungry and I used to run away sometimes, but someone would always bring me back.

Behind this bench and across the street, a person is standing by the corner of the building where the pool is. He is wearing dark blue pants, a dark blue shirt, and a silver badge. He looks like one of the people who would find me and bring me back. But he’s not trying to find me today. I’m not sure who he’s looking for. He is smoking a cigarette. I often see him doing that. I wonder what kinds of birds are attracted by cigarette smoke.

My sister might visit today. My sister always visits on Sunday. I don’t mean she visits every Sunday. She doesn’t. But, if she visits, it’s on Sunday. She also smokes cigarettes. But I’ve never seen her smoking with the man by the building. That seems strange to me. When I eat, I eat at the same time as everyone else who lives here. When I go to bed at night, we all go to our beds at the same time. I guess people are like the lights in the sky at night, like the stars. You might see them at the same time, but that doesn’t mean they are doing things together.

The bench I am sitting on, always sit on, has a view of the river. I come here in the morning when the shadow of the tower is on the water in the river. When the shadow is parallel to the water, it is time for lunch. If the shadow touches the building with the pool, it’s time for dinner. Everyone calls the tower a water tower, but it’s not. I went and touched it once. It’s made of metal, not water. Words aren’t like birds or people. Words don’t behave in one way or another. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be confusing or misleading.

Mary is working today. She is a small woman with short hair that she keeps cut close to her face. Her hair is brown, almost black, her eyes just as dark. She usually works at night. She comes in when I am getting ready for bed and leaves after I have breakfast. For that reason, Mary and I don’t get to spend much time together. I want her to be my girlfriend. But I’ve never spoken to her. She is like the moon, usually only out at night. I am like the sun, only out during the day. We are partners that don’t usually work together.

This morning, I thought I could leave my building through the back door. That door is usually locked. But today it was propped open with a small stone. When I pushed on the door, I saw Mary sitting on the steps, crying. I watched for a moment, then let the door close quietly.

There is a tunnel between the building where I live and the building where the pool is. The tunnel is useful because you can walk to the pool in the winter without a coat or boots or getting cold. There is a tunnel in the dayroom, too. I like to sit in a chair in an alcove near the window. When you sit there, you can hear every word that is said in the staff office. “John is losing a step for failing to maintain his personal hygiene,” “Sarah’s parents will pick her up on Tuesday afternoon,” “The holiday schedule is posted,” “Derrick will be released from seclusion this afternoon. Make sure security is here when we let him out,” and things like that. I guess there is a tunnel for sound between the office and the chair in the alcove.

When Mary comes back inside, she goes straight to the office. I’m sitting in the chair in the alcove.

“Are you alright, hon?” a nurse asks.

“I’ll be fine.” I can hear that Mary is angry. “He wants a divorce. We’ve only been married three years, for Christ’s sake. What a dick! He’s acting like I’m the one that’s sleeping around.” There is more, but I don’t listen. These are difficult words for me. Is Dick his name? What is he sleeping around?

I get up to walk to my bench to think. I notice the moon while I’m walking. Once, a teacher told our class that the moon shined because it reflected the light of the Sun. Today, the moon and the sun are in the sky at the same time. I think about everything I have seen and heard all day. By the time the shadow of the tower points at the building with the pool, I have decided what I have to do.

“Chris, you know the rule. Patients can’t hang out by the office,” a nurse says.

That is the second warning, but I continue to stand near the office door. I wanted Mary to see that I am nearby. That will help her feel better.

“Chris is agitated today. Please check his med list.”

I hear my name, but they can’t be talking about me. Anyone should be able to see how concerned I am for Mary.

“He has PRNs for Risperidone and Haldol.”

Are they still talking about me? Can’t they see? She’s getting a divorce. She was crying. I am the only one who can make her feel better.

“Chris, go sit down!”

On this third warning, I begin pacing—twelve steps toward the front door. Then twelve steps back to the office. My left arm clutches my chest to contain the pressure of the frustration building there. My right arm and hand are moving in rhythm with the distressed beating of my heart.

“Okay, prepare 3 milligrams of Haldol IM. We will administer it in the right posterior deltoid. And call security,” I hear a nurse say.

“No,” I say. “The moon is sad. I heard it in the tunnel!”

I turned back toward the front door.

“Chris, you aren’t making sense. Please lower your voice and sit down.”

Twelve steps toward the door, turn, and start back to the office.

“I have to talk loud! The lights don’t listen. The stars are distracted by everything. I saw the moon crying. The moon can only shine from the light of the sun.”

 At the office, I turn again. Two men wearing dark blue are coming into the dayroom.

“No, no! I don’t want to smoke. I can help. Only me. I am the sun!”

Crying, I turn back toward the office. Three members of the staff block my way. One is holding a shot.

“Leave me alone!”

I try to run to my bed, but the men behind me grab my arms and force me to the floor. Other hands pull the shirt off my shoulder.

“Stop! Stop! You’re killing me! Stop!”

I feel a needle slide into the back of my arm.

“Please stop…”

Then, as quickly as my heart is beating, as quickly as a thought can form, I am banished to the endless maze in my mind created by the medication.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Brett Burland 2024