One Day at a Time

Trigger Warning: Mentions of death and implied torture

I don’t the dreams I have at night, but I do my daydreams. Usually because I control them. This daydream though, took control of me. I’d like to believe that it was my brain’s way of helping me cope with my anxiety by giving me something to fight against so I could help myself stay away from whatever puts me into that dark and lonely place when I’m in an anxiety spiral. Whatever it is, this was the most frightening and bizarre dream I’ve ever had.

#CACWeek33

Silence. The lack of footsteps or voices is what lets me know tonight will be different. No voices means no doctors poking at places they have no reason to poke. But that also means something far more frightening.

The Patient is visiting me alone. With no one to control him, he can do as he pleases. It’s not like I can fight him. For the last few weeks, restraints keep me in place.

I’m a “problematic resident”. I don’t take my pills, answer questions when asked, and I refuse to stay still when the doctors try to examine me. Ha! Examine me.

Torture me more like. They think I don’t hear them when I’m floating in and out of consciousness after the latest visit from The Patient. I am told each time that the tests are checking for reaction to stimulus. It isn’t normal for someone to be so mute and listless all the time.

No, what they’re really checking for is my tolerance for pain. Physical and emotional. I used to think my pain threshold was pretty low. But, it’s surprising how much pain someone can take when every day and night is a fight to stay alive.

But tonight is different for another reason. I have given up. There are residents here far longer than me, suffering just as much, if not more, than me. The doctors will never release any of us.

As the door to my room/cell opens, I make my decision. I won’t fight any longer. All I ask is that tonight, The Patient kills me. I can’t raise my head to watch my visitor enter.

I must wait until they are in the room. He is not The Patient. All of us residents wear the same ratty, filthy, white hospital gown. Neither is he a doctor.

My visitor wears a light blue button-down shirt over a pair of dark blue jeans. I smile as he reminds me a little of Clark Kent from the TV show Smallville. He even has the same dark hair. Not the eyes, though.

His eyes are dark whereas Clark’s are blue. Even though I can’t move my head, I follow his movements with my eyes. He walks around the bed and stops beside my head. Raising one hand, he touches my forehead.

A feeling of indescribable peace and comfort floods through me. I realise that my visitor isn’t a man. He is so much more than that. Could he be an angel?

The same hand that touches my forehead slowly moves down my body, hovering without touching any part of me. As his hand es over my restraints, they snap open, freeing me. Stepping back, he smiles at me, yet doesn’t say a word. I sit up, unsure of what to do next.

The angel, because now I am sure that is what he is, points to a chair against the far wall. On the chairs are clothes. I recognise them as my comfort outfit, my pink hoodie with the phrase California Dreamin’ on the front and my faded blue jeans. Respectfully, the angel turns his back while I change into my outfit.

“What’s your name?” I address him for the first time since he entered the room.

“You may call me whatever you like.” His voice is soft like a whisper.

I don’t want to call him something he may find distasteful, so I think of him as my guardian angel.

“Okay,” I whisper. He seems to know that I mean I am ready because he strides purposefully to the door and opens it. He indicates for me to leave.

Now, I am terrified. “I can’t leave!” My voice squeaks.

“Yes, you can. All you have to do is wait for my command and then you run as fast as you can until you get to that door.” He points to the main entrance door, at least 20 feet away from my room.

“I won’t make it. I’m not fast enough.”

“Don’t worry about anyone else. It is vital that you keep running, no matter what you hear. Do not turn back.”

“But-”

The angel raises his hand, cutting off my protest. “The doctors will come, but they won’t find you. They’ll find me. I’ll hold them back long enough for you to get away. Now, run!”

The word run seems to reverberate around the room, even though he doesn’t raise his voice. I nod and then take off. As the angel instructed, I can hear footsteps approaching the room where I used to be. Shouts of anger and astonishment follow me, but I keep running.

The door seems to be further and further away, but I keep running. Only when my legs threaten to give out is when I finally reach the door. I burst through into a field of daffodils. Turning around, the hospital is gone. In its place stands a ruined old shack, the roof caving in and windows boarded up.

As I walk through the daffodils, the sky grows darker. I don’t know where I am or how to get back to my hometown. So, I do the only thing I can do. Keep walking until I find a solution.