After suffering from severe writer's block, this is the first "thing" I have managed to come up with. It is slightly weird, but I am a weirdo myself!:)


Patient 83. She's crazy, they said, for she was different. She liked to sit in the mouldy corner by the window, isolated from everybody else. You'd often see her staring out that window, wearing a dull look on, as if she was blind. Maybe she was. But every now and again she'd get excited at the sight of flying objects in the sky: be it a helicopter, or a plane, or a bird resembling one at the very least. She'd whisper: "He's come to take me home," and I swear to you, a child's face does not illuminate as much during Christmas, as her smile transformed her aged features when she'd murmur this. Come to think about it, maybe she was crazy, indeed. But she was also one of the wisest people I have ever known.

I remember that sunny day in the hot summer of 1987. The other staff had taken the other residents of Ward A out in the garden to soak in the Sun, "photosynthesizing", as was the common joke. Everybody was lively that day, even those who had no life left in them appeared to be having a good time. Except Patient 83. She stayed back in her room, wrapped in a warm blanket of shadows, as she stared on, waiting.

Now, I don't believe in fate. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered who was sweeping the floors of Ward A that day, but that was the first time she spoke to me. If only I'd known that day would have changed my life forever…

She grabbed hold of my sweaty hand and pulled me down on the bed opposite her. Her hands – death cold. After a short staring contest, her gaze giving me the same treatment the world outside the window received, she inquired about my true love.
"Ah, but surely there's no such thing," I answered her.
"But there is. The fact that I am here is enough proof," her raspy voice echoed around me. That was the last thing she said to me before turning back to her window.

A month went by before she decided to acknowledge my existence again. In the same room. By that same window. Facing each other. Her relentless eyes digging deep into my soul. She inquired about my true love.
"Haven't found her yet," I whispered, helpless under her gaze.
"Well, that's a shame…,"her dead voice sounded relieved.

Next time we spoke, she asked me about my true love.
"I'm looking," was all I could say.
"But you mustn't. You wouldn't find it, by looking for it." Her icy fingers were anxiously biting into my hands. "We often pass by the things we are looking for in the world."

She once inquired about my heart. Confused I told her it's fine, as it has always been.
"I see." After a short pause she continued. "Unless you've experienced having your heart-break into tiny bits of nothing but one big bloody mess, only to glue itself back together and repeat the process over and over again, preparing for the moment it would skip a beat, you don't know much. After all, a heart skips a beat when it is frightened of the heartache, of being torn to pieces..."
After that she didn't utter a single word to me for six whole months. A lot happened during that time.

During that time I met Jane. Falling for her was easy, for she was everything that I wasn't. She was smart, slightly awkward. She was an optimist, yet she always doubted her own abilities. She was kind, and naïve, too nice for her own good. A girl with a pretty face and a disagreeable past. Her smiling eyes brought light. I loved it. Her tears conveyed innocence. I cherished them. Her witty comments got on my nerves. I liked them. Her heart engulfed mine whole. I loved her for it. It didn't take long before I was certain she was that true love Patient 83 referred to. I could hardly wait for the day when she would ask about my love life and I would finally give her the answer she longed for. I wanted her to know that I had found love, without heartache. But that day never came. She did not talk to me. She did not acknowledge my presence in Ward A. Yet I still got the impression that she somehow knew of my happiness. Maybe she wasn't crazy after all.

My memory might be running short, but I still remember the day I ran through the smell of bleach in the grey corridors, leading to Ward A. My tearless eyes were in debt of my bleeding heart, as I entered her room. Kneeling before her I grabbed her wrinkled hands in mine. Watching her stare out the window, I tried making sense of the jumbled mess that were my thoughts. I inquired about my heart.
"Now, that I've lost her… Does it ever get better? Does the pain ever go away?", I heard my voice echo around the room, yet I don't recall parting my dry lips.
"Time does heal.", she told me before turning to look at me. She knew. She knew everything. I never asked how. "An open wound closes, and heals. But every now and again, you can feel it throbbing on cold days when there's nothing to comfort it." She then proceeded to stare at me, with the expressionless eyes of a dead person, before turning back to her window.

Patient 83. Was she wise? I believe so. Was she weird? Yes. Was she a hopeless romantic? Maybe. Was she crazy? Most definitely. But then...Why am I, after all these years, still here, in Ward A, sitting in that same room, on that one chair, staring out that very window, waiting for Jane to come take me home?