Lorem Ipsum
Member
- Pronoun
- x
Tablets
I stare at the table, my face faintly reflected in the tinted black glass. It’s completely clean, no letters, no magazines, no newspapers. Well, except for the tablet. That tiny white capsule, staring up at me like Satan staring out of hell itself. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of it, it’s meant to help me, for goodness’ sake. But every time I see it, or see it in its foil packet, I remember.
It is snowing outside. A white blanket seems to coat everything, making it difficult to see what is what. It doesn’t help that all of the buildings in the area are white, making it hard to know when a house becomes another house, and another house, and another house. There are children outside, playing in the thick snow. Their faces are the picture of enjoyment, laughing as they throw snowballs at one another.
My emotions are on a rollercoaster ride. One minute I’m laying on my sofa, watching celebrities make fools of themselves, the next, I’m taking books from my shelf, and screaming and crying as I rip them apart. Page, after page, after page, after page. Torn. Then I feel normal again. I go up to my bedroom, wanting to go to bed. And then I realise that it’s only the afternoon, early in the afternoon. I curl up in a ball on the floor, crying confused tears into the white carpet.
I don’t know how long it is until I get up. It must have been a while; the children were gone. I look back out of the window, at the remnant of a snowman they must have been trying to build. It is still snowing. For some reason, I find this annoying. So I start screaming. Screaming and shouting and crying and yelling, yelling at the snow to go away, to leave me alone. Then I just collapse onto the floor again, weeping. Why?
---
It is still snowing. I pick up my car keys on the table by the front door, and notice how stupid they look, all alone like that. I step outside into the freezing cold air, each fleck of white biting into my bare skin like daggers. I’m not wearing a hat, a scarf, a coat. Just my t-shirt and the jeans I’m wearing. I probably should go back, but I don’t feel like it. I’m just about to put the key into the car door, when I have a fleeting image of a car crash, with my limp body being pulled out of it. Maybe not such a good idea to drive, in my state.
I drop the keys on the floor, not wanting to waste any time, and without a second thought, start walking quickly down the road. I need to see a doctor. But I need to get there quickly before something happens.
---
I am seated in the doctor’s surgery, having been told to wait. Apparently I hadn’t made an appointment. I thought I had, but who was I to argue? Stupid bint though. The people in here annoy me. There’s an old woman right next to me. Breathing. Really loudly. I would hit her and tell her to stop, but I can cope. I just need to see a doctor. Stupid bitch, though.
---
The doctor is ushering me into his room. Is it just me or is it really hot in this place?
I sit down in the blue chair in front of his desk. There’s a clock on there, with those stupid black Roman numerals. If you want numbers, use proper ones, idiot. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I hit the clock angrily, and sure enough, it stops that incessant noise. Well, when it hits the floor at least. Bloody clocks.
The doctor looks slightly alarmed, but continues to ask what the matter is. I explain, my voice shaking a little bit. At this point, I don’t know whether I’m angry or sad, or happy or what. All I know is that there’s this guy in front of me, with his stupid glasses on his face.
“Bloody swots,” I blurt out, saying it in the middle of my explanation. I quickly apologise and continue to tell the doctor what my problem is. He looks concerned. I know because of the frown that’s embedded on his face. “Aren’t I the clever one?” I say sarcastically, again unconsciously. This time I don’t apologise. The frown on the doctor’s face just deepens. He says something about hospitals, and something about a diagnosis.
I watch as he makes a phone call, not really registering what he’s saying. When he finished, he started talking at me. I just nodded, and he got up, guiding me out of the front of the doctor’s surgery. The receptionist says something to him, and the doctor nods. Then the bint of the receptionist talks to the people in the waiting room. I laugh loudly as she tells the stupid old bitch to come back later. I won’t have to listen to her breathing anytime soon.
The doctor opens a car, presumably his, and helps me into the back. He gets into the front, turning his key in a place next to the wheel. Strange that, turning a key. Why turn it? Why not push, or pull, or hit it lots of times? That would be more satisfying.
---
The hospital is abuzz, people in blue clothes walking quickly down corridors. A new man approaches me. He’s wearing a tweed jacket and a blue tie. He looks even more stupid than the doctor. I have to try and stifle a laugh.
