~ Maehglie ~
Chapter 1: History, Black and Leather Bound
Goose bumps spot up my arm like miniature chicken pocks. All lasts signs of fall have died. Every last bit of life has fell and the trees quiver abashed and bare. However, winter has yet to awaken. And the earth is dead. The dead branches rest on the dead grass, which in its death limps over the consistently lifeless dirt. Three crows drift with the wind cawing in circles. Death lurks through the stillness and it captivates me. I sit memorized by the misplaced gravel in the concrete ground and I blend into my surroundings.
My multi-colored woolen scarf is draped around my neck and it struggles to hug in the very little heat my body sweats to make. I can barely make out my breath in the thick smoggy air and my brain is racing like the heart beats of a thousand new born babies. Even though my brain is in shattered mishap chaos my stomach is steadily concentrating on one thing, warm blue berry pie. It growls to remind me as it whiffs the aroma spilling from the window in the kitchen. But I don't move, partially because I don't want to break the peaceful stillness. I just wish my brain would blend in with the rest of me and take apart of the atmosphere.
I sit here on the steps of Saint Elizabeth's wondering if this is really the solution. I let the cool brisk wind lash at my face. I allow myself to become a statue. I analyze my days I've spent here, coloring books, and circle sharing time. It never really seems like it does much good. Am I really as messed up as all of them? All Shellby ever does is perpetually bang her head like an abused drum. Meyer is always curled up like a dam fetus crying about something, usually his mother. Butch walks around like he is the living dead. He's always staring at nothing like he's hypnotized or something. These are the type of people I have to live with and I can't help, but resist the thought that I'm one of them. I at least know how to function normally. Then there's Jeanne, one of the few I can actually stand.
We share the same room here. A room with air tight sealed walls. I feel like I just keep breathing the same used up oxygen. In the room we share a bunk, a flimsy wooden table that looks like it should have been decomposed into the grown by now, and a cube window that somehow always captures the sunlight so it is directly in my eyes. We don't even have a door. They don't trust us enough that we would be so privileged to have a door. Only the noble's and merchants are privileged to such an outstanding treasure.
I've lived here for nearly two and a half years, and that's two and a half years too long. I just keep waiting for something to happen. And maybe that's the irony. Waiting never gets anyone anywhere just like dreaming or wishing. It's all hypothetical. But I don't know how to do anything else really. All I know is I need to get out of here, otherwise I'm afraid it will drive me insane, even more so than they already claim I am.
Jeanne is here for traumatic depression. Depression itself isn't enough to stick you with us crazies, although every once in awhile we'll get a suicide-attempist. The only reason why Jeanne is stuck here with all the crazy is she doesn't remember. Her most recent memory was when she was being rehabilitated in the hospital after it happened, whatever it is, and then they sent her here. It's hard to make out her skin color between the patches of bruises.
I don't understand why the cops don't just tell her what happened? Something about some self-discovery shit and going through all the mental stages. The psychologists say she's in denial. I say there is a difference between denial and simply not being able to remember something, but question authority and they will just shove their pristine and framed degrees in your face. I swear colleges will give anyone a diploma these days, or at least in psychology it seems.
They usually spend a majority or their time convincing us that we are all lunatics, which to me seems counterproductive, then again I don't have no fancy degree. Every day I feel like all they do is give us lessons of the normal and the abnormal. And then they hang up a ton of bullshit inspirational posters for encouragement, claiming its okay to be different, and it gets better from here.
But if I've learned anything while I was here it's that we all have to let things go. I'm not certain what exactly it is that I'm letting go yet and maybe it's because my ear drums simply can't handle their drone voices for as long as they demand it, but that is what they always say. Now I may have exaggerated just a little. I mean it isn't like we stare at blank walls all day while they hypocritingly lecture us about everything we should and shouldn't be or do. They always have us doing some activity to relieve the anger, while they lecture.
Circle time is my personal favorite. Sharing completely private and personal information with certified strangers, what could be more fun! Sometimes they have us bake; personally I don't understand the rationale behind this. They claim we have to try a variety of things so we can all find our niche. They don't even let us eat what we make because there are a few kids with peanut allergies, and a girl who has a phobia of eggs. But we all need to do this because, as I said before, we all need to let go of our anger, even though anger has nothing to do with my diagnosis.
The psychologists come and go; we almost never have the same one twice. It has something to do with government funding. The program just can't afford a psychologist fulltime, so we just get volunteers. They all say the same things. And they all say it with the same pride and excitement as the last. Like they just discovered this shit on their own.
