All I Never Wanted
Disclaimer: If I really owned this happy stuff, would I be posting it for free here or would I be making bucket loads of money by selling it, hmmmmm? Thought not.
Warning: This is a strange one. Blame the muses—it's their fault because they craved darkness and angst. Song is "All I Never Wanted".
The walls were the deep sickly yellow-green of pollen with white trim gone gray. A few pictures covered with thick acrylic and carefully rounded frames adored the walls with rather careless, carefully generic landscapes and still life studies. Chairs with barely comfortable padding were bolted to the industrial tile floors in groups meant more to remind of living rooms than to actually be in use as places to hold conversations. A pair of card tables near the steel double doors was bolted to the floor as well, with benches bolted down around them. An old lady sat at one table, staring at a half finished puzzle of kittens while her companion aimlessly played scales on a piano that wasn't there. At the other table, a security guard dealt out solitaire while keeping a careful eye on everyone—unable to pretend even for an hour that he was relaxing.
Sarah hated this place.
She hated the old lady with the puzzles who had somehow determined that aliens were visiting her every night. She hated the piano player. She hated the two individuals—she never heard them speak and no one else had either—who were led to bolted chairs in front of the windows each day and then led to their rooms each night, with a trip to the bathroom offered twice an hour. She hated the security guard—a rather emasculated older man with only an ancient bottle of mace and a small lead tipped baton between him and whatever chaos could be created in the minds of madmen.
Most of all, she hated the artificially cheerful, bone thin lady in front of her who smiled each day, carefully greeted her by the name on her chart, and then signaled one of the male nurses to hold her down.
"How are we today, Miss Williams?" she chirped impersonally.
Sarah sent a glare to her as best she could. "How do you think I am?" she slurred softly.
"Oh, has today been a bad day, Miss Williams?" She made some notes with a carefully blunted pencil on the thick bundle of pages in her lap.
Sarah glanced away. It was a day like any other. Breakfast was at 8, and delivered to each tiny cell. At 8:30, she was herded into a bathroom for a shower and then, clean and fresh, escorted to this room at 9:00. At 10, Dr. Lambert would appear to talk to her. Depending on how much and what was said, Dr. Lambert would stay until 11 or 11:30. At 12:30, her room would be let out and herded to the cafeteria—another saccharine decorated room—where a lunch of tepid food would be served.
At 2, structured lessons would begin. At first, a tutor would bring by sheets of homework and copies of notes. Sarah would dutifully complete the lessons as best she could—occasionally she'd feel fuzzy headed from whatever medicines had been prescribed for her that day. Lately, though—it was crafts such as a basket weaving kit or a crossword puzzle book. Was it because it was summer? All she could tell as she sat shivering in the stale air conditioning was that the sun was shining outside.
Dinner at 5, and at 6:30, if there were no demerits, then they could regroup in this room and watch some TV or listen to one of the battery powered radios or go into their rooms to do whatever quietly. Lights out was at 10:30 and the night hours rolled past until the next morning.
"Miss Williams, how are you doing today?" Dr. Lambert asked again, with a bit of impatience. Stroking a whisp of iron grey into the tight, scraped back knot on the back of her head with a bony hand, she stared at Sarah with cool, slate colored eyes. "Can you hear me, Miss Williams?"
"I can hear you," Sarah sighed crabbily, picking at a loose thread on the institutional pajamas that were practically her uniform now. For a while, Dr. Lambert had been content to sit in silence until Sarah spoke first—but now she was becoming impatient more quickly.
"And how are we doing today?"
What's this 'we' crap? Sarah thought angrily. Of course, if she exploded with that again—then a male nurse would be summoned to loom over her during Dr. Lambert's visit. Another outburst and the nurse would hold her down, forcing her to be still and quiet.
Just once her temper had gotten the better of her and she had fought the nurse—and immediately felt Dr. Lambert beside her. A quick, painful jab and she awoke the next morning in her cell—and was suddenly on daily medications.
Sarah let out a sickeningly sweet, "We are doing fine, Dr. Lambert."
If Dr. Lambert noticed the ankle deep sarcasm, she paid it no heed. "Do you know where you are, Miss Williams?"
"I am at Sunnydale Mental Health Facility," Sarah offered back in the same tone.
"Very good," Dr. Lambert smiled thinly. "Do you know why you are here?"
