Poem/Short Story? + Word Count: 1153
Trigger Warnings: Bad Mental Hospital Practices, descriptions of isolation, implications of severe depression
Written by: Del Rey Jean
Extra notes: This was inspired by my binge read of the Shatter Me series by Tahera Mafi, and then it ended up becoming insanely long for a poem.
Quiet power thrums through the floorboards.
It sings a gentle hymn that eases away the adrenaline,
the anxiety,
the rage,
the fight inside.
Quiet electric power skitters across the tiles,
up the walls,
into my spine,
and holds me,
whispers to me,
that I’m safe,
if I just sit here.
Quietly.
I’m tired enough to believe it.
Sanitized color washes away the rainbows of identity,
diversity;
promises that twisted my heart with silly ideas of freedom,
of beauty
and of confidence,
overpowering,
and painful in their excitement.
Bleached rooms erase the darkness that took over my organs
and my hands
and built its throne on my chest in its greed for belonging.
Bright nothingness comes at me from all directions,
threatens to overcome even the pale color of my gray eyes.
All is white
and white
and white.
It’s a thick,
creamy white,
like acrylic paint.
It stains.
It taints.
It suffocates.
Screams in the distance disturb the illusions of safety,
of peace.
However,
they do not startle me,
they do not inspire terror.
Rather,
they keep me company,
tell me I’m not alone here.
They cry out with powerful rage like trapped animals,
and they challenge the quiet lightning in the dips of the tiled floors.
Thunder rattles down the hall,
exciting the silent storm,
inviting it to give chase.
I smile,
and listen,
while two storms combine,
they swell,
they sing,
across the walls,
all around me,
and they tell me another one has broken out.
Good for you.
I’m proud of you.
Get out while you can,
they’ll be after you soon.
I grin into this creamy,
white room.
I hum,
satisfied,
smug even,
that it didn’t overtake them.
The walls didn’t win against that one.
I’ve resigned to counting the brave.
That’s the fourth to be strong enough to break
and race
and defy
and escape.
But it doesn’t mean they did much.
It doesn’t make them strong enough to truly escape.
That’s the catch.
That’s the trap.
The walls are easy.
Just be brave.
Just step out.
It’s really not hard.
The walls are easy to break,
if you’re just willing to give it a try.
But can you handle what comes next?
Can you stomach the faces of those who chase you?
I never get to find out if any of them made it.
I only hear thunder.
And then nothing.
And then the humming of quiet power in the floorboards.
The screams are louder today.
They come from both sides of my cell this time.
Restless voices that swear at our captors,
that scream with new power,
new bravery,
new strength.
Another escaped,
and it gave hope to the walls beside me.
My friends.
My neighbors.
My sisters locked away
and never seen,
but always heard.
It’s their turn now.
To be brave.
I believe in you too.
And I sit on my cot,
tap out a beat on my thigh,
and watch the show with my front row seat.
Are you strong enough too?
It’s really not that hard.
The walls here are badly designed.
They are white too,
and delicate,
so easy to break as long as you’re brave.
These white walls are paper thin.
They bend,
bulge,
threaten to tear,
as my neighbors thrash about.
I watch,
I listen,
I could touch her knuckles every time she hits the wall,
if I just reach out.
But I don’t
I sit.
I wait.
Vacant eyes,
tired and amused,
take in the abuse,
observe the paper rattling in protest.
I sit.
Lean back,
get comfy against another paper thin wall.
It must lead outside.
It doesn’t have a neighbor beating,
abusing,
threatening to invade my cell in their desperate attempts at escape.
You’re clawing at the wrong wall.
You’ll just find me.
You’ll still be trapped.
I’m sorry.
I sit.
I muse.
Will they see me when they break through?
Will they tear me apart like they did the paper walls?
Will my blood stain the white,
soak the paper,
weaken this wall behind my back?
I can be helpful.
Whether I offer it or not.
I’ll make it easier for them to break out.
I wonder if they will see me
and pity me for submitting?
Will they see the resignation in my eyes,
the calm hands tapping rhythms against my thighs,
the exhaustion weighing down my shoulders,
and will they think, you poor thing.
What have you seen?
What have you done?
What have you suffered?
Will they leave me be?
Will they let me live?
Will they spare me the indents of their anger?
I sit.
I wait.
I have no will to fight.
I have no will to break the walls myself.
I am not brave.
I am not strong.
I am tired.
And though I sit,
curious,
in my patience,
tired,
in my prison,
I ready my voice for their arrival.
I watch the paper walls bulge,
I listen to the stretch,
to the quiet rip,
to the telltale signs of their forceful hands winning,
and I have a request.
I ready it on a tongue that hasn’t been used in far too long.
She’s beautiful in her power
and rage.
Familiar,
in a way that feels like a terrible joke.
She stumbles through the wall,
surprised,
it seems,
that it gave way to her beatings.
I beg before she can even look up,
in a voice that hurts with disuse,
“please,
don’t
leave
me
alone.”
Our eyes meet,
and I laugh at what I see.
Hers are pale and gray.
Just like mine.
They take my words,
examine them
for sincerity,
and possibly weakness.
Her skin is pale.
Just like mine.
It shines under harsh lights,
and I think she glows brighter than I do.
Her cheeks are blushed with remnants of her fight.
And her frown is pretty on her thin lips.
She crosses the room.
Says nothing.
My eyes in her face reveal nothing of her intent.
I sit.
I wait.
For my wild reflection to decide what she’ll do
with this other version of herself
that gave up on everyone,
yet had the audacity to sit here
asking her to stay,
after she fought so hard in the wrong direction.
Hear these words,
and stay with me please.
Or take me with you.
Or kill me.
It doesn’t matter how she chooses to interpret that request,
I don’t care,
what her fingers will do,
as they brush against my cheek with a thrum of power that reminds me of the myth,
of the siren’s melody.
I don’t care if she throttles me,
punishes me,
for being weak,
or if she takes pity,
kisses my cold skin,
with flushed lips,
and takes me with her to a world that forgot about us
they gave us away in the first place.
I just don’t care,
so long as I am not alone.
I’m so tired of being alone.