Chapter One


I always see fields of lavender: the slight mounds of purple, green and gray seem to roll over the hills forever until the base of the mountains stop their pursuit. Before these fields lays a small patch of lush grass, in which I sometimes massage my feet. There’s always a brilliant sky above me as well. It’s dawn all of the colors in the visible spectrum fill the air with generosity. Shiny gold and red emanate from the rocky peaks and the rest of the horizon remains a turquoise blue and orange. The cumulous clouds reflect these colors perfectly.

For miles in the landscape before me, all I am able to see are these lavender plants and the burnt-sienna mountains. It is the same scene every day, but it is the slight changes in the sky that keeps my soul grounded here. At times I’d reminisce of the similar fresh smell of this place. It reminds me of my birthplace, Panama City, Florida.

I always sit on the porch of the same two-story Antebellum house. The entirety of the building is painted a glossy-white, but my grity hands and feet always seem to soil the pureness of the floorboards. However, grit isn’t the kind of thing that matters here. I trace my fingertips along the gloss, feeling its coolness travel up to my spine.

This house has six columns that reach all the way up to the roof. I lean my head towards the one to the right of me. It’s smooth and cool and white, like the porch floor. I sit on the edge of the porch with my feet on the top of the four steps.

My eyes feel anguish but my heart feels weightless. My eyes continue to be the only thing that ails me here, as everything once wrong with my vessel vanish in this place. I remain care-free, but I know there is something other-worldly here.

There’s always a man here, too. It’s funny: Sometimes he looks like an old woman; I guess it just depends on the day. His tough skin is sunburned, yet bronzed, and it has more grooves in it than an old vinyl record. His thinned lips contrast with the sharpness of his eyes. They are the same gray as the lavender. His salt-and-pepper beard, accompanied by his long black hair in two braids, holds ashes that fall from his pipe. Usually he’ll spend the morning in his rocker behind me on the porch, folding his calloused hands while he props his elbows on his knees. They are as roughened as his face.

At times when I arrive here, he’ll tip his leather, wide-brimmed hat at me and raise his hand slightly as a sign of welcome. Whatever he does, he always radiates a sense of contentment and peacefulness towards everything.

The smell of his burning tobacco taunts me, and I am prompted to speak to him. But I never have. We have yet to have a conversation, I feel. I don’t know who he is or why he’s here--but I feel like I know him from somewhere. I even feel we are connected somehow, despite I lack his tawny skin and gray eyes.

His humility and presentation makes him seem like a destitute king. I feel he has no name, so I think of him as God.


Chapter Two


But once again, I awaken on the same foam mattress and these recurring images vanish. I’m back in my room, away from the mountains, the sky, and the lavender fields. My eyes remain fixed on the high ceiling. My bones are chilled to the marrow, which is typical, but here they refuse to give you more than two blankets. I’m thankful that the windows are shut for this same reason. It keeps the winter air out and allows my visions of a summer-time sunrise to linger.

My bed is by the window. We don’t get much sunlight here, so the shrinks distribute melatonin as if it were candy. I’m lucky, however, that my room’s facade faces the track of the sun. So just as my visions of an other-worldly dawn escape my mind as I begin to wake, I wait for the eastern glow every morning. But what I get glimpse of here is nothing compared to my daily visions. Through the thick blinds, covered by bullet-proof glass, I hopelessly hope for a sunrise I have seen so many times before.

I sit up and direct my eyes towards my roommate. Seeing her every morning is comforting, in some peculiar way. Her thin blonde locks are sprawled all over her pillow, a plushy tribute brought by her parents. Her back is to me. I watch the cotton sheets rise as she breathes, however I can’t help but flinch and pity her when I see her vertebrae pop through the cotton.

Through the slight cracks in the blinds, I watch the horizon turn from black to ocean blue, and as the glow comes through higher I see it turn to a teal the yellow-green as it struggles to rise. I’ve learned to tell the time by the colors in the sky. It is an acquired skill that takes much practice, and I often wonder how useful it’ll be when I get out...If I ever do, that is. It’s about 5:15 now.