I'm schizophrenic. Now, schizophrenia isn't the most common case of a sadistic murderer, but people tend to forget that a lot. Trust me; my hands are blood free, no worries. The strange thing is that I can tell the voices apart; my own thoughts from my friend's, which most people with Schizophrenia can't do. I looked it up. I call my friend buddy, he hates it. He claims his name is Nutter Butter, but he hates it when I call him that too. Then again this is all in my head so I really shouldn't care. It's just annoying having so many voices in my head at once, my own radical jumpy thoughts that tend to lope in circles and then on top of that my hallucination. And I always hear buzzing like Buddy has wings he's flapping a mile a minute to keep up with me.
But every once in awhile, when I'm reading a book or want to go to sleep, sometimes if I whisper to him nicely he'll keep quiet for awhile. And even though he is imaginary he is the closest friend I got. Perhaps that's the insane part.
For the holidays the hospital serves us real food as a treat, but I have a train I can't miss, so against the will of my stomach I sink into the grass and continue to shiver in the wind. I'm not supposed to the leave the grounds, but Benny, the nurse for our floor knows that if I don't I'll start to get claustrophobic. Benny has been here probably longer than Jeanne and she's been here half her life. Benny is like the mother I never knew. When I have nightmares she sooths them, when I'm hungry she sneaks into the kitchen to snatch a few cookies, and when Jeanne and I fight she settles the dispute.
I can feel the air pressure that rises from the velocity of the train, it passes through me. The train hums out of breath from its journey. It comes to a struggling halt, screeching as the wheels grind against the tracks; the stillness is interrupted for a brief moment. I walk onto the train with my chattel draped across my shoulder holding an abundance of books; a collection of third dimension worlds with enchanted woodland creatures and happy endings. And when the last words are said the T's slashed and I's dotted lessons are learned and good always comes out on top to be the supreme winner. And maybe that's cliché, and maybe that's what I enjoy so much about it, the clichés. They just all have a certain atmosphere of glee.
I believe the imperfection of it all are the martyrs and heroes. My problem isn't with heroism itself, but rather in the article, the hero, the one and only hero. It's just untrue and a bit of a bully to the rest of the world. Why should someone be suppressed for not having supersonic strength, does that mean he didn't want to save the village, just because he couldn't? And it's the same with newspapers and magazines. Or even history text books, they always are focusing on that same three letter word.
No one ever tells stories about the boy who dreamed of saving a city, but couldn't fight past his nimble arms. All they ever did was break like a twig no matter how hard he tried. What about the peasants who works every day so their children can go to college and live a better life. I guess it's all just too insignificant for those big hard covered books, or even the soft covered ones.
I can think of millions of untold stories that are shunned to silence and disappear rather plain-fully into the shadows of the romanticized heroes and angelic voices of alcoholics and drug addicts, and the crazies of the world, which our society seems to focus on, even in fantasy.
The train comes to a swift stop and I get off at a tall brick building with chalked letters grueling on the side, dissipating in every direction. I walk into a small room covered in boards. The bookshelves are dusty and cobwebs lurk in every corner of the ceiling, but I love it here. I'm not much of a people person, I prefer solitude. And in this library it's just me and the books, well and the librarian of course. I walk up to the front desk where a rather small man with fat wrists asks if I need any help.
"I just want to return these," I say emptying my chattel. He shoots me a toothy friendly smile.
"Now don't tell me sugar," he says closing his eyes, "You read Alice in Wonderland, James Bond, and Huck Finn."
"Good memory," I compliment. He grins.
"Maybe it used to be, but sugar you're the only one who ever comes in this filthy place anymore," he admits. His voice sounds weary with a slight whistle in it. He scans the books into the computer on his desk that must be as ancient as he.
"Well sugar, what are you in the mood for today?"
"I'm thinking Cinderella."
"Ah yes the most classic of all fairy tales. The fascination of the unknown and the many times believed impossible, adventure, and mystery."
"But sir, fairytales are impossible."
"Well sugar that's what you know. But what do you believe?" His voice grows deeper only for an instance. I smile for lack of a response and start to hover around the bookshelves. I spot Robin Hood on the top shelf and use the tip of my toes for height. I start to read past the first sentence when I hear a yawn. I jump wondering if someone is behind me, but no one is there.
"So, what are you reading?"Buddy says.