"I am here—" Sarah let her head loll back a fraction of an inch for a fraction of a second. I am here because my parents dumped me here. Sarah thought angrily. I am here because I have seen something that you cannot believe in—and because I have seen the impossible, you must medicate me to not believe in it. "—Because I have not been well and need your help to get well."
Dr. Lambert frowned for a moment and scribbled another notation on the chart in front of her. "And do you want me to help you?"
No. "Yes," she replied absently, by rote. "I want to get well and go home." I want you to go to hell, along with whoever chose the paint in this place.
Dr. Lambert's smile didn't reach her cool eyes. "Wonderful. I would be glad to help you any way that I can, Miss Williams." She fiddled with her pencil for a moment. "Now, what would you like to talk about today?"
"Whatever you like, Dr. Lambert," Sarah said dismissively. Just tell me what you want me to say and let me go home... If I still have a home somewhere….
"If you are uncomfortable talking here, we can go to my office," Dr. Lambert offered. "Just because you chose our first appointments to be in here doesn't mean that we do not have that option."
"I am fine, Dr. Lambert," Sarah said.
Dr. Lambert made another notation. Glancing over the other notes, she smiled thinly again. "Miss Williams, we have been seeing each other for some time. You know that your hearing is coming up and I would very much like to tell the board that you are making progress and will be able to go home soon." She paused for a moment. "Now, are you sure that there is nothing that you would like to bring up or talk about?"
Why doesn't the old biddy just ask? Sarah frowned grumpily.
Another, more rational voice spoke up. Because you can't tell her. She'll just make another note on your chart and ask about your relationship with Toby.
I hate this.
I hate him...
"Miss Williams. Miss Williams!" Dr. Lambert said sharply. Sarah looked at her—her head snapping up to glare at Dr. Lambert in the eyes. "Miss Williams, do I need to call over a nurse for assistance?"
"No, Dr. Lambert," Sarah answered tonelessly.
Dr. Lambert's blank professional mien returned. "Now, tell me, do you know why you were sent here?"
Sarah shrugged. After the initial greetings, the questions became rote motions. Where were you that night? Who was with you? Was Toby with you all the time? If you were home, Miss Williams, why didn't you answer the phone? Did you hear the phone? May I remind you Miss Williams that you need to tell me the truth—but you also need to tell yourself the truth?
Dr. Lambert's visit rushed to its conclusion with many words spoken, but little being said.
That night, Sarah lay on her bed, her arms folded under her head.
It was all real, wasn't it?
Toby. Her hands would remember the way his baby fine hair felt against her palms. She remembered the feel of his chubby hands curling around her longer brown hair and pull as hard as he could. She remembered the sound of him crying in the night—howling at storms or to be held against the night terrors. She remembered how he felt, curled against her when he finally did fall asleep.
She remembered—in a fuzzy way—the feeling of frustration one night. He had pitched a fit, throwing his rubber ducky against the counter as she dried him off from his bath. A glass had fallen off the counter, shattering against floor. Karen had come in, then, scolding her for being so careless with Toby running around barefoot.
They had left—Karen and Scot Williams—and had left her with the baby. A series of storms had moved into the area—and Toby was a human barometer, crying at the drop of pressure, as the storm loomed closer.
And, in a fit of rage, she had wished him away.
The Goblin King answered her wish. He took the squalling baby away—whisking him to a castle in the middle of a Labyrinth. He listened to Sarah when she begged for the baby back and let her run the maze to win her brother back. He plotted against her—challenged her—and returned everyone safe and sound at the end.
She had no idea she could find someone like him—no idea that she needed someone like him so much.
You were all I never wanted anyhow, yeah
But I sure want you now, yeah
She could use his support now. Her parents had called her a couple of times while they were out—and she had not answered. They checked several of the usual stops—the local Burger Hut, the neighbor's house, her best friend's house—but she was nowhere to be found. Finally, at 10, they had called a neighbor to check on her, but Sarah wasn't at home and Toby wasn't at home. At 11, they had called their evening short and raced back home to find her and Toby at home.
Yet, she couldn't tell them where she'd been. She couldn't tell them where she'd been—who would believe that she had spent 13 hours away? Let alone that the sun had set and risen and set again—and she had traversed a maze as wide as the eye could see from horizon to horizon, beat a Goblin King against his own game, fallen in love, and all the other adventures?
How could she tell them that she almost didn't make it? Almost didn't rescue Toby at all—and had, in fact, been the reason he had been in danger in the first place?
