2Hospital Vignette
They let me out as if they forgot why I was there. Because a big man in a coat said I could go. Said I was safe. They didn't ask me what I was going to do. But I stepped back onto the pavement after a month of carpeted hallways and cold floor mornings. After a month of closed windows and pay-phone "I love you"s.
And it felt like time had stopped while I was gone, but sitting on my couch felt foreign and unfamiliar. A cut and paste from another time, misplaced. A collage of past memories I know I should remember. Lost pennies stuck between the cracks and popcorn kernels from all night movie marathons. Still there from before I left. Nothing changed. Just December.
I could take an hour long bath and not be late for group, but drinking soda from a can felt like a felony. To be so close to sharp felt wrong. And I could take the razor blade off the shelf and look around to find no one watching. No one knocking on the door to check up on me.
And they let me out after a month of white walls and wakeup calls. Lunch at eleven A.M. sharp.
Make me a bracelet.
Checks!
How does that make you feel?
I'm sorry, what did you say? The florescent light is hurting my eyes.
And how does that make you feel?
It hurts.