"Why must you bother me, while I'm trying to read?"
"Hey, don't snap at me I just woke up and to be quite honest I take quite offense that you find me bothersome. I'm not talking to you till you apologize," he squeals.
"Good. I would applaud you, but you never do keep your promises."
"Excuse me Missy! But I'm not the only one, someone promised me peanut butter and jelly the other day and what happened?"
"Oh my God let it go! Your imaginary!?"
"MMMhmmm you just keep telling yourself that!"
"Just shut up, so I can read." Buddy sighs and backs off.
I fan my hand through the pages and create a cloud of dust, I gaze up from my book for a second when I catch sight of a rusted leather bound book. It looks ancient; withered and burned like the book has emotions of own. Exhaustion, it looks completely exhausted. But what draws me to it more than the years that are present in the torn binding or crinkled pages it possesses is the golden lettering on the cover. It's shaped in curly cursive each letter slightly over lapping the next. It says Flinch Maehglie Orlie.
I skim through the book to find the end, but the pages just keep refilling themselves. I must be hallucinating. I close my eyes.
"Ah, and what do we have here?" Buddy asks admiring the book.
"I'm not in the mood please for once I just want to be normal. I want to know what is real, I demand you to tell me what is real?" I whisper.
"Well apparently I'm not real, according to you, so how would I know?" I cuff my hands over my ears so I can hear my own thoughts more clearly. That's my name, well that's my name backwards, but how many people do you know with the name Orlie Maehglie Flinch in any arrangement of sort. I just can't help but shake this feeling that Flinch is related to me in some way. No it can't be, it's a coincidence. His last name is Orlie, and mine is Flinch. Plus out of all the people with untold tales, I am certainly not one of them. Man I really am going crazy.
I clutch the book in my hands afraid to let it go. This could be the only history I have about myself. I run my hands across the binding and gently lift the cover; there is no publisher and no publishing date. There is no author, just the title. The pages consist of diagrams and definitions, pictures of trolls and fairies, and something called a Jabbalow. There is a whole section dedicated to monsters; how to hunt them and what to feed them. The pages are in no specific order. Juxtaposed pages are completely irrelevant to each other. And to think I was expecting an autobiography, or biography of some sort.
"Ew those things are nasty!" I hear Buddy screech flabbergasted.
"It's just a book, a fictional book, they don't really exist you know."
"No, but obviously you don't, and let me tell you not the cleanliest of creature dear lord! I know they don't have indoor plumbing or anything, but geez Hestineeeezez is half like 49% soap. It's like they purposefully try to stink! And let me tell girl my nose just did not appreciate it!"
"I would ask what the hell you think Hestineeeezez is, but personally I don't want to hear it."
"Girl I swear sometimes I forget about how much you don't know!"
"And sometimes I forget how annoying my hallucinations are."
"That really hurts you know," Buddy shutters a few fake tears.
"Oh suck it up!"
"Excuse me, but that is no way to talk to me! Your mentor, you can be so disrespectful you know!"
"Wowowow what do you mean mentor?!"
"Eh-he, I'm not real remember."
"What do you mean mentor?" I attempt to interrogate Buddy for answers.
"Let's just pretend I didn't say anything okay? Okay. We good? Good."
"What do you mean mentor?" He always does this to, say something and then take it back as if he said too much. It's like I'm keeping secretes from myself in a way. The book claps close and I go to the front desk of the library.
"Ah, sugar," the librarian says, "good choice."
"You've read it," I ask, but he just smiles and winks. Maybe he is in my head too. The winds have picked up outside of the library and my scarf cannot protect me from them. I open the book to a page that title reads, The History of the Runway Betrothed. A picture of a tall lean woman takes up half the page above the text. And I swear she winked at me, but the train arrives before I can read too much into it. When I arrive at the hospital a plump woman with round narrow blue glasses approaches me.
"Haley! Where were you! You know you aren't allowed to leave the premises!" I don't respond. If they can't be bothered to get my name right then I can't be bothered to answer, which they never do. I ignore her and walk toward my room.
"Merrideth!" she screams running after me in her clonking heels, "Orlie!" I turn around.
"It's Maehglie if you must know, that's M-A-E-H-G-L-I-E. And I'm back aren't I, I wasn't running away or trying to sneak in drugs, you can search me if you want. I just wanted to get some books and since when is reading a crime. Now I'm going to go to my room, you're going to put a little check mark next to my name and we're going to pretend this whole charade never happened." The woman gasps as if she's searching for the proper words to say.
