I looked at the wall.
Large. White. Blank. It just wouldn't do.
I set down a jar of red paint. I dipped my paintbrush into it.
Then I began to very lightly stroke the wall, carefully making sure not to push the brush too hard, not to let the paint drip.
I let my mind guide my hand, my hand guiding my brush.
I watched as a masterpiece began to form.
I kept painting, very careful to keep the brush on track. I didn't want my masterpiece to be ruined. It would be like a baby to me, my own child to caress and take care of.
And who wants a ruined baby?
Now, the safe part of the painting was finished.
Safe? What do I mean safe? Was the drawing inappropriate or something?
"Inappropriate" is such a strong word. I mean, it's just a painting. Just different colors of paint arranged in a certain pattern on the wall. How can you think it's not safe?
Why does a painting of a blue and yellow rose make sense, but not one of two green lines arranged in a parallel direction to each other next to a red circle with a pink "R" in the background while an inside-out bicycle rides over a bridge of flesh and eyeballs in a starry town during the day with skyscrapers jutting up and a ballerina dancing on a tightrope with a yoga mat...
I get ahead of myself.
I had finished the painting. Finally.
It was beautiful. I loved it.
I put my cheek on the wall that it was painted on as I carefully caressed it, stroking it gently up and down.
"Don't worry, son. I'm here for you. They may say you're gone, but I know it's not true. I know. I'm here for you. I will always take care of you, son..."
Just then, two large men saw what I was doing. They were wearing white.
I knew what that meant.
They slowly approached me, hands raised, poised to attack.
I wasn't about to let them separate me from my child.
"Stay away!" I screamed. My son turned his head around, his face looking towards mine. He had a look of anguish. I held him tight as I shouted, "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME AGAIN! HE'S MY SON!!! MINE!!!"
It was no use. I tried to keep my son from slipping from my grasp. But I couldn't hold on.
"Don't worry, Michael!" I screamed, kicking and clawing at the men.
"I'll be back for you! I'LL BE BACK!!! I'LL--"
Suddenly, one of the men put something on my face. I felt woozy, and the world around me faded to darkness.
Dr. Jonson's note:
It appears that Mrs. Elizabeth Kelly is not yet stable enough to be released and sent back home. Unfortunately, she will have to remain here for a few more weeks. It's sad. I've never seen any woman so hurt...so lost, as Mrs. Kelly when she found out that her son, Michael, had committed suicide. It had apparently driven her to madness, as she refused to let go of the body.
She's already been here for five months. She's been to solitary three times now. Personally, I think she's grown weary of that straitjacket we keep forcing her to wear. She screams often, so we often have to sedate her. I feel awful for her, really I do.
One of the men took a photo of what she'd drawn on the wall this morning. I was rather concerned when I saw it.
The padding is currently being replaced, but I feel it is best if we don't tell this to Mrs. Kelly for now.
Written by Postuhenin