Vanessa? Dr. Boston’s
voice swims down through
the blue, disturbs me enough
to set my feet in motion.
The eyes follow me as I sit
beside the guy with the most
startling eyes of all—
round, dark eyes, with
gold flecks. Eyes that look
like they’ve glimpsed
behind the gates of hell.
So Why Are His Eyes
The only ones mine want to meet?
I can feel the girls, taking
measure, and part of me
wants to turn and offer my own
assessment. The bigger
part is consumed by blue.
Hey, Vanessa, I’m Tony,
says the guy with hellfire
eyes. I would have expected
a deeper voice from someone
who has shaken hands
with the devil.
And why do I think that?
He seems friendly enough. In fact,
he’s the only one in the room
who bothers with introductions.
The others sit, staring,
in impassioned silence.
Tony glances around the room.
What’s up, people?
Usually you won’t shut up.
Now you’ve got nothing to say
just because a pretty girl
walks through the door?
Well, that woke them up!
Everyone looks simply
stunned, including Dr. Boston.
Is it because I’m anything
but pretty? Or a less likely reason?
The guy with dishrag
hair finally opens
his mouth. I thought you
only thought dudes were
pretty, Ceccarelli.
The room explodes
with laughter. I guess
the session has officially begun.
Forty-five Minutes Later
I know a lot more about most
of the people in C-3.
Tony is pretty cool, for a gay
guy who tried to commit suicide.
He didn’t really talk about why,
only said that it’s not easy
being queer and living on the street.
“Queer.” His word. To me
it means strange, but he doesn’t
seem near as strange as Justin,
who expects Armageddon any second,
or Todd, who lost a few too
many brain cells to crystal meth,
or Stanley, who’s a total lunatic.
I mean, he spoke at length
about torturing insects—
I tattered their wings and tore
off their legs, joint by joint,
watched them crawl
in circles, like little lost
infants, until they decided to die.
Somehow, I doubt bugs
were his only victims.
Dahlia hasn’t said one word,
just sits there with her nose
in the air. Every once in awhile,
she licks her lips, like a lioness
lording it over prey.
Finally, Lori begins to talk
about the pain that forces
her down into a figurative
grave—deep, damp, just her size.
It’s hard to climb out sometimes.
I try to look inside her
head, see if the color in
there is navy blue, like
the space I’m treading
now.
Conner
Brain Poked and Prodded
But still holding secrets,
I glance over at Dr. Starr,
who’s locked in a computer
screen trance, typing words—
my thoughts, her analysis—
at a steady thirty-per-
minute pace. I tingle,
heady with a synthesis
of emotions. I feel
satisfied, that I didn’t break
down, didn’t confess major
sin, open my mouth too wide.
I feel lonely, displaced, yet
secure within the silence
curtaining each cubicle.
This is a detour, that’s all.
I feel relieved to have to
admit a little of what’s
inside my head. Sometimes
I think it might split wide,
cracked by the upheaval
bubbling beneath my skull.
But most people think there’s
nothing troubling me at all.
At least they didn’t used to.
Who knows what they think
of me now, which way the wind
of small-town gossip blows.
Finally Dr. Starr looks up.
We’ve got a lot of work to do.
Conner. A lot of work, indeed.
But not today. You may go.
Dismissed by the Bulldog
Stephanie guides my way
along the blue line. She
could pass for a Stephan, tall,
broad, and strong, but her eyes
tell a different story.
I discern a softness there,
compassion I want to wade
into. We turn a corner
and the blue line merges
with a thread of yellow,
another of white. I wonder
where all the crazies have fled,
and just then I hear voices,
leaking out of the rec room.
Two are shouting, one merely
speaking, trying to keep
a handle on the unfolding
situation—from what I
can tell, the probable
annihilation of one
of the dueling duo. Stephanie
shifts into takedown mode.
Wait right here, she commands.
It’s a mistake to leave me
alone, and we both know it.
I choose not to play the wild
card she’s dealt me. One day
I’ll use it to my advantage.
A woman like that will work
like clay—soften her up, touch
her just right, the sculptor
is guaranteed to have his way.
Back in My Room
Walled in by this impossibly
ugly shade of green, I wait for
my evening meal, no doubt
delayed by the incident
in the rec room. Will I
ever get used to living
with paranoid mutants who
endeavor to win games
of pool by swallowing
the chalk? Between that, no
food, and Dr. S wanting me
to talk, all in all, it’s been a
miserable day, almost
as rotten as those leading
up to that one, the one
best left forgotten unless
I want to drop down again
into a pit of despair. God
knows I’ve spent much too
much time floundering there.
I suppose I could have
shared that information
with dear Dr. Bulldog.
But no, I spared us both
a sordid tale of Conner
the incompetent. Hard
to believe that perfect me
underwent such complete
demolition in the space
of four short months. First-
string to benchwarmer, grades
through the floor, and all because
of her.
Tony
I Keep Watching
Pretty Vanessa as the group
tries to freak her out, whether
that’s spilling spine-chilling
tales or clamming up altogether.
Nothing real
ly fazes her,
except maybe Stanley’s bullshit.
The longer we sit here,
the further she withdraws,
like a turtle holing up
in its shell, expecting
a major rollover. I want
to reach under and yank her
back out again. “How
about you, Vanessa?” I ask.
“What brings you to our
home away from home?
Are you really fucked-up or
just totally misunderstood?”
Everyone laughs. It’s an
inside joke, one we’re all
privy to, except Vanessa,
whose brown velvet
eyes stay hitched to the
tabletop. Not good enough.
“’Cause personally, I’m both
fucked-up and misunderstood.
