March 3-She gave me the notebook they issued the one man as old as I. The man on my left. The nurse gave it to me. There was a drawing of a cow on the first page. A cartoon cow. I’ll leave it in there. I like it.
Yesterday after I wrote that little report I went down the hall. To my right, was a closed door in the hallway. I believe it was the man whose notebook I’m using now inside that room. I went further down the hallway and it opened up to a foyer of some sort. This room was longer than the room the rose is in, but nowhere near as high. There was a mannequin to my left which startled me. It was holding an orange strange-looking rose in a white pot. To my left and in front of me there were double doors which were locked and chained together. Directly in front of me was a desk made for a receptionist and there was a chair behind the desk. Everything I’m describing (save for the other rose) is completely white. Anyway, I turned right because there was no other place to go. There was a door to my right which I guess was the old woman’s door. It was also closed. I kept walking straight, then turned right down another corridor which was unlighted and quite dreary. To my right, was another closed door which I can only assume is the other man’s room. Then in front of me, was a wall. I could go no further. I turned around and went back into the foyer. Then the nurse came out of a door next to the desk that I hadn’t noticed before. She smiled at me and I acknowledged her. She opened the old woman’s door, holding sheets in her arm and closed the door behind her. I waited. I could hear the old woman say, “Who’s outside?” She even sounds feeble. The nurse didn’t say anything audible but I could hear the woman say, “Oh.” as though she understood. Then the nurse came out and I asked her if I could have another notebook. She said that she’d get me one. I walked back to my room.
I don’t know why I wrote that. I guess because it’s the first time I’ve been around this complex. I think if I had tried to do that before I would’ve been bed-ridden like I was the first time I went out. But I gave myself enough time to become accustomed to the thought of venturing out further.
My God! I’ve forgotten the rose! It was in my hands but a week ago. And now what? I’ve gone trivializing. Stupid, petty, foolish treks. I should get it now, before I have time to quibble with myself about whether I should have it or not. That’s what I’ll do.
I’ve got it!
March 4-There’s nothing that could ever express my glorious bliss at this moment. There it sits. In my window sill. Where it should’ve been the first day I saw it. I HAVE THE ROSE. I guess I feel that capital letters are apposite for that particular sentence. The exultation within my soul is at its utter climax. Indeed, I can hardly persuade my senses to halt the perpetual smile on my face. The nurse didn’t say anything bad about it being in my room. I honestly don’t know what to say. I’m just so happy and relieved.
Yesterday it was all I could do to take my eyes off it. That’s why I didn’t write anymore after I said, “I’ve got it!” It is so delightful. Like an entire rose garden placed inside one significant rose. There is not much better. In fact, I don’t think there’s anything better. It has no thorns. It is blemish-free. My, how I love it!
March 30-The rose is still there. I wake up to it in my sill every morning. Just like I had dreamed. It’s just as splendid as I had wanted it to be. But still, something irks me about it. About all of this. No one seems to have a problem with it. The nurse has even talked about it with me. She doesn’t care. So I don’t know why I shouldn’t have it. It’s not supposed to be mine, I guess. I’m not supposed to have it. I don’t know. It’s supposed to be out of reach. Not in my window sill. But I love it.
The nurse said it was Easter. For some reason I remember a few more things about that particular subject: grass and trees. Lots of grass. Children laughing. Adults chatting. And I remember eggs. Looking for eggs. Not real eggs, though. Well some real eggs, I suppose. And I remember breathing hard, running, and ravenously searching for these eggs. But I was happy. Very happy. It was good to find the eggs. They had treats inside them. It made me happy. I’ve said that before.
But for some strange reason I also associate Easter with other things. Things not even nearly related to eggs: blood. Dripping down. Remorse and regret. Pain. That’s what I think of most. Excruciating pain. And then forgiveness. But more and more I think of blood in connection with Easter. It’s strange how I can relate two very opposite things for the same day. But that’s what I remember. Very macabre what I think of. And sometimes so innocent.
The tree outside my window seems so strangely sullen today. As if it were wilting. But the rose remains strong and rigid and, most of all, beautiful.
April 7-There’s something wrong with the rose. Nothing in it’s physical make-up. It’s just something wrong. Remember how I said it was atypical (I’m deciding not to respond to how absurd that statement was--although I am right now--because I’ve come to the conclusion that I really am insane). But anyway, as I was saying, the rose is atypical. It CAN think. I just know it. For all this time I thought it loved me. I thought it wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with it. And indeed, it seemed that way when I first got it in my room. But, now I see it all differently. The rose is apathetic toward my love, I believe. I used to wake up and it would be staring right at me, greeting my eyes as they opened. But now, it’s as though it doesn’t care any longer. And why? What is it that I have done? Maybe it thinks I’m aloof. How could it possibly?
