America the Poor: A Wanderers Tale, Vol Two

CHAPTER 45: A Final Arrival

Upon arrival back to the ward, intense depression hit me hard. I would leave this place certainly, my new Doctor made this quite clear, but I would not be going to the orphan's heaven I had recently seen, that joy would elude me forever. Where I was bound to go? No place could possibly compare to what I saw on my day tour. When one has seen the happiest place with the most possibilities in life, anything else would be darker, and always the lesser thing. This is true not just of places, but situations and events. I was heading somewhere, but not where I wished to really go.

There is a recurring theme here, and I was finally starting to notice it, which is not something most humans seem to do, unless so obvious it cannot be ignored. Sadly, even then they purposely do, perhaps to preserve their own small corner of sanity, believing in a lie that was never true, only an illusion.

It's far easier to believe in a comfortable illusion than to deal with a harsh truth around you, and I've done this myself a few times, but the illusion never lasts when you go looking for what really is happening around us all. To learn to let go of the very comfortable lies, only then does our true journey begin.

In life, I'd never get what I truly wanted in my soul, I'd always have to settle for less, in any situation. This was the lesson I was presently learning in this place, and it was a damned tough one to accept; So into the dark void of depression I went, a deeper pit in my lesser one. I arrived back at the facility late, and they saved me a tray, they were obligated to. I ate a late cold dinner in silence, and alone except for a female staff member who was also obligated to stand watch regardless of the number of patients in the cafeteria.

Finishing my meal, I left and went to the TV room, to lose myself in mindless shallow bullshit until the final snack was given, and I was free to return to my small room, and peace in unconsciousness finally. I very much wanted this day done. Television is generally such a mindless activity isn't it? It turns the brain off for a time, and perhaps that's the whole point? To lose ourselves, and not have to think and reflect upon ourselves, an ultimate form of escapism.

Perhaps reading novels does something quite similar, except we really do have to exercise our brains instead. To read the words, generate the images on the inner screen of our minds, and the same end is achieved. It's not about us at all, it's about others, and that's the nature of fictional escapism, in all its various forms. It's a kinder fiction than the hard facts of our day to day existence, so its appeal is undeniable. The allure is complete. We wish fiction, to escape who and what we are, for a time at least.

I slept deep that night after my small allotted apple and milk. Never was I more grateful to forget the world than that night after my trip, and the futility of what I knew, being denied a good possible happy future, based upon an incident of a single banana and an annoying kid bent upon hate and pettiness.

These were things best not dwelled upon at all, for my own bit of remaining sanity, if there is such a thing. I still don't know to this day if sanity truly exists, or if I've ever even qualified as being a truly sane creature, since I was a very young boy, and traumatized since a tender 6 years old, and can recall nothing before that.

I woke up the next morning, and yes, woken by the pushy staff and bright lights in my face, how obnoxious, and impossible to ignore. I got out of bed, wishing more than anything to sleep a double shift, another 8 hours. Trust me, if allowed, this I could have easily done, with a satisfied smile. Later in life I would prove this, my ability to leave this world for extended periods, but not now.

Here and now, in 1984, I was given a short period to rest, then I had to be up and about, if not with a smile, at least up and shuffling, unhappy as I was. They didn't care if we actually were zombies, perhaps they actually preferred this, or maybe it was just part of the grand design, and made control of us a far simpler thing. If so, I was a reluctant human zombie, and would prefer to be literally anywhere else other than cursed to be in that place, a single day was even far too long to be there.

After breakfast, a new boy was escorted into the ward. He was tall, lanky, with longish light brown hair and bangs in front, with a long and almost sad face, his name was Jeremy. I watched him in the office through the plexiglass, as I sat there with a book in my hand.

In my depression I found it much more difficult to really lose myself in the various fictional stories, I was distracted by my own self pity. So between pages, I looked around often, and noticed far more than I normally did, though I had always noticed far more than the ordinary .

There were no faux classes that day, so we could pass the time in the best ways we could, according to the privileges of whatever level we were on obviously. Jeremy was the very last new patient that I ever met there. He was escorted around the ward, as I once was long ago, and did not seem to say a word to staff as he passed through the dayroom. Watching him brought back memories of my own. That place always claimed they were there to help, but they didn't help me, they only deprived me.

Maybe that was the entire point? They weren't there to truly help us, but perhaps they were there to help the world by our utter removal from being in it? The word "help" is very different depending upon one's perspective obviously.

He seemed kinda jaded already, as he passed me in the dayroom, that was a mere simple impression I had though. I'd never learn much of his story sadly, but I did learn his disgust and strange humor, quite soon. We actually met right after his tour, since I was the only boy in the dayroom not obsessed with cards, nor actual drooling, or rocking in place. The drugs affected me, certainly, but I never surrendered myself to them completely, or their horrible side effects.

I was always stronger than anything they could do to me, because I refused to submit, though giving in would have been easy, simple, and comfortable finally. I fought them every step of the way, and refused to give myself up, even unto my final few days cursed to exist in that horrible place.

This was a matter of will for me, and self identity, not ego. Of course, a lobotomy would have ended all this free will nonsense permanently, but they were not authorized to do any of that to me, yet. I had killed no one, hurt none, and realististically threatened no one either. An assumed threat is, in reality, no threat at all. Though the human world and society ultimately wished this were true.

They could legally eliminate all of us outcasts, pariahs and misfits, almost overnight, assuming we are a threat to normal society, and have us all lobotomized. Almost as a casual thing, for the good of society, hence the "greater good". Would be such an easy thing, and millions of us would be gone within a month, across all of America. We wouldn't last long at all, and no one would champion for our rights, as they would also be targeted appropriately in immediate response.Only the wrong ones would hear our small voices, and none would object if any of this started happening even tomorrow.

He sat across from me in the dayroom, and he mainly asked questions about the place, little more, and I noticed almost everything he said had an underlying sarcastic tone to me, which implied possible intelligence, to take nothing too seriously or at face value. Was a good sign from what I could see. He mentioned almost nothing about why he was there, and I figured I'd find out eventually, but I never did. I was gone from that place before I ever learned his story, but I'm sure it was sad, as most of our stories had to be, existing as we were in this Hell for young crazy boys.