"Unlucky in love…unlucky."
You know, nobody ever thinks that one day they’ll grow up to be locked up in a nut house. They sure as hell don’t have a ‘So you want to be a psychopath’ booth in high school career week. Although being high in school did teach me the valuable skill of hiding my insanity. I guess that’s where this whole thing really started. Goddamn high school. Man, I can’t believe it’s already been 2 years since I graduated. No…wait… maybe I can’t believe it’s only been 2 years. That’s where I met Chloe though, 12th grade English.
If there was one person to blame for me being here in this candy coated prison it’d definitely have to be Chloe. Man was she ever a beautiful raven! Black hair, snow white complexion and a body that could bring you to your knees. And of course there were those beautiful crystal clear blue eyes of hers that were always glazed over. Everyone said that it was because she was always on something, which was definitely the case, but I think it was more than that. I think that she just couldn’t find anything worthwhile to look at.
I remember sitting beside her in class one day; I was hoping that she’d drop her pencil or something and I would get to look down her shirt. Instead, I noticed that she was writing something on her desk. The weird thing was that she didn’t even look down while doing it… just stared off into space in a way that always made you think that she was seeing a lot more than the rest of us. When I managed to peel my eyes off her, I realized that she didn’t need to look at what she was doing because she was writing the same thing over and over again. Her desk was almost entirely covered by the markings of her pencil. It read ‘unlucky in love… unlucky’; perhaps a thousand times, over and over again ‘unlucky in love…unlucky’. I should have known right then not to get mixed up with her; but instead, I was instantly mesmerized. I watched her that day, as I would countless times that year, scribble the same message repeatedly and without pause or hesitation for 45 minutes, take a water bottle out of her bag, take one drink, pour a little water over her writing, and clean it off with a cloth rag that she kept in her binder.
That day, as I sat beside her in complete awe, I could not even begin to imagine just how unlucky she had been.
III Narcotics & Matt Damon
One thing that being locked up in this room has made me realize is that I’m not a big fan of people. You’d think that you’d get bored or lonely being isolated in an empty room, removed from all human interaction other than some brain doctors and an orderly that has to make sure you take your medicine (now there’s a tough job, making sure a junkie takes free drugs), but the truth is that other people’s voices just confuse me. There’s enough going on in here without having to listen to people’s problems with their dog who likes to pee on the couch or the latest developments in the daily bus trip with a guy that looks like Matt Damon. When are we going to stop being so damn fascinated by people who act more real when they’re paid to?
Today the doctor asked me if there was anyone that I’d like to make a date to play chess with tomorrow. I said God.
I think they’re bringing Earl.
~ ~ ~
(Note: Although this novel is a work of fiction, many of the story-lines I intend to use will be influenced, at least in part, by some of the many tales I heard from 2 British mental-hospital security workers as we drank our way up and down the Australian east-coast.)