Dear God! I’m crazy.
April 8-Oh dear, the rose is beautiful. Why does it have to be so exquisite? I WAS happy. For about a month there. And now this. Because the rose doesn’t love me. I’ve loved it forever. Since the day I first saw it. I remember that day well. I couldn’t tell you the date, though. Because that was back before I started caring about the date. I only cared about new years. And by that I mean October. Because that’s when I first arrived here. I remember initially I was very sad and very frightened. And on top of that very annoyed. And the people in the other rooms looked very angry. Especially the man to my right. That was before he hid himself from my view. He broke his window once he was so angry. He punched right through it. For what reason, I’ll never know. I do remember the old woman weeping as a result of the incident. The nurse reprimanded the old man, though. I do believe he hated the nurse even more so than I. There were moments where I could hear him screaming at the nurse (this is the first nurse by the way) and her screaming back. It was so loud and it was so incensed but it was only screaming. He could’ve killed her, I have no doubt about that. I almost wish he would’ve. I wish he would’ve killed her from the start. After their fights he would always cry. And I believe he cried not out of sadness or anger but out of regret. And something told me he looked on the tree for the answers. He’d always stare at it and I could see his mouth moving, shaking his head with tears running down his cheeks. Why he did that I’ll never know. But I still believe that he looks on that tree with the utmost respect. He may even still talk to it. He seemed to need it less once the first nurse finally left. He seemed to need less of everything. I haven’t seen him in a very long time.
What was I talking about before? The rose. Yes. I always talk about the rose. It’s all I think about.
April 9-What have I done to deserve such ill treatment? I’ve only expressed love toward her (yes, I’m calling the rose a “her”) and what does she give me in return? Nothing. Not even a glance. I mean, I’d like to think that she really was inanimate and that all I’m spouting off about is nonsense and insanity BUT I KNOW BETTER! That’s what she wants me to think. Or maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she honestly feels nothing. Maybe she doesn’t even know I love her. Maybe I’m insane. How many times have I said that. I remember something about acknowledging insanity, that if you do it, you’re not crazy. But I think that is as much crazy as I am myself.
It’s cold. I’ve got nothing to live for. I don’t want to write any longer. Ridiculously useless diversion.
May 10-I haven’t written in a while. I had another one of those spells of phlegm towards my journal. It’s not like I write anything important anyway. Laughable little trifles. And I’ve filled an entire notebook and a quarter with them!
I saw the man to my right again. The first time I’d seen him in a while. He looks old. Much like the lady across from me. They’re both dodderingly old. They were both looking at each other today. Smiling and waving and such. It was lovely. And done in such a loving manner that I couldn’t help but smile. How do they even know each other? Oh, it doesn’t matter. It cheered me up. Even though both parties are such depressing sights of terminal illness (for we are all doomed with that sickness from birth). Wrinkles on top of wrinkles below wrinkles. We’ll all be there some day. Even I and the man to my left…and even the nurse. We’ll all know what it’s like.
I’ve been walking out through the entire complex from day to day. It’s amusing. I was walking by the pallid mannequin one day (which has a G engraved on its forehead), looking at the orange rose in its open palm. The nurse was sitting at the receptionist’s desk minding her own business. She looked up and said, “You can have it, if you want.” I said that I already had one. She knew that. Maybe she thought I’d like two. I don’t really like that rose anyway. It’s strange looking. And it’s just budded.
I can’t do it. I knew I couldn’t do it. I cannot go one entry without at least mentioning her. You know who I’m talking about. She’s still the same. The same blasted indifference. It’s horrible. Awful. Dreadful. Vile. Atrocious. Unbearable. Appalling. Do you realize how long I’d waited for her? Doesn’t anyone? She must! I know she must! She simply has no worry for me. It pains me. Like a microscopic pushpin slowly excoriating the surface of my heart. Indeed, that’s what it feels like. But what in the world can I do? It’s not like there’s any medicine for this infection. The only cure would be to leave. And get away from that wretched rose. There is that door. Waiting for me. No no no. Stop it, man. You promised not to leave.
I may not right again for a while. It’s all useless now. Did I just use “right” for “write”? Why don’t I just erase it? No, that’s too funny. Whenever I need something to laugh about I’ll look at this. Ha. Too funny.