The jacket man introduces himself, but I just ignore him. He said something about being a psychologist, a consultant. Psy-cho-log-ist. What a weird word. Long, complicated, and stupidly spelt. Thinking about it, I don’t know how to spell it. The jacket man leads me into an office, where there is just two armchairs and a desk with some paper on it. No clock. No ticking.
I explain my problems to jacket man. I don’t know why, it’s not like he’s a doctor or anything. But he just nods and writes stuff down. When I finish, he looks solemnly at me. Starts talking about complicated stuff. I don’t know what he means; I’m not a doctor. But he’s not either. Or is he? I forget.
He finally stops, and asks me if I understand. I snap out of my daydream, and ask him to repeat what he just said. The jacket man repeated one word of his previous spiel.
“Schizophrenia,” he said slowly. Funny word, that. Sounds like ‘shit’. I laugh.
The jacket man smiles sympathetically, and takes a cardboard packet from his desk. He takes something out of it, a sheet of foil with writing on it. I can’t be bothered to read it. He presses down hard on one side, and a small white tablet pops out of it. It makes me jump.
“You take one of these,” he says, pointing to the capsule, “Twice a day. Do you understand?”
I nod, making note of what he said. He gives me a prescription from a pad on his desk. It’s green and has his writing on it. Isn’t it funny how people with jackets and know stuff about medicine write so untidily?
“Give that to your pharmacist. You know, the person in the medicine shop?” he asks.
I nod again, understanding what he means.
“It will make you feel better.”
I smile at these words. I really do want to feel better; I don’t like laughing at what everybody says and hitting things. Even if it is really satisfying.
---
The months are passing, and I carry on taking these tablets. According to the people who come around, I’m doing really well. Apart from that time that I apparently tried to drown myself. But I don’t remember that. Funny, isn’t it?
What I remember sends a shiver down my spine. I can’t believe I used to be like that; it’s why I keep taking the medicine. But I don’t like the tablets. They turn me into nothing. No sadness. No happiness. No laughter. Just nothing. Yet I still pick up the tablet, and I still put it into my mouth. And I still take a gulp of water from the glass I am holding in my hand. Isn’t it strange how clear water is?
--
I really felt like writing something like this, still and calm. I hope you like the ending, especially. Not too sure about the tensing, but you can be the judge of that. c&c appreciated a lot.
I stare at the table, my face faintly reflected in the tinted black glass. It’s completely clean, no letters, no magazines, no newspapers. Well, except for the tablet. That tiny white capsule, staring up at me like Satan staring out of hell itself. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of it, it’s meant to help me, for goodness’ sake. But every time I see it, or see it in its foil packet, I remember.
It is snowing outside. A white blanket seems to coat everything, making it difficult to see what is what. It doesn’t help that all of the buildings in the area are white, making it hard to know when a house becomes another house, and another house, and another house. There are children outside, playing in the thick snow. Their faces are the picture of enjoyment, laughing as they throw snowballs at one another.
My emotions are on a rollercoaster ride. One minute I’m laying on my sofa, watching celebrities make fools of themselves, the next, I’m taking books from my shelf, and screaming and crying as I rip them apart. Page, after page, after page, after page. Torn. Then I feel normal again. I go up to my bedroom, wanting to go to bed. And then I realise that it’s only the afternoon, early in the afternoon. I curl up in a ball on the floor, crying confused tears into the white carpet.
I don’t know how long it is until I get up. It must have been a while; the children were gone. I look back out of the window, at the remnant of a snowman they must have been trying to build. It is still snowing. For some reason, I find this annoying. So I start screaming. Screaming and shouting and crying and yelling, yelling at the snow to go away, to leave me alone. Then I just collapse onto the floor again, weeping. Why?
---
It is still snowing. I pick up my car keys on the table by the front door, and notice how stupid they look, all alone like that. I step outside into the freezing cold air, each fleck of white biting into my bare skin like daggers. I’m not wearing a hat, a scarf, a coat. Just my t-shirt and the jeans I’m wearing. I probably should go back, but I don’t feel like it. I’m just about to put the key into the car door, when I have a fleeting image of a car crash, with my limp body being pulled out of it. Maybe not such a good idea to drive, in my state.
I drop the keys on the floor, not wanting to waste any time, and without a second thought, start walking quickly down the road. I need to see a doctor. But I need to get there quickly before something happens.