But it's all over now
So it doesn't really matter
Of course, with 6 hours of time to stew and worry about her and Toby—her parents had long since called the police. She had spent scarcely 10 minutes with her friends, celebrating her victory before her parents had gotten home and called out. Less than 15 agonizing minutes after that, the police had showed up to investigate.
The police questioned Sarah, gently at first. But when she couldn't begin to explain where she had spent the past 6 hours, they lost patience. It didn't help that her parents wanted to scare her a bit—"teach her about responsibility" or some such garbage. They spoke quietly with the senior officer, arranged a little "intervention"—have her go down, get questioned on charges of kidnapping, go through a little hassle to show her how serious it was for her to leave the house without letting them know where she was.
Then the cops decided to put her on a polygraph. Of course, when she said that she had missed their calls, it was the truth. When she was asked why, suddenly she went off the charts. They kept questioning her—where had she been, who had been there, why had she taken Toby.
The last one sent the machine off the charts again. She tried to piece together a story—that she had gone for a walk in the park with Toby, lost track of time, had walked to a restaurant to get some food, and then gone to a late showing of a cartoon, that she was very, very sorry that her parents didn't know...
The police didn't know what to make of her erratic readings. Her entire story was a lie—she couldn't even bring one fact to the table. They retested her several times and then another volunteer had been tested to make sure that the machine was working.
Eventually, they got a little rougher—asking if she had taken drugs or been given drugs that evening. The needle skipped wildly again as she had a brief flash of the masquerade.
It didn't matter what she answered. "Yes" and she'd been brought up on charges of drug use and negligence. "No" and she'd be lying and what else would they expect from a drug user?
The policeman reluctantly told Mr. and Mrs. Williams the bad news — they expected drug use. Maybe not a deliberate action on Sarah's part—but drug use was indicated by the test. Scott and Karen blanched at that—ashamed to admit that their little "lesson" for Sarah had gone too far—and gratefully accepted the policeman's offer for transfer to a facility to find out what happened.
Don't know why I feel so shattered
Sarah had been driven over that night—and had been unceremoniously processed by the night nurse. As her parents gave over insurance information and filled out the admittance forms, she had gingerly sat down on a nearby bench.
"What are you in for?" a friendly looking guy asked, as his fingers tapped restlessly on his knees.
"Umm...it's kind of hard to explain," Sarah evaded. "I can't really say."
The guy's eyes closed and he leaned his head back, as though he were listening to some grand symphony. "That's bad. You'll get stuck then."
"Stuck?" Sarah stared at him blankly.
"Sodium Penathol."
A large nurse grabbed Sarah's arm before she could say anything else. "Come along m'dear. We'll get you settled."
It was all a dream so it seems to me now
How to fall in love into the heavens then floating down
It was all so fuzzy at times now. How had it started again? Maybe it was a mad, mad dream—maybe she had fallen asleep and dreamed the enigmatic experience.
But it felt so real. She could remember the feel of the lipstick in her hand—the rough scraping as she drew arrows onto the worn cobblestones. She could remember the distinct smell of the air—somewhat dank and yet, crisp and clean—as she walked past the False Alarms. The leathery smooth feel of Hoggle's skin as she brushed a quick peck to his cheek. She could remember the faintly dusty smell of Ambroscious's and Sir Didymous' fur and the tiny bits of sandy grit in Ludo's massive pelt.
She remembered Him—the scent of exotic spices, the feel of warm strength and the hypnotic sound of his voice.
Was it all in my head this premonition?
When I look back its hard to tell the difference
It was all fading away, though—in a fuzz of a cocktail of drugs and the endless drudgery of days fading into each other. Was it a dream? Was it real?
Maybe she had dreamed it all—she had seen Hoggle's face and form in her brass bookend, Ludo's sweet smile in a marionette of mustard colored fur hanging from her wall, and the valiant Ambroscious could only have been Merlin in the twisted whirl of her dreams.
Bewteen what really happened
And what I imagined
But it's all over now
So it doesn't really matter
He had no power over her. She had told him that—in the middle of a room pulsing with whatever mystical and arcane powers and knowledge it took to drive time backwards, she told him that.
He had fallen backward, as though hit by some massive blow. Knocked fully off his feet, he fell away from her, his flowing cape softly fluttering around him until it became only the whisper of feathers falling.