June 21-What’s happening! I can see her but I can’t see her! This is absolute insanity. Have I gone mad? Have I utterly gone mad? I’ve never had any evidence of insanity before but what I thought. This, however, is indisputable. I bet you’re wondering what in the world I’m talking about. I hardly know, myself. I can tell you this much: it’s very hard to explain. The rose (yes the same rose as always), seems in my eyes to be invisible. Well not invisible, per se…less visible, I suppose, would be a better description. It’s disappearing! Transient! Yes, transient! That’s the word. It’s really one of the most disturbing occurrences since the song I used to hear (and I grew to like that anyway). She seems so utterly depressed. I don’t know how I can tell. It induces dejection in my own soul for her ultimate departure seems imminent. Maybe I’m just a pessimist. Hopefully that is all my hypos can be attributed to.
Anyway. I’m still heartbroken. As it were. I want out. I need out. I will leave.
June 28-I’ve made a mistake. Dear God. I’ve made a big mistake. I took a walk again. I believe it was on the 23rd. The nurse went into my room while I was walking. I had left my notebook open on my bed because I was planning on writing another entry after my walk. I went back into my room and my notebook wasn’t there. I hadn’t noticed because, you must permit, my depression had wrenched me into a fit of lethargy. When I awoke, it was dark. So I went back to sleep because there’s nothing else to do when it is dark. When I awoke after that, the air was very still. Stiller than it had been in a very long time. It was warm for once. Strangely and comfortably warm. The door was closed. SHE was gone. Not only was the door closed but it was locked. The nurse read my diary. I know she must have. All she had to read was the last line of my last entry and I believe that’s precisely what she did. Upon realizing that my rose had gone and captivity would now be mandatory again, I was utterly grief-stricken.
And then I supposed it was all for the good. Maybe that’s what needed to happen. In fact, I’m certain that’s what needed to happen. Now I don’t have to worry about the rose. The nurse finally gave me my notebook back which, despite all my quarrels with writing, I greatly appreciated. She keeps the door locked and closed and doesn’t come into my room but to set food down and throw a clean set of clothes in. I don’t talk to her anymore. She’s become the first nurse.
June 29-I read a poem once. It was about math, or at least the title suggested such. It wasn’t really about math, though. But what it did say is that one day can be like twenty years when without your love. That’s unerringly how I feel at this very moment.
July 1-I am lost without my rose. I don’t care if she didn’t love me. I LOVED HER! I hate the nurse. I shall talk to her tomorrow. She WILL give me my rose back!
July 2-I didn’t talk to her. My God how I miss the rose. Oh dear. I don’t think I’ve gotten an ounce of sleep since she took the rose. I’ve got to get out of here. I need the rose. My heart aches without her! I’ve even shed a few tears. Please God, give her back! PLEASE.
July 3-I talked to the nurse. She opened the door. I held the door ajar so she couldn’t possibly close it on me.
“Where’s my rose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who took it?” (notice, I said “it” rather than “her” because I don’t want the nurse to think I’m crazy).
“Mercy.”
“Mercy?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I could charge you with larceny.”
“I could say the same of you, and besides, I didn’t take it.”
At this moment I was too desperate for words. I was at a point where I knew nothing could go right, no matter how hard I tried.
“Give me the orange rose.”
“No.”
“You said you’d give it to me if I wanted it. I want it.”
“Okay.”
“Are you going to get it?”
“Yes.”
Mercy? Who or what is Mercy?? She came back and gave me the orange rose. I didn’t really want it so I just put it under my bed. But what else was I going to say? There was no proper way to end that conversation. I guess I thought that maybe the orange rose might replace the red one. But, it’s no use.
Oh God! I am so distraught. This is all driving me mad and I feel the urge to cry at every moment for there’s nothing for me to do but think of her! I had almost forgotten how I hated captivity. I need out more than ever before.
July 9-When I woke up on July 4th the orange rose was in my window sill. I hadn’t moved it from under my bed. I put it back in the darkness where it belonged. I sat on my bed for a moment, caviling with myself about what I should do and if I should try to leave and should I try to be veneeringly pleasant with the nurse. But it was all useless. All thoughts lead to the same point: desperation because of the sorrowful desire I felt for the rose.
Then I had the idea of breaking the window. I was so desperate to leave and still am, in fact, that I would have and I will do anything. I knew I couldn’t break the window with my fist like the one man had because I am not as strong as he. Plus, even if I was, I wouldn’t want to get cut. Anyway, with my head going a million miles a minute, I grabbed the top off of my toilet and swung away. I only had to hit it once for it to shatter. I climbed up through the window. At that point, the nurse ran in screaming something inaudible. In fact, at that point everything seemed to freeze. Or at least slow down. I continued through the window. The sound of a deep, persistent hum filled my ears and I viewed everything as though they had streaks. I could see all the people looking through their windows, each one bawling--even the man--with light streaking to the right of every single one of them. Then, suddenly, there was a great and intense pressure that pushed me and pinned me to the ground on my back. My breath fell short and my head seemed as a balloon filled to the breaking point with air. I looked up at the tree that seemed to be majestically never-ending in its length. And then from the pinnacle of the grand pine, wherever that may have been, there was a bright expanse of light coming down at an alarming rate, which was nearly enough to make me go blind. And then the intense sheet of light all but encompassed me completely to the point where the only thing visible was bright white. That’s when I lost consciousness. I’d been going in and out since then. Until today. I feel fine right now. The window’s fixed.