---
I am seated in the doctor’s surgery, having been told to wait. Apparently I hadn’t made an appointment. I thought I had, but who was I to argue? Stupid bint though. The people in here annoy me. There’s an old woman right next to me. Breathing. Really loudly. I would hit her and tell her to stop, but I can cope. I just need to see a doctor. Stupid bitch, though.
---
The doctor is ushering me into his room. Is it just me or is it really hot in this place?
I sit down in the blue chair in front of his desk. There’s a clock on there, with those stupid black Roman numerals. If you want numbers, use proper ones, idiot. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I hit the clock angrily, and sure enough, it stops that incessant noise. Well, when it hits the floor at least. Bloody clocks.
The doctor looks slightly alarmed, but continues to ask what the matter is. I explain, my voice shaking a little bit. At this point, I don’t know whether I’m angry or sad, or happy or what. All I know is that there’s this guy in front of me, with his stupid glasses on his face.
“Bloody swots,” I blurt out, saying it in the middle of my explanation. I quickly apologise and continue to tell the doctor what my problem is. He looks concerned. I know because of the frown that’s embedded on his face. “Aren’t I the clever one?” I say sarcastically, again unconsciously. This time I don’t apologise. The frown on the doctor’s face just deepens. He says something about hospitals, and something about a diagnosis.
I watch as he makes a phone call, not really registering what he’s saying. When he finished, he started talking at me. I just nodded, and he got up, guiding me out of the front of the doctor’s surgery. The receptionist says something to him, and the doctor nods. Then the bint of the receptionist talks to the people in the waiting room. I laugh loudly as she tells the stupid old bitch to come back later. I won’t have to listen to her breathing anytime soon.
The doctor opens a car, presumably his, and helps me into the back. He gets into the front, turning his key in a place next to the wheel. Strange that, turning a key. Why turn it? Why not push, or pull, or hit it lots of times? That would be more satisfying.
---
The hospital is abuzz, people in blue clothes walking quickly down corridors. A new man approaches me. He’s wearing a tweed jacket and a blue tie. He looks even more stupid than the doctor. I have to try and stifle a laugh.
The jacket man introduces himself, but I just ignore him. He said something about being a psychologist, a consultant. Psy-cho-log-ist. What a weird word. Long, complicated, and stupidly spelt. Thinking about it, I don’t know how to spell it. The jacket man leads me into an office, where there is just two armchairs and a desk with some paper on it. No clock. No ticking.
I explain my problems to jacket man. I don’t know why, it’s not like he’s a doctor or anything. But he just nods and writes stuff down. When I finish, he looks solemnly at me. Starts talking about complicated stuff. I don’t know what he means; I’m not a doctor. But he’s not either. Or is he? I forget.
He finally stops, and asks me if I understand. I snap out of my daydream, and ask him to repeat what he just said. The jacket man repeated one word of his previous spiel.
“Schizophrenia,” he said slowly. Funny word, that. Sounds like ‘shit’. I laugh.
The jacket man smiles sympathetically, and takes a cardboard packet from his desk. He takes something out of it, a sheet of foil with writing on it. I can’t be bothered to read it. He presses down hard on one side, and a small white tablet pops out of it. It makes me jump.
“You take one of these,” he says, pointing to the capsule, “Twice a day. Do you understand?”
I nod, making note of what he said. He gives me a prescription from a pad on his desk. It’s green and has his writing on it. Isn’t it funny how people with jackets and know stuff about medicine write so untidily?
“Give that to your pharmacist. You know, the person in the medicine shop?” he asks.
I nod again, understanding what he means.
“It will make you feel better.”
I smile at these words. I really do want to feel better; I don’t like laughing at what everybody says and hitting things. Even if it is really satisfying.
---
The months are passing, and I carry on taking these tablets. According to the people who come around, I’m doing really well. Apart from that time that I apparently tried to drown myself. But I don’t remember that. Funny, isn’t it?
What I remember sends a shiver down my spine. I can’t believe I used to be like that; it’s why I keep taking the medicine. But I don’t like the tablets. They turn me into nothing. No sadness. No happiness. No laughter. Just nothing. Yet I still pick up the tablet, and I still put it into my mouth. And I still take a gulp of water from the glass I am holding in my hand. Isn’t it strange how clear water is?
--
I really felt like writing something like this, still and calm. I hope you like the ending, especially. Not too sure about the tensing, but you can be the judge of that. c&c appreciated a lot.
