Semper ] a walk on the wild side

i r v i n e
p a t i

I haven’t bothered to even touch the plate of food that had been slid under my door a while ago as if I’m some animal and it’s feeding time. It’s not that I’m not hungry, no – I’m definitely hungry – I just hate how I can’t properly eat. My hands tremble as if I’m doped up on caffeine and they remain in an unusually bent shape, refusing to flatten out and stay still like Ridley’s hands. (How many times have I looked at him and felt a raging jealousy? Far too many.) It’s all I’ve ever wanted: to be “normal,” to not be starving like this because I can’t bring the food to my mouth without spilling, to not be so depressed that even sleep evades me. I feel my stomach twisting into nauseating knots as the smell of poorly cooked meatloaf wafts through the air; I’m partly tempted to just roll off my bed and crawl over to the plate, but I quickly remind myself that I’d be better off just sticking my face into the meatloaf and eating it (but I’ve too much dignity at the moment to lower myself to such a state in order to give my body the substance it needs to thrive). I don’t want to give into the notions of what the nurses here have of me – I’m not stupid, I’m not lesser than them, and I’m certainly not some animal in a cage. I’m so much more than that.

My eyelids droop heavily. It’s been a while since I had an adequate amount of sleep and I know it’s evident in my eyes. There’s a mirror on one of the walls (it’s all cracked because one day I threw a rage and smashed my fists into it – much to my dismay it didn’t shatter completely) and the only reason I ever look into it is to see how weary I look. My hazel eyes, no matter how lively they are, always are colored red. Completely bloodshot. There will forever be dark crescents under my eyes and the heavy feeling of drowsiness will continue to follow me. Insomnia really has taken a strong hold of me (that, coupled with the strong intensity of my self-hatred, is more than enough to give me a very exhausted and beaten look) and I fear that I will never be able to experience the luxury of a good night’s sleep again.

The other contributor to my bloodshot eyes is my awful habit of feeling so sorry for myself that I just cry. It’s the only coping mechanism I have full control over and so I just weep into my pillow, taking the burden off others by damning myself for even existing so they don’t have to do it verbally. (That’s all they see me as, right? Just a burden. I’ll unburden them soon enough though.) Maybe I’ll eventually starve, or if I leave the food on the floor long enough it’ll grow poisonous bacteria and I can digest that.

I feel my eyes stinging with the threat of more tears and I duck my head down, already shaking more than usual. It’s the only good thing about living in a cell by myself: no one’s here to care that all I ever do is cry. It’s okay. Soon enough I’ll just shrivel up and disappear. I shut my eyes tightly and it pushes the welled-up tears out, sliding down my cheeks. A groan escapes me and I whimper, sinking lower and lower onto my bed until I’m curled up as best as my jerking body will allow. I don’t like having all this quiet time to think, however. There’s nothing to interrupt the train of thought that degrades me constantly and only reinforces the awful theories I have of myself. My useless hands grab a rough grip on the quilt of my bed and pull it up to my face, awkwardly shoving it against my eyes to dry the tears. More whimpers, more gasps for air, more gnarled sounds emitting from my mouth that don’t even vaguely resemble the words I wish I could be screaming. I clutch the quilt as tightly as I possibly can, trying to muffle the sobbi—

The sound of rapid footsteps and a sudden whump is enough to distract me in order to calm down a bit. Aside from my short gasps I hear nothing. Perhaps it was just my imagination? No, no, I definitely heard it. It was unusual for anyone, even the nurses, to be out in the hall when it wasn’t our “recess” hour, so ever so slowly my curiosity began to spike. I decide against getting up so I just lie on my bed still, shakily breathing in order to calm down.

i r v i n e
p a t i

Nothing happens. Perhaps I had just imagined the sound? No, no, I’m sure I had heard it, I really am. I watch the door but find that I hear a soft mumbling behind it (which is terribly odd because, when it’s not recess, it’s far too quiet in the hall). My curiosity intensifies and I bring my hand, as trembling and uncontrollable as it is, up to my face to wipe away the remainder of the tears. I then set my head back down and shove all the thoughts of a possible visitor out of my mind; my body does its usual constant involuntary jerking and twitching, all of which I have come to ignore. No use in trying to prevent it, right? The nurses have even said to me that I am only a lost cause, so it wouldn’t matter anyway.