So what if it was a dream? She was crazy—diagnosed insane by a doctor and carrier of a mound of papers diagramming her paranoia and delusions. In a momentary lapse, Sarah had been able to glance at the charts.
"…Patient seems to be suffering from paranoid delusions—specifically an inability to recall rationally the circumstances that prevented her from responding satisfactorily to her parents' attempts at contact and a persecution complex that she is being unfairly treated due to her inability to respond.
"Patient seems to also suffer from confabulation and appears to either be unwilling or unable to separate the reality of being unable to respond to parents from the imaginary experiences. Attempts to suppress this with Sodium Pentothol have proven negative—she believes, under the serum, that she is telling the truth about her experiences.
"Patient drug tests show up negative, preventing the possibility of a drug induced black out or hallucination..."
Don't know why I feel so shattered
I shoulda known better
Why oh why couldn't she have made up something better? Merlin knocking the phone over downstairs or something? Toby unplugging the upstairs phone? She was a miserable liar.
And now, no matter what, she was completely trapped. She would make up some story and maintain it for a week under Dr. Lambert's close scrutiny, and in another week, they'd break her.
The man who played the piano—a schizophrenic who suffered from delusional parasitosis and a compulsion to practice his childhood piano lessons over and over again—was right. If she held on to some story long enough, eventually they'd give her a jab of Sodium Pentothal and the whole story of the Labyrinth would come slurring out again.
After the second or third time, Sarah noticed that her evaluations were gradually further apart—giving her more time to mess up her cover story or to recant. After the third time, she was put on a regular, daily dosage of some horrid combination of drugs.
She could not tell them a lie they would believe, and they wouldn't believe the truth.
You were all I never wanted anyhow, yeah
And I sure want you now, yeah
She wanted the Goblin King now. She needed to see him again—just one more time to prove to herself that she wasn't crazy. She needed to see Hoggle or Ludo or Didymous—just to remind herself that she hadn't been deluded or asleep.
She couldn't even call them. She had tried—but there were no mirrors anywhere to prevent tempting those on suicide watch. She had finally persuaded Dr. Lambert to bring in a mirror—providing that she herself was restrained to a heavy chair and had a nurse just outside. She called to her friends—called and called over and over until her voice was a hoarse whisper. She even finally called to Jareth—begging him to save her.
At last, all she could do is repeat The Words over and over—"I wish the goblins would take me away right now"—and was lead back to her tiny cell to rest and recover.
But it's all over now
So it doesn't really matter
Don't know why I feel so shattered
Is this what he was offering when he offered her her dreams—an escape from the madness of her world's obsession and compulsion with fitting people in tiny boxes of behavior?
This was the real madness—that one could only believe the mix of lies and truths that everyone else believed. Just because she had seen something different, something that was out of the ordinary, she was called "mad". She was saner than any of them—she knew of other things, had seen other worlds and lived in them. They had no right to deem her insane.
He really was generous—to offer her escape from this madness. She would take his offer—no matter what. She would love him, fear him, do anything he said.
I shoulda known better
You were all I ever wanted anyhow, yeah
In the darkness, it was all Sarah could do not to start screaming for her friends and at last for him. Why wouldn't he appear? He wouldn't appear—never could appear before her. He was a carefully constructed figure in her imagination from the suppressed stress of her father's remarriage and Toby's arrival, coupled with typical adolescent stresses.
Why wouldn't he appear?
You were all I ever wanted anyhow, yeah
And I sure want you now, yeah
Six months and then eight months passed by. Sarah was released, declared free from her delusional paranoia. As Toby was not harmed during that night, the actual criminal charges were reduced to a warning to not let it happen again along with some community service.
But it's all over now
So it doesn't really matter
That Sarah was actually still suffering from schizophrenia went unnoticed. Her creative thinking became completely suppressed—non-existent to the point that she no longer enjoyed her fantasy stories or acting, her passions. She became completely deluded that her friends—Ludo, Hoggle and Didymous—were imaginary. She even hallucinated other sounds that safely covered up their voices when they tried desperately to contact her. Her tastes became rampantly conservative—unemotional, logical and coolly withdrawn. If she lacked the drive of her youth—the desperate, glorious push to be the best she could be at everything that caught her interest—then it was marked only as being "careful" or "cautious".
So, Sarah Williams was cured of the madness of believing what was impossible, but real.
Don't know why I feel so shattered