The Dark Room

I walked into work on Monday. I thought it would be like any other Monday: the nurses asking countless questions about dosages, Mr. Hall, the man who can not remember what he had done the night before, wandering around asking everyone who they were, and little Amelia, who could barely speak, even though she was well over thirteen years old, and Martin, a man who was prone to vicious and violent attacks on animals because the devil told him to do so.

Of course, to any other normal person, this would be a day surrounded by monsters, outcasts, the unwanted freaks of society. To me, it was a regular day at work, helping these people get through the day. I walked over to the desk and was greeted by Nurse Abigail. She smiled and handed me a piece of paper. We had received a new patient today. A woman, twenty-eight years old who had lost her child and husband from tuberculosis, was reported to be hearing voice and having hallucinations. I traveled up the stairs to the third floor. Screams were heard, along with cries and roaring laughter. I opened the door to the room. The woman was sitting on the bed staring at the wall. I stood next to her and stuck out my hand.

"Hello, Elizabeth. I'm Doctor Jeremiah Reister. How are you doing?" She turned to me, smiled and nodded, and then looked back at the wall.

"This wall paper has to be changed, doesn't it? It's so old and the yellow isn't the most flattering color." She nodded and then looked at me?

"Can you bring me my baby?" She asked. I took a deep breath and kneeled down next to her.

"I don't think that is a good idea right now, Elizabeth." I walked out of the room down to the medicine room and prepared medication and dosages for her. What a tragic thing, to lose a child and spouse. I could not imagine losing my wife and my sons. I wondered if I would become like this woman. 

Later in the day, after the patients had all eaten breakfast, I went back to see Elizabeth. She smiled when I walked in.

"Thank you for taking me down to the garden, John. It was quite lovely to leave this room. This wall paper could drive me mad," she said. I blinked and told her that my name was Doctor Reister, not John. She just nodded and began writing in her journal. I gave her medication and walked out. I guess it could be worse. One patient I had a few years ago thought I was Jesus Christ reincarnated and would hug and kiss my feet. 

Weeks passed and Elizabeth was getting worse. She was found biting one of the beds, and kept calling Abigail the name Jennie. One of the nurses told me that she had read the papers she was writing on, and was speaking about her husband, baby, and the wall paper. I talked to the nurses and we decided that maybe changing the wallpaper, or painting over it, would help her. The nurses praised me for this idea. We thought it could make a significant difference in this young woman's life. 

We all came in on a Saturday to paint. The nurses had the buckets, and I happily carried the paint brushes. It felt like Christmas morning and getting the paper painted was the ultimate gift. We were on the second floor when we suddenly heard shrieks. They were unimaginable cries, ones I have never heard or care to hear ever again in my life time. We all swiftly dashed up the stairs. We heard the cries coming from Elizabeth's room. We stormed in to find her, eyes in a rage, her hair a mess, bleeding knuckles, viciously ripping off the yellow wallpaper.