… (Julia)
No, what I probably hate the most is the way they all look at you. I don’t mean all the shrinks, ‘cause they’re used to strange kids, no doubt. More the other patients, the nurses, the people coming to visit. The other people here, are here because they had appendicitis, because they were in an accident, because they have cancer, because they had babies. The nurses are used to all of those kinds of people, and are used to dealing with them. I make them uncomfortable, I can tell. When people come to visit — there are visits only for other people, never me — I can see their quick impersonal smiles in passing when they arrive, and their curious or frightened or disgusted looks as they leave, having been told about me, and they always look at me without looking, trying to find any signs of anything out of the ordinary.
They’d never see anything, of course. I’m usually sitting at the head of my bed, feet up and a book across my knees. I wear black jeans, a plain white top and a black flannel shirt. My hair is dark chestnut, wavy and long, never any other way than down. There are no scars to be seen, no uncontrolled twitching of my features. My hands do shake slightly sometimes, but that isn’t something they would be able to notice. I’m always cold, but they couldn’t possibly be able to see that either.
There is always something edible, candy or fruit, by my bed, simply because they think there isn’t much they can really do for me, so as a small something they try to please me. The smaller children think this highly unfair, even though I always give them whatever they may clamor for. There are always way more books in the rec room than all the people who drift through here could manage to read, and I know they have been borrowed for me, and indeed there is always a pile of books on the floor beside my high bed. I have nothing to do but to read them, so I do. At first, I did write a bit, but I grew frustrated. There was no one to read what I wrote except people who would dissect and analyze what I wrote, and what I wrote was not something that would give a fair picture of me when analyzed. Instead, I read. Or listen. There is a small stereo in a cabinet, with large bulky head phones and all the CDs anyone could ever want, and sometimes I take it out and go sit by the window, or lie down on the bed, and I just listen. I don’t think, I don’t cry, I don’t sing along, I don’t read, I just sit there and listen to the music.
For some reason, they’re all stuck on the overdose. I didn’t do it on purpose, I just miscalculated. When I slit my wrists before, they just bandaged me up, sent me home and suggested I get counseling. Three times. And now, just because someone happened to find me on the floor with blood streaming from my face, I’m cooped up here. I don’t know why they stuck me here, but I don’t mind, really. It’s nice to be able to read and listen to music and be alone without anyone bothering you, without having to do anything. Even though everyone tiptoes around me and pretends they don’t know. Even though the shrinks all ask the same questions, none of them about anything that even matters, just to get me to talk. I answer, softly, politely, truthfully most of the time, and see them pretending not to analyze my answers. And then I go back to my bed, and I read. I don’t know why I’m here, and not with other screwed-up kids, I don’t know how long they’re planning to keep me here. I’m not even quite sure how long I’ve been here, only that it’s about three or four weeks. There’s never anything to separate or distinguish days. They just go on and on.
What I do like is the little kids who come and talk to me, the ones that are considered too small to be told what’s happened to me. They talk and talk and talk, the ones that have been in here for longer than a few days, the ones with cancer or pneumonia or other serious things, and they’re always so cheerful. Sometimes they cry, and I try to comfort them, which I’m not really good at, to tell the truth, but usually you wouldn’t even think we’re in a hospital. Well, you would, with them racing around the corridors in borrowed wheelchairs, or trailing IVs behind, but you know what I mean. And of course they’re not stupid, kids aren’t, and they realize that I am the only one of whom the nurses don’t explain anything, and they know that you’re not supposed to talk about it – and they have no idea what ‘it’ is, except that you don’t talk about it. That is the only thing they don’t mention. They ask about everything else they could possibly ask about. Do I have a boyfriend, do I go to parties, why is the sky blue and not purple like in the evenings, why don’t I wear a skirt like girls should. Never anything that could be one of the things you don’t talk about. Never why don’t I wear a hospital robe, why don’t I take medicines three or four times a day, why doesn’t anyone ever come to visit me.
And then there is one orderly, a young man who is almost a young boy, just a few years older than I am. He comes in every once in a while, clears up the room I have to myself and which therefore never needs cleaning up. He smiles at me and somehow gets me to smile back. Like the children, he never talks about anything that might upset me — I don’t care what people ask, as long as I have a choice whether to answer or not — but he never pretends he doesn’t know. He knows exactly why I’m here, but it doesn’t really matter to him. He asks me what I’m reading, asks me if there’s anything I want — I think he takes care of which books come my way, or what fruit shows up by my bed – checks out my stereo. He’ll always comment on how I throw Bach and Beatles and Fleetwood and Hanson and Tupac and jazz altogether, and say that I have to get some order in my rack, and sometimes we’ll even sort it out a bit. Seeing him always gives me a sense of event, gives me something by which I can tell one day from another.
I wouldn’t say I have a crush on him, I just like the look of him. He has dark hair that goes every which way, he always looks like he needs a shave, and he’s always got a smile sort of around his eyes, even when he’s tired or serious or in a bad mood. I can tell why he does what he does. Even when the children – or I, for that matter – are grumpy or nasty or a hassle, he treats everyone calmly, respectfully, and, I think, lovingly. I think he truly does love us all, in some way.
I don’t know.
Alltså det här är så jävla bra. Så otroligt inkännande och smart och lite otäckt. Det påminner mig om Iian Banks The Wasp Factory faktiskt.