I’m sitting, no… I’m stuffed, into this eggshell painted prison. I’m not crazy, man. You know I’m not crazy. It’s they who are crazy...those paranoid monkeys. They tell me I’m “unstable” and “unfit” for society. Unfit...fit... I abhor those words. The female counterpart to my birth parents would often use those words when speaking to me. Back in the better, brighter times she’d cry, “Why can’t you just fit in Idella! Just fit the f*** in!” And BANG, she’d slam her tiny fists, with unexpected force, against the homely table at which I sat. Upon impact my markers, my crayons, and my paints would fly off of the table, soaring across a sea of pea green carpet. However, my images, my lovely floating nightmares, stayed perfectly in place. They stayed dancing on paper, crawling in the carpet, and bleeding through the walls as the woman who gave birth to me pulled at her already ratted hair and ground her teeth together feverishly in the background. I tried to console her once, because after all, she did allow me live, and I’d imagine it’d be hard to let something live that kicked you for nine months. I smiled when I tried to comfort her, crookedly, and promptly told her I thought it was quite amazing that she’d manage to keep a snake circling her ear for so many months and not allow it into her ear and up to her brain. I also mentioned I was jealous of the purple and blue patterns that pulsed on her cheeks, but told her not to feel too bad for me seeing as how I thought the color fit her best and would clash with my startling white-blond hair. These compliments were not received well. It was at that moment when I first received a look I would grow accustom to over the next six plus months. It was a look of not just fear, but of true taken a back horror. As if one day, by accident, you’d stepped barefoot onto a baby rabbit and its eyes looked up helplessly at you and bulged for one feeble second before the rest of your weight instinctively followed and crushed the tiny critter beneath you. It was a look of complete loss in faith and in the concept of a silver lining. That female unit, I tended to call Addy, though she insisted I call her mom or at least Debra. But Addy, in my opinion, suited her. I don’t find much happiness in predestined names. I prefer to have my own. So I called her Addy and her face would flush slightly and a cheek muscle would twitch. I suppose that’s why I was caught off guard with the haunting look she gave me. She stared at me with it, and I started back. I stared at her eyes, too big for her head, and the white spotted snake that lazily circled around her ear, down to her neck, back up again and then dissipated. After a few moments of her eyes burning into me with this ghastly stare her eyes swelled up with tears while the rest of her face went blank. Dragging her feet, and wringing her hands together, she quickly glanced up at me, kissed me on my forehead and walked into the kitchen. It was after that that I heard a familiar beeping noise in the kitchen, a hushed exchange of words, and one clear phrase, “Thank you so much Doctor.” It was two days after that when they came. When they came and took me from my dwelling of colors and cushion to my electric eggshell prison. So now I sit, waiting for Ruggles whose name tag says STEVE, waiting for my mundane ritual of the day at Pilgram Psychiatric to begin. Mundane but, at the very least, every day is not Friday. I would repeat each of these days for years to come if it meant never having another Friday. But today is only Thursday, and there’s no point ruining my mood today if I still have a full day before Friday finally comes. Finally Ruggles enters, “How you doing today Idella?” And he looks sincerely concerned and his dark eyes narrow with focus, trying to look through me. I stick my tongue out at him as a playful hello and laugh at the purple bubbles floating from his nose and mouth and ears. This upsets him. I think that Ruggles believes I’m not what he likes to call “present” at the moment and his half ass-ed grin shows it. He now proceeds to hand me a miniature white cup with candy inside. Two blue bars, three red circles, and two yellow circles; and of course a plastic Huckleberry Hound cup with luke-warm water. I wink at Huckleberry and he tips his hat at me in response as I drink from him, washing the chalk down my throat. An hour passes by and I feel sleepy but not tired and Huckleberry has long since stopped moving but the light filtering through the sun roof relaxes me. It makes lovely crystallized patterns of diamonds, stars, pentagons, and other shapes on the wall that “the sane” don’t know exist; beautiful twirling lines of light. Ruggles comes back now and seems to be happier now that he sees me melting here and bubbling up a small amount of drool through my lips. They all seem to be in a better mood when I’m silent and can’t share with them the lovely pictures my brain gives me; although I would like very much to share with them. Regardless, I grin widely at him and Ruggles chuckles and mumbles, “Time to play” and helps me stand to my feet, to balance, like a newly born foal. He holds my hand like a child, nine-teen years young, and walks me through hallways of turquoise tinted plaster into a giant room, our play room. Our play room with towering steel doors locked with bolts and chains to keep us from them. Myself and the others. I normally don’t associate with the others as they bore me. Nothing interesting comes from their “yeah.” By “yeah” I mean their pop, their spark, the thing that makes that person distinctly them. Their “yeah” is the essence of them that separates them entirely from every human being existing or non-existing. That’s where my images, my friends, come from. To me anyways, they are, more or less, a reflection of people’s “yeahs.” Most just had little patterns that would pulsate on their skin, little shapes or even animals that would pop out of them from time to time or maybe when they laughed their tongue would whip out for a brief