“Alaina?” My roommate.

“Goodmorning,” I smile at her grumpy morning-face.

“Can I shower first?”

“What kind of question is that, you silly-bird?” She always showers first, yet I hear the same proposition every morning. I reply quietly, however. Friends and other patients are still sleeping. I fold my knees up on the bed and I find I’ve grown strangely comfortable. My skin has grown used to the “morning feelings” here: Cold, weary, sleepy, yet content, hopeful, tranquil.

Our rooms must always be kept spotless. Anyone who leave their clutter and random belongings around is noted, and their “sentence” here might be made longer. There’s two beds on the long wall, and a plain, cedar nightstand between us. Near the corner of our room, opposite of our beds, lives a bathroom door, which is locked during the night. To the left of our bathroom stands a cubby-hole-type dresser, containing my few belongings and Mary’s copious amount of clothes and “get-well-soon” cards.

Mary returns to the room with a nurse, who smiles at me while unlocking the bathroom door. Mary sets her plastic pin full of Victoria’s Secret shampoos and body washes on the floor while she proceeds to undress.

I’ve learned to hide my face and eyes while she removes her clothing, but politely, of course. Not necessarily out of respect, but because she looks emaciated. However, each day the suitcases--not bags--under her eyes look a little less blue. Her cheekbones protrude like a confused cat underneath a blanket. “My hair is starting to come back,” Mary says with a slight chuckle as she whips her socks off.

“I really am happy that you’re getting better, Mary. I’m so glad that you realize recovery is the right way to go,” I don’t lie. “Remember that every--”

“‘Everyday living is another battle won,’” she mocks me. That’s been my piece of advice to her from the get-go. I’ve been here longer than she has.

I laugh with a yawn and hide my face again, turning my face towards the sunlight. Mary goes into the bathroom with her bin, and I am left to linger in the morning sunbeams and the dim light of dawn.

The sun makes me nostalgic of the days when I had my freedoms but lacked my soul. At times I’d just stand at the window and daydream of the salty Floridian breeze and towering palm trees.

“Your turn,” Mary startles my peaceful state as she pats her hair dry with a towel. She never takes too long in the shower, it’s not like she has much “surface area” to wash or beautiful tresses to care for… Not yet, at least. I nod and smile at her.

I’m glad she, of all people here, is my roomate. Despite her brain-consuming illness, she has somehow managed to keep her kind soul and extroverted personality. We’ve grown quite used to each other’s quirks-- how I leave my socks on the windowsill to warm up, how she profusely bites her nails and spits them into a cup. I’ve grown used to her mannerisms, her humorous nature, and the illness that speaks for her at times.

I gather my things and make the three-step trip to the bathroom. It’s about 5:30 now. The other girls in this wing will be awake shortly. I undress and press the shower button a few times to make sure it’s warm enough. Mary actually transferred to my room for this very reason: Her shower was much too cold for her withering skin and tiny frame.

These bathrooms are suicide-proof. There are no locks on the door from the inside, the curtain is held up by velcro, and the mirror is made of some strange, modified, unbreakable plastic. But a mirror is a mirror, right? Water is given by a button that activates two sprouts--one for your head, one for your abdomen. We are required to shower every morning, or else that would be noted in the nurse’s log as well. The water lasts for about forty-five seconds before it must be pushed again. The water is either as cold as Dante’s frozen lake or scorching hot to the point where your skin is left a tomato-red. I prefer the latter.

I allow the water to douse my mouse-brown hair and body. My hair turns a darker shade and my slight eye makeup rolls down my cheekbones. The same start to another day of wishing, wanting, waiting. Needing.

The images of God and lavender do not cross my mind. Instead, I distract myself with wonder regarding the day. Do you think we’ll get snack today? Are we going to have music therapy? For so long, for about five years in my past, I tried to hard to escape reality. But the tables have turned, and now I’m trapped into trying to run away from the fantasy paradise I see every night.

I let the water run out. I refuse to press the button again.