Can’t somebody get me,
please?” This time, even
the Black Widow laughs.
Finally Vanessa lifts her eyes
and she gifts us with a smile.
Then she shows us the arm
she’s been hiding, the one
wrapped in white like a
ball-game hot dog. She smiles.
I guess this is why I’m here.
One Cut or More?
That’s the first thought
to grab hold of my brain
and give it a rattle. Was
this charming little thing
into self-mutilation, or
shopping for a coffin?
Before I can open my
mouth to ask, Stanley
slobbers, Hey, cool.
Tell us about the blood.
Did it make a big puddle?
Did it spurt or just dribble?
Dr. Boston clears her throat.
I think we’re finished for today.
Odd. You’d think she’d want
to jump all over that bit
of psychology. Then I notice
her face has drained, white.
Hmmm. Something about
blood? Have to file that
away for another day.
Good ol’ Stanley has caused
quite the commotion.
And now, as he walks out
the door, he adds, I still want
to hear about the blood.
Which makes Todd grin
and Justin start praying.
Lori and Dahlia lean their
heads together and whisper.
Vanessa falls to the back
of the pack, and though
I know I should have no
contact, I touch her arm.
“I’m sorry,” I say. And she
turns. It’s okay. Not your fault.
The Grim Reapers
Appear in the hall. Dr.
Boston must have buzzed
them, afraid of—of what?
We’re all behaving
quite peaceably, though
a part of me would like
to rip Stanley to pieces.
Join the club, he’d tell me.
Paul and Stephanie divide
us according to gender
and herd us up the hall.
At the far end, the girls
turn left and we go right,
with me bringing up
the rear of the pack.
Move it, Ceccarelli, urges
Paul. You walk like an
old woman…. His unfinished
thought hangs in the air:
or maybe a young woman.
I wonder if I’m his
kind of woman…. Never
know about these big
mooks. “Gym-dandies,”
I call ’em. Before he got
sick, Phillip was a big
guy, at least that’s what
he told me. And I believed
him. Phillip was the one
person who never lied to me.
I glance back over my
shoulder at Vanessa’s
retreating behind. Damn,
she’s something special.
But why do I think so?
Why would I care in
the least?
Vanessa
Brain Swimming
In swirls of blue, I follow
the other girls up the corridor.
I feel eyes on my back
and turn to find Tony,
staring at me. He waves
and I half-wave back, unsure
of his motivation.
Can’t be lust. Friendship?
Daddy would die
if he thought
I’d made friends
with a gay guy.
Once he told me,
God had a plan,
and it didn’t include
wangs in bung holes.
Gross, I know, but it’s
how they talk in the military,
just another way of cutting
themselves off from the truth
of what they do.
Not that I’m complaining.
It’s tough, being
a hostile presence
in a more hostile land,
he said one time.
You do what ya gotta
do to stay alive. And
you trust your instinct.
Aspen Springs is a hostile
land, the people here crazier
than most soldiers
I know. And at the moment,
my instincts are shouting
to do what I gotta do
just to get by.
Drowning in Blue
Pulled deeper and deeper
into the void,
I dig down
into my pocket,
find the capsule I stashed,
first beneath a flap of tongue,
then in a cave of fleece.
I hold it like a jewel,
the key to some magic
kingdom where only good
feelings are allowed.
Funny, but sometimes all I feel
is good. More than good.
Great. Invincible.
When Mama felt like that,
Daddy called her manic.
But why is mania bad,
if it means you’re on top
of the world, where
everything is white? Bright.
I wish I were up there now,
instead of treading water
in this damn blue hole.
This magic pill won’t fly
me there. It will only take
me halfway, to what others
call normal and I call gray—
toeing a straight gray line
is all medication is good for.
Bad genes have doomed me
to seesaw, white to blue
and back again,
for the rest of my pitiful life.
And the thought of that
makes me want
to open a vein,
experience pain,
know I’m alive, despite
this living death.
I Swallow the Capsule
Wait for the flood of silver
to gush through my bloodstream,
settle in my brain.
Outside, darkness comes
to rest upon the snow, shadows
the ordinary world.
Why can’t I live, ordinary?
Which brings me back to my mother,
who gifted me with this odd
disorder—up, down, right, left,
never a straight line, until
I got here, to this house of control,
where they believe they can
tell you how to think,
how to manage the feelings
that never quite go away.
The funny thing is, they still
haven’t diagnosed
my manic-depressive playground.
Oh yes, I know all about
the disorder. It’s everywhere
on the Internet—clinical
studies, message boards,
bipolar chat rooms.
Yet these so-called health-
care professionals can’t
see past the cutting,
to the highs and lows
that invite such release.
I guess I’m supposed
to tell them—isn’t that
what therapy’s all about?
But it’s a lot more fun
watching them flounder
about, halfway trying
to earn their annual
60K.
Conner
I Haven’t Let Myself
Think about her since this
whole stinking mess began.
Emily. The name suggests
she has a soul, but where
she hides it is a complete
mystery. I can’t believe
I fell so hard for someone
with a heart of lead. Emily.
Her smile is like summer
moonlight—beautiful
and magical, with a fire
that could melt the night.
I flop on the bed, close my
eyes, try to conjure her
beside me—the scent of her
skin, the silk of her thighs,
the breathless melody
of her voice. I would be
with her now, if she had
allowed me that choice.
But no, she had to worry,
not about right or wrong,
but about how people
might talk. What would they say,
she asked, more than once, if
they knew? I wasn’t sure
exactly who “they” were,
but it was certainly true
that nasty tongues would gossip.
Impulse Page 4