I finally see the divinity and the majesty of the tree. Just like the man to my right had. It’s been there the whole time and I’ve neglected to notice it. Maybe I just didn’t want to.
Strange though. When the nurse screamed I couldn’t hear anything. It was that same hum held out for an eternity of whole notes. So strange. All of that was strange. But now I know not to go out the window EVER again. I am still quite drained so if you’ll excuse me I’ll be off to sleep again.
July 11-It’s occurred to me that the only manner in which to leave this complex is with force. Foolish nurse. She will not so easily beset me with that closed door. She’s still got to open it. And that’s when I shall pounce.
July 12-I woke up today, and was met by the strangest of occurrences. The orange rose was literally on top of me, staring down on me. I think this rose is much like the other in that they are both atypical. Anyway, I was filled with anger at this sight and I haven’t any clue why. I screamed “I don’t want you!” at the top of my lungs and summarily through the rose up against the wall near the toilet. The white pot shattered, and there on the floor was the rose, who withered so quickly and with a hiss of smoke that I was frightened I’d done something wrong. And then I looked out the window for a moment at the tree because I thought I saw something move. I turned back, and the orange rose, along with the dirt and broken pot had vanished except for one singular petal. I swiftly flushed it down the toilet for I desired to remember no part of that useless rose. Too many strange things within short periods of time. Dear God, I need my rose! I need HER!
July 15-I know what I shall do. When the nurse comes in I shall hold it ajar as I did before when I wanted to talk to her. But this time I shall overcome her by some means. Maybe choking her. Or just pushing her down for she is a very slight woman. And then, to the door I shall go. I’ll be in such a frenzy at that moment that a door will be useless in barring me from going where I’d like. That’s the plan. Nothing will keep me from that door. Why should I be using such forgotten language? I really am fanatical. But why? Why do I want to go out that door? Will it alleviate my pain? Or do I think the rose is out there somewhere? I think that mostly, it is a desire to know what normality is truly like. If this is normal, or if there is something else beyond these walls that is more normal. We shall see what happens.
July 16-I tested my plan today. It didn’t work. I was about to pounce on her as I said I would do but there was the rose. In the cavernous room, right where the table had been (for it is gone now, as well). I said, “My rose!” and stared for a moment. But, it disappeared and the nurse slammed the door shut in my face without any food or change of clothing. Whore! Blasted, vile whore! I will get her! Wait and see!
July 23-It has been a week since the nurse last opened my door. I’d resigned to myself that this be my tomb, but I realized that I felt no pain from hunger or thirst and my clothes do not reek. This, my friend, is one strange place.
I’ve decided that once I leave I’m taking the cartoon cow in the front of this notebook along with me. Maybe my pencil, too, for it has stayed sharp and trustworthy thus far. But I won’t take either of the notebooks for I’d like the nurse to read the end part of the last entry. Although that doesn’t really make any sense. Why wouldn’t I take the notebooks? Who knows? I’m strange.
It’s just dawned on me that I could easily go out the door next to the receptionist’s desk. The one I had neglected to see in my first trip around the complex. I believe it remains unlocked. And since the door outside my room is locked I think it should be much easier to go out the other exit.
July 24-When I woke up this morning, the rose was in my window sill. But, she was as I had described before: transient. In fact, I couldn’t even feel her. My hand literally went straight through. And then I realized she wanted me. As though she had been too afraid to say so in the beginning. Not like she literally said anything. It was more of an afferent type thing. But anyway I could see it. I could see her desire for me. I could see it! Why had she waited this long? Why? Then I realized that this was quite possibly the last time I’d ever see the rose. Even in her transient state she is still beautiful. But then maybe, I thought this at the time, that I wouldn’t have to leave because the rose was back with me and she had expressed her desire for me. But as soon as I had thought that, she was gone. I might have shed a tear but this had happened too often for me to cry. This final visit (or so it seems) has only fueled my longing to abandon this place. “They”, the people, the nurse, the tree, the pallor, the notebook, and even the bloody mannequin. All of them. Gone forever. And, yet, I hardly care.
July 27-Today is the day. I’ve paid my last respects to everything. The tree most of all. I feel as though, for some reason, I will see him on the other side. The other side. What must it be like? |
Submission Name: Morose Thorn (Chapter 4)