I try to force my eyes shut in order to fall asleep but my door suddenly opens. I let out a terrified yelp, twisting beneath the thin sheet. The person now standing in my room is a complete stranger – certainly not any patient. (My room was unlocked the entire time?!) He’s not just skin and bone like I am, he doesn’t hold any psychotic look in his eye, and he’s not dressed in the dull asylum hospital clothes I wear every day. My heart starts racing and my muscle spasms start becoming more and more intense due to the fright, and all I can think is who is this guy?

He starts in my direction, saying hello and already telling me that he’s not crazy. (Is that meant to be an insult? That he’s not stuck here because he’s “not crazy?”) I’m about to growl at him but stop when he mentions something about talking to a shoe. Perhaps it wasn’t a direct threat to me, the most not-in-control of their body, the one that cannot speak, the one who can’t even properly feed himself. I let the words slide off and he introduces himself as Aiden, a name I’ve never heard before. So he’s really not a patient here. A new nurse, maybe? But he’s not dressed like everyone else and he should know the protocol about interacting with the patients, particularly the ones in my wing.

”I, uh, like what you’ve done with the place. The mirror’s very fancy.”

My ever-moving head turns so that I may look at my splintered mirror. Cracks run like spider web all over it, fragmenting any reflection it can cast. This guy’s gotta be joking. I turn my attention back to him with the best are-you-being-serious look I can muster, and when he asks me my name I stop.

I’ve never been able to say my name and have never been able to write it down. The only reason the nurses here know it is because my parents wrote it down when they signed my life away to the people in white coats. I immediately suppress the memory and drag myself out of bed as best I can, hoping that this Aiden guy doesn’t start thinking that I’m abnormal by the way I move. Every motion is jerky, my left foot drags along behind me, and my arms remain bent at the elbow with my fingers curled and yet still sprawled out as if they’re trying to do two things at once. I limp past him, avoiding the tray of food as if it’s got a terrible virus, and do my best to open the door. It takes quite a few tries before my hands awkwardly grab a hold of the knob and I yank it open, startled when it actually opens. A surprised squeak escapes me and I quickly prop it open to make sure that it stays that way (I’ve never heard of anyone’s door being unlocked before recess!). I peer out into the empty hall, more than tempted to just make a run for it. But where would I go? I’d never survive on my own in the Capitol. I quietly whimper and turn back around to face my room. There’s a clipboard hanging beside the door that’s got my name on it; I raise a gimpy hand and tap it against the papers, making small grunting noises in the hopes that Aiden would understand to read them.

IRVINE PATI
DISTRICT 4 – RETRIEVED
SEVERE AUTISM

NOTES:
RECENTLY BECOME PRONE TO VIOLENT OUTBURSTS
KEEP AWAY FROM SHARP OBJECTS – FIX MIRROR IN ROOM

i r v i n e
p a t i

After much of my tapping persistence Aiden comes over, once again skirting around the plate of untouched food. (It doesn’t matter; he can step in it if he wants, I’m not going to eat it. The bread’s nothing more than sawdust anyway.) I let my crumpled hand fall back down to allow him room to read the clipboard.

It strikes me at that moment that I’m in the hallway. It’s so empty and quiet when recess isn’t happening – I never go out during the free period anyway, but just keeping my door open is enough to make me feel less like a caged animal. Usually that is when Ridley comes by to give me company; lately he’s been taking pieces of glass off my broken mirror and eating them, which I don’t mind. The mirror was no good to or for me so he can eat as many shards as he can stomach. (He’s the only other patient to even talk to me as if I’m capable of talking back and that really makes me feel good. I can still think coherently but the entire populace of this damned place doesn’t think that.) Every other stark-white door is currently shut, hiding away their patients. Every now and then a lone scream or cry sounds out but it’s not unusual; this is the McFadden wing for a reason (or as the nurses like to call it, “the insane wing”) and they lock all of us “psychos” up together. Sooner or later someone is bound to lash out.

Aiden’s quiet voice catches my attention as he says my name. He doesn’t use the tone of voice that the nurses use, no – it’s that friendly vibe, much like the one Ridley uses. Aiden turns to look at me and questions my home being Four. I give him a very faint and forced smile, having to nod my head rather vigorously so that it would be distinguishable from my usual constant bobbing. I catch the tilting of his head, taking it as a sign of disbelief. (I know I don’t look like anyone from Four: I’m nothing but skin and bone and my clothes hang off me like a second skin.) The tributes from there are always feared and mighty, but when you look at me you don’t think that. (I’m nothing, isn’t that what I’ve always been told? It must be the truth then if so many people believe it.) The smile fades from my face until I hear that low and calm voice again, this time simply saying ”hi.”

