my.swim
I wake up, groggy, covered in cotton. I don’t know where I am or how I got here; everything’s white and blue and bright. The fluorescent lights act like the sun, blinding me and prodding me to rise. Everything is unfamiliar. On the ground a paper bag sits upright; I stare at it for a long time without reason.
I yawn, which causes me to close my eyes and interrupt the stare. I stretch. The room smells like chlorine. I think of the soothing blue patterns of a chlorinated pool and I get homesick. Not for any particular pool or home; I just want to swim.
I walk into the hallway, more white and blue. Anyone who passes me is wearing what I wear. I walk past a girl with stringy blonde hair, her hand in her mouth, and her stare burns into me. “You think you’re so great!” she screams and I keep walking. For some reason, I am not fazed. As I walk, I peer into empty rooms; they all look like mine. White and blue and bright.
Someone grabs me from behind. His hands are rough and strong; I grab them and they are so warm to my coldness. “Let’s hang out in your room,” he whispers and starts leading me back from where I came. We walk but he walks faster and I trip, which makes me realize the soft slippers on my feet. He laughs lightly, “C’mon silly.”
We get to my room and he closes the door, pushes me on the bed and grabs at me, rubbing his rough, strong hands over my body, my butt, my stomach, my chest. His kisses are sloppy and distracted. I don’t know what to do so I do nothing and eventually he notices.
“What’s wrong baby?” he backs off a little, peers at me with concern. “Didn’t you miss me?” The room is dusty and my throat is dry so I cough. It becomes a fit, and I cough over and over, for what feels like days. The whole time he watches me, waiting for an answer. “I don’t know who you are.” I choke out, and I am shocked. My voice is unrecognizable, a grouping of pitches and inflections that I have never heard. He gets angry, rolls his eyes. “What the fuck? You’re not one of the amnesiacs are you?” I don’t know what he means, but I nod my head no. “How could you forget me?!” he exclaims. “Do you know who I am?” I ask and he’s quizzical, annoyed. “What?”
My voice is gruff and tired. “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” He looks at me, scared, and shrugs. “Some chick who was as horny as me.” I nod. Of all the things I don’t remember, I think of the ballpoint pen I have attached under my bed. I grab it; he asks me, “What are you doing?”
I hold the pen in the palm of my hand, covering it with my fingers. “I’m loving you,” I say, and straddle him. Before he can react, before he can give me one more disgusting kiss, I stab the pen right into his neck and blood spurts out into my face. My swim!
He’s gagging and I keep digging that pen in there because I want him to die, I want all of his blood to cover me. He shakes and vibrates violently and I ride him all the way to silence. I love the blood; I wish I had a pool of blood to swim in all day lo-
“HOLY FUCKIN SHIT WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?! JELLY YOU FUCKIN PSYCHO. LOOK AT THE BLOOD!!!” This round, dark woman with her braided hair and black freckles, she turns to the hallway and yells “JEFFREY I NEED YOU AND TWO OF YOUR GUYS TO CLEAN UP IN ROOM 21 NOW.” She stomps over to me, grabs my elbow and yanks. I fly/slide over to her, and she shakes her head.
“What’d he do to you?” she asks me and I shrug. “I wanted to see his blood. I wanted to swim in his blood.” She shakes her head again, a regular bobble head. “If you weren’t so crazy missy, they’d throw you in jail you know. Sit you right on death row instead of hitting you with more shock therapy.” I start wriggling, rocking, doing anything I can to get out of her grasp. My memory is selective but I remember shock therapy.
“No no no no nonononononoonononoo,” I moan, constantly moving, but she is strong and doesn’t let go. “Now Jelly,” she lectures, “the memory loss, the paranoia, the violent outbursts – all of these are supposed to be helped by this type of therapy.” She hands me off to two large men, them shaking their heads too. They lead me down the hall, with everyone laughing behind me, and I’m crying. “No shock therapy,” I whisper, “I just wanted to swim. I just wanted to swim.” No one hears me, and we walk into the white, the blue and the bright.