moment, and be black and unnaturally contorted. But then again, what’s natural? So that’s why, in this moment, my attention is so greatly captured by the rigid pale boy with arms up at his chest, as if imitating a tree, being wheeled in through the play room doors on a dolly. This boy is different from the others. It stuns me to see that his whole body is glowing emerald green. His “yeah” is a fantastic green aura surrounding him and boy does it pop. A stunning, shimmering green pours from his fingertips and each strand of hair covering his body. “Ruggle-uggle-ding-dong!” I yell playfully, spinning in one of the two rolling chairs available. He begrudgingly walks over, “What can I do for you Idella?” “Who’s that?” “That’s Justin Hull, he’s just began treatment with us.” He smiles when he says this. I cringe at the word treatment. “No.” I correct him, “Who is he? Not what is he.” “Well, were not quite sure. He’s a mute, won’t speak to anyone. Our theory is that Justin believes he is...well...he thinks he is a flower.” I say nothing in response to this but instead, promptly stand up and skip over to the green boy called Justin. “Hello,” I say. No response. No surprise there, so I study him for a while. It’s hard to see what he looks like through the intense glow emanating from his pores but I can make out general details. He seems to have the same color eyes as his aura and they glow just as brightly. His slightly rounded cheeks indicate boyhood but there’s hardness underneath that seems to suggest the mentality of a much older, wiser person, and his hair is either dark brown or black; but I can’t tell through this glow. “I enjoy your presence,” I murmur shyly. ”It’s very green. I like it.” Suddenly I see his pupils flick towards me for one brief second and then straight back out the window again. I smile at this, and continue, “Would you like water Flower? They give you so much sunlight but you and I both know you need some water too right?” Nothing happens for several seconds and my smile starts to fade until Flower suddenly starts, with his arms drawn up against him, flapping his hands up and down in small wave like motions, I assume this means yes so I dash over to the nurses station asking to see Huckleberry Hound. The nurse sighs and ever so slowly walks in the back of her little cubicle to the sink and returns, handing me a slightly heavy Huckleberry. I bring the cup back to Flower and his eyes get big when he sees it and his little hands start flapping faster. This last movement amuses me greatly and I grin ear to ear as I tip the cup back for him in his mouth and watch him slowly sip the water, absorbing the droplets as the earth absorbs rain. I like this boy, he doesn’t talk much. I tell him this and his aura gets impossibly brighter and there’s a hint of a smile on his faded face. I then tell him of his luminosity increasing and his face becomes so flushed with embarrassment that I begin laughing hysterically. I tell him that flowers have no need to be embarrassed and that makes him laugh too. At least I think he’s laughing. His whole body shakes like someone snickering madly and his eyes pinch close, lips turn upward and his aura pulsates quickly in bright little flashes. Instantly, I fall in love with that impish shaking of laughter and hold on to one of his little petal hands and, curling my fingers around his palm, stay there. I stay with Flower for close to a few hours and I talk about my life and events involved in it, all the while watching his green atmosphere at it changes during certain subjects to match his mood on that subject. I speak of things like the nurses, days of the week -with the exception of Friday-, tape, film, color, sound, and plants. The last bit especially interests him and his eyes immediately get wide at the mention of the word “garden.” I suddenly let go of his palm, his light dims, and I run over to Ruggles, telling him my plan but remaining quiet enough so that Flower can’t over hear. Ruggles enthusiastically agrees and follows me towards a worried looking Flower. I hop on Flower’s dolly so that my back is against his chest and my feet are slightly on top of his. Glancing back behind my shoulder I whisper the words “trust me,” before turning back around and placing my arms back up over my head, putting my hands over his eyes. Once I’d done that, we were off, Ruggles pushing the dolly through the play room and down the seemingly endless hallway. I begin to worry a bit for Flower after about ten seconds of being pushed. I notice his aura darken with my hands covering his sight and his slight shaking tells me I probably should have warned him before suddenly pulling him away to god knows where. However, I don’t worry for long. Less than a minute later we arrive at the correct door, this one is orange, and Ruggles pushes us through, the doors swinging open and letting us into the rays of warm light from Center’s garden. By now Flower’s figured out what I planned and happily waves his hands and wiggles slightly, a sign for me to get off the dolly, so I do. After I take my hands off his eyes, he radiates, and doesn’t smile but just stares with bugling eyes and little “o” for a mouth. I watch his eyes scan over the dozens of different colored tulips, roses, magnolias, lilies, daisies and even some squishy mushrooms that popped up among old, creaking oak and willow trees. I notice his eyes keep flicking down to a patch of lonely soil so before long I bend down in front of, a now very confused, Flower and remove his slippers. Ruggles then join’s me and helps lift Flower up and place him in the little patch of soil, and I bury his bare feet in the earth until just the tips of his toes are sticking out. Flower then does something I don’t quite expect. He doesn’t burst into a full on green light show or even smile but instead his aura changes so that he’s no longer green but just shedding true, white light. Eyes closed, and a look of complete contentment on his face, he glows. I’m satisfied with this and stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, smiling at the puffy clouds as they separate from each other like shredded cotton and make amusing pictures. I hold onto Flower’s palm again until I feel something unexpected, I feel the comforting return of another hand clasping mine. I look at Flower and his eyes are still closed, face aimed directly at the sun, but he is smiling now, a huge beautiful smile. This time, no images alter that smile nor do any colors. No, this time it was all him, just pure happiness making a striking expression of bliss upon his face. So there we stayed, with our hands glued together the entire time, despite the sweaty palms that presented themselves after ten minutes of doing so. There we stayed, until it was too dark to stay outside anymore, until he learned of all the pretty pictures I wanted to share him and until I learned that yes, even flowers, are capable of kissing. The next morning was quite the rude awakening. I woke up with the image of Flower in my mind and hugged my melting pillow against my chest with happiness. That is, until I realize what day it is and I start thinking, s***, it’s Friday. S***, s***, s***. I didn’t warn Flower, I didn’t tell Flower. Ohgodtreatmentwhatthef**kdoIdo. My stomach starts flipping and twisting and my body lurches forward as I dry heave on top of my lumpy mattress. Not my Flower, not my beautiful Flower. He doesn’t know, they’ll never believe him. They’ll keep trying to fix him…and keep trying…and keep trying. Not Flower. I sit on my bed and hug myself, humming a nameless tune, stroking my own hair to calm myself down. To keep from exploding with nightmare images, to keep myself from a dark place that I told myself I didn’t like, and didn’t care much to go back to. I pray to some hidden power to somehow warn Flower, to tell him just to pretend, tell him it’s okay to be someone else for them on Friday’s, just for a few hours, just Friday’s. Or if he didn’t they might… no, I can’t think of that outcome. Eventually Ruggles comes in, at the normal time, but he’s not alone, and never is on Fridays. With him are one of the nurses with a wheelchair and some bindings. “I don’t need them today.” I say in a quivering voice and simply sit in the chair. Ruggles remains silent and pushes me out of my room and towards a different end of the hallway today. He pushes me towards a white door with one small window and a placard on it, inscribed with the words ECT UNIT. Instead of going inside we wait near the door. The curtains on the window are drawn closed. The doctor is busy with another patient. Inside I hear a faint buzz every twenty to thirty seconds and I wonder why there is so much buzzing this time and wonder why the doctor is late, he’s never late. It’s finally when the curtain comes up revealing the Doctor’s cold, white face and the door opens, that it dawns on me. There, directly in front of me, pushed by the Doctor in the same chair as mine, sits the remains of Flower. The sides of his head are inflamed from the shocks and drool oozes from his lips. He sits; half slumped in his wheelchair, a glazed, distant look in his eyes that I have seen from only a few patients. Those patients were the few of the most unique people in this place, and also the most stubborn. They were ones unwilling to lie for any establishment, unwilling to pretend to be someone they were not for the sake of pleasing someone else. Unfortunately they never stayed unique long, and after one good treatment they held the same look Flower now had. And that look stayed. I see this same look in Flower’s eyes and begin to sob uncontrollably realizing that although his body is here, Flower is long gone. His body goes through the motions of breathing and his eyes stare but I know he’s not there. I know because his awe-inspiring aura has vanquished completely. He does not glow, or move his arms, or smile. He stares, not even he, his body stares, shocked into perpetual silence. And now is when I start screaming. “YOU MANIACS! YOU F*ING MANIACS! YOU KILLED HIM, YOU KILLED MY FLOWER!” And I burst out of my chair wrapping my hands around the Doctors neck pressing with all my might against his susceptible flesh as hellish flames lick up from the walls around me and thousands of black imaginary spiders crawl out under my sleeves. Immediately the nurses grab me but not before the tips of my fingers cut the doctors cheek as I try to rake my nails against his face, an unsuccessful attempt to claw out his eyes. “YOU’RE ALL F*ING CRAZY!” I scream with passion as I feel heavy hands forcing me down onto a cold slab. Instead of the normal white ceiling elongated faces streak out, mouths open in silent screams, and zoom across the room behind the blurred faces of my attackers in a swirl of gray, black and blue. I keep trying to get up, to kill that doctor. I need to see him die; but I can’t. I’m bound. Tears stream down my face as I think of my sweet, sweet Flower. My wilted Flower. I hear Ruggles in the distant, “Please Idella, please just calm down, please.” But I won’t listen, can’t listen, not this time. I let out another stream of obscenities before I feel two giant cotton balls pressed hard against my temples. BZZZZZZZ. A hard shock. That’s slow me down, but I don’t stop. The room starts spinning in an unnatural way for me but I keep trying to claw at the doctor’s face, slashing at air above my head, fighting nothingness. The buzzing keeps happening, someone calls for a needle, there’s a sharp stab into my right arm and I barely make out the word chlorpromazine before my vision becomes far to blurred to read anymore. Meanwhile Ruggles keeps begging me to stop, to be still, but I can’t. I think of Flower’s brightness, his unusually small hands, the look of bliss on his face as he stood in the garden, and his kiss. I dwell on these thoughts and these thoughts only, as my arms robotically making weak attempts at catching nothing, as my caretakers deliver one final shock, a final treatment. The images stop, all goes black.