When I look up again he’s got a little smile on his face, gazing up at me from that little height of his. There’s a—a rather odd feeling of happiness (and curiosity) that blossoms in me. However, I’m slightly taken by his sudden show of friendliness and I can only pray it’s not some hoax. (Ripred knows I wouldn’t be able to handle another awful joke like that.) I raise my hand and sort of flop it around, pretending as if it’s a sufficient wave. That being done, I move around him – accidentally bumping into him, emitting a small squeak in an apology – and drag myself back toward my bed, crawling up onto it and sitting. I still don’t know what exactly this guy wants or why he’s here, but I know that if we’re caught (or him, rather) then we’re in some serious trouble. (All of this for a spontaneous visit from a stranger? Actually, I kind of like the uncertainty of the outcome – and I never get visitors, so this is quite a plus.) I awkwardly turn so that I’m facing him, twisting my sheets in the process, and I watch him curiously.

i r v i n e
p a t i

Aiden stands still in the doorway, staring at me like I’m staring at him. (Or is he staring at me because I can’t stop moving and it’s weird? Is he just like everyone else?) I resist the urge to just look away and cower like I always do. No, I wouldn’t do that again; I’m not about to subject myself to someone else’s torment and abuse at my expense for something I have absolutely no control over. For a moment I almost think to scowl at him but at the last second I revoke the idea, choosing instead to just go with the situation at hand. He’s obviously not someone that works here because otherwise he’d know where my papers were and how things work in the asylum, so who is he? (Other than Aiden, of course.) Where did he come from? And why on earth is he here of all places? Couldn’t he have stumbled into someone else’s cell prison room and disturbed them? (Why me?)

A small sigh escapes me and I cast my gaze down at the sheets and ball them up in my quaking hands as if it’d somehow make them stop moving. (It’s futile, though; every attempt I make to stop moving for once fails.) Whether or not he’s still staring at me I have no idea. My attention is entirely focused on my boney hands, trying to understand how they continue moving even when I tell them stop! Stop! My skin is far too pale, also, and is nearly the same shade as the sheet itself. Blue veins stick out in a disgusting manner like a spider web across the ghostly pale skin, probably just a testament as to how thin I really am. (It’s not even that I’m just fit, I’m sickly thin: I can see my ribs and it looks like I’m nothing more than a walking skeleton.) I grip the blanket harder until my knuckles turn even whiter, if that’s possible, and wait.

There’s the sound of the tray moving and being jostled around, followed by soft footsteps. Aiden’s voice is a little nervous (is he really anxious? Does he think I’ll hurt him?) when he asks if he can sit on the bed as well, and for a brief moment I consider saying no, but what good would that do? Everyone can take advantage of me if I don’t give an answer they don’t like, so either way I’m stuck with whatever he wants. I don’t properly glare at him until he suggests helping me eat.

The last time I heard someone say that, the response they received was ”Don’t, he’s going to die soon anyway.” It had hurt so bad to hear those words but they were true. I wanted to die and I still do, and the only way I can do that here is just by starving myself. It wouldn’t be a quick death but it would work and I’d be a burden lifted off the nurses’ hands. (I’d be unburdening myself too.) Every day is a hassle and I struggle to do even the most mundane of tasks, eating being one of them. I always miss my mouth with utensils and I can hardly pick up food with my bare hands, so before I decided to starve myself I had to just stick my face into it. The action was very embarrassing, as you can imagine, and even though I was alone I still felt like someone was judging me. So I quit doing that. I only embarrassed myself even more.

(But, fuck, I’m so hungry.)

I try to clench my hands into fists again to prevent them from shaking even more like they always do when I start to get upset. The painful jerking movements become rougher and I whimper. (How long has it been since I last ate? Four days?) Occasionally I would get periods of time where an intensely hollow and painful feeling struck in my belly and I’d nearly cave in to scrape up the food into my mouth, but that would only force me into living longer to have to do it again. No, the sooner I refused to consume food the sooner I wouldn’t need to live anymore.

My gaze casts itself down and away, looking at where the wall meets the edge of my bed. I don’t want him to see how just those two simple statements have upset me so much but I figure it’s nearly too obvious by the way I’m acting. The threat of tears stings the back of my eyes and I scowl quietly, damning myself. (Crying is literally the only way I can properly express myself.) Why does he care that I’m nothing but skin and bone? It’s not like he could even properly help me if he wanted to. My vision goes blurry and I blink to clear the salty tears away, shaking my head, avoiding any and all eye contact with Aiden.