"B-but you're not allowed to leave," she finally speaks.
"Are you going to search me or not?" She stares at me then her clip board and presses her pen to the page. I continue walking towards my room. She'll be gone by tomorrow, I think.
"Hey where you been," Jeanne whispers.
"The book store."
"Oh, what's it like out there?"
"Chilly," I reply. And I know that isn't what she means. But she asks every time I go out. Jeanne likes to follow the rules, and I don't think she even remembers what it's like to not be told what to do and think every second of the day.
"It's like a small taste of freedom," I say as she stares at me intrigued with awe. I open the black book when something peculiar catches my eye.
"What!" I blurt out louder than I had anticipated astonished by the text.
"What?" asks Jeanne.
"It's just this book. I swear it's the strangest thing. Can you tell me what this says so I know I'm hallucinating?"
"Sure," she says, sitting up in her bed and taking the book from my hands, "Orlie Maehglie Flinch… is that you?" she looks at me confused, I shrug and she continues, "princess of Apathemeus." Jeanne looks at me then back at the book and snickers.
"Well Madame how may I be of service," she says getting out of bed and doing a little curtsey.
I play along, "Well this tea just isn't right." I stick my nose in the air and hold up my pinkie.
"Why I'll see what I can do for you," she says. I start to laugh so hard my rib cage actually hurts. Me a princess, what an oxymoron that would be. Then we hear the steps creek and the pounding of footsteps becoming exponentially louder. And though we know it probably won't make a difference we quickly run back into our beds and slip our feet under the covers. Benny stands in our door way with a flashlight.
"Girls, go to sleep," whispers Benny. And we giggle because the laughter is too contagious to escape. Benny walks on to the next room to continue her bed check.
"Thank God it was Benny and not Mr. Lophertee," I gasp a sigh of relief, "then we would have had to listen to an hour long lecture of the exact science of why need our sleep," I state mockingly, but I could tell Jeanne is concentrating on something else.
"Could you imagine," Jeanne asks, gazing at the ceiling as if she's wishing on a star.
"Imagine what?"
"Being a princess, having a prince rescue you from this prison, maybe he'll shout for you to let down your hair. And then on your journey back to the palace he'll be so infatuated with you that when he goes to drop you off at the castle your hands linger intertwined before he lets his grip go of you regretfully, but then you'll go to a ball, and your eyes will meet across the dance floor, and he'll grab you by the arm and pull you towards him, he'll plant his lips on yours, and it will be so magical."
"Nah, I say, I don't need some guy who thinks he's some hot shit come rescue me. I can take care of myself thank you very much."
"Well then maybe you'll be the one to rescue the prince?"
"hmmmm," I think about this for a second, "only if I get a dragon."
"Well of course, what's a hero without a dragon?"
"And I shall name him Pedro."
"Pedro, what is he Spanish?" she asks.
"Maybe," I laugh, but then I change my mind, "half Mexican actually, a quarter Turkish and Czechoslovakian."
"Oh I see," she smiles. Then quiet settles between us for some time.
"Maehglie?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say, "I'm still up, what is it?"
"Have you ever had one?"
"What a dragon?"
Jeanne shakes her head, "No, a prince, well a more practical form of a prince."
"You mean a boyfriend," I say and she nods. "Good night Jeanne," I say.
"Well have you?" she asks.
"Good night," I repeat.
"Do you think it's just like fantasy?"
"Nothing is just fantasy," I say, "fantasy was created to escape the tragic let downs of reality, if reality lived up to the potential of fantasy then there would be no need to create the fantasy in the first place."
Jeanne sighs, "But what if the fantasy is just eh wishing star before the reality came true?"
"Well, I guess I'm just not that much of an optimist," I say.
"Well I am. And one day, I believe my prince will come find me."
I shrug, "Please go tell it to Cinderella's fairy godmother."
"You know you don't have to be so cynical all the time!"
"And you don't have to be so ignorant all the time!"
"Girls! Girls! Girls! Girls!" Benny comes rushing in our room, "Shhhhhhhh, now is not the time to fight, now is the time to sleep."
"Well when is the time to fight?" I ask. Benny gives me that look. That look that is more powerful than any words. That look that says not one more word. That look that says not now. That look that says don't push it.
"Go to sleep," she demands rather than says and as the silence settled in the room seemed to get darker and darker.