//------------------------------// // Drugs Don't Defy Dreams // Story: Utter // by Regina Wright //------------------------------// Two tiny bare feet padded down an empty hallway. The jagged windows on both sides revealing a flickering sky. The sun outside spun around the horizon, growing first yellow, then red and then white. The child kept to the thin shade of the hall, afraid of the light. Toys littered along the floor. Some his. The toy trucks, the action figures and his favorite coloring book. Some not. The wooden ponies, the bag of crystals and those books with the really big words. His head hurt. It always did. The candies the doctors gave him weren't working. The little boy paused, his knuckles red and nails caked with dirt. “Mommy?” He said, his voice hoarse and tired. “Mommy, I'm sorry. I promise to be a good boy now so come out. Please! Mommy!” Tears spilled from his sunken eyes. His dirty face grew dark and his hands became fists. The boy dropped to his knees and raised his hands. Then with a great strength, slammed his trembling fists down. The ground beneath him buckled, spiderweb cracks spilling out across the glinting tiles. He hit and he hit and cried until the walls themselves began to splinter, dust filling the ugly place. The wrong place. He wanted it all to crumble. He wanted it all to fall. His mother couldn't hide from him anymore. “Mommy!” He said again, sobbing. Snot dripping down his face. “I want her back! You took her from me! Mommy!” A tile of the ceiling fell, smashing into shards. Then another. Then another. The debris cut into his skin, his blood a swirling black. The hallway quaked, the end was near. It would all fall. It would all fall on him. The child went silent, slumping onto the ground. His ears filled with the sounds of a heartbeat slowing and slowing. He didn't know why he knew. He only knew that it made him sad. This is how it ends. Every night. He closed his eyes and woke up warm. Soft fur. Gentle feathers. The boy curled around the source of warmth, rubbing his head into the fluffiness as he tried to fight the urge to go back to sleep. Someone chuckled. It sounded almost like his mom. The child opened his eyes and only saw white and faint glimpses of the blue ceiling. This almost looked like his room. Was this his... “You sounded like you had a nightmare. I know you're having trouble adjusting but I want you know that it's okay.” A loving voice. A familiar voice. “Do you want to tell me over breakfast? We're having your favorite.” “Who are you?” He stuttered. “This isn't right. My dream doesn't end like-” “You know who I am, sweetheart. I'm your-” “Mother?” His psychiatrist bleated back at him as if he was deaf. “Is that what the creature in your dream said? To you. Don't you think that says something significant about your mental heath?” The warm late July sun pelted down on the psychiatrist's office. The cheap-looking fans sitting on the edges of Dr. Ward's cheaper-looking desk provided no relief from the heat wave that swept the city. It served him right that the central air would be broken on his visit. Mark shifted in his leather chair, his black slacks clinging to the seat by sweat and his unloosened tie on the arm rest. His pale scarred hands tapped impatiently, wondering and waiting to see if he had enough time to swing by the pharmacy for a refill before his shift at work began. “That's not what I came to you for. I'm here to let you know,” Mark said, “I need more pills.” “Mr. Fareland.” Dr. Ward rebuked, an aging forty-three year old man with a nasty smoker's cough. Mark wasn't sure if the old pot-bellied man liked him or not. He always made things difficult. “Not all mental problems require medication. We've talked about it, haven't we? Adding more to the already impressive amount you're taking won't help you in the future. Drug dependency is a nasty way to go, I believe.” When Mark had been strongly suggested to seek his care, the strict doctor seemed like a man who knew the score. Mark didn't need to be asked about his feelings or any of the feel-good bullshit. He only needed his drugs and yearly signatures proving that he was of a stable mind. Or he could find a nice and cushy bed in a mental health institution. “I'm crazy. Crazy people like me need more than conversations and weekly meetings.” The man stated, sighing as he leaned forward. He pulled over his knapsack and took out his medical records and notes on the pills he's been taking over the last fourteen years. Besides, he knew his body better than anyone else. These new dreams weren't going to go away without some prescribed help. “The new prescription you gave me allows me to sleep through the day but it's ruining what Sardoeion does for me. I think we should try something new. That new pharmaceutical company, Maxwell Global, is doing this trial with an experimental drug that can pinpoint parts of the brain's wiring and-” “Crazy people don't know that they're crazy.” Dr. Ward said, rudely coughing over his pitch for better health. “Why do you think you're crazy?” “I don't think. I know.” “Why?” Mark dropped his bag. “Do we really need to go through this?” He tilted his head, sneering. “I was the 'Gone With The Fairies' kid. You got my records, you ass. I got kidnapped. I got brainwashed. And when they were done, they buried me alive. Left me to suffocate inside of a cave. I was a fucking eight-year old. I didn't know any better. I can't even remember shit properly. Even now, I see weird shit and have weird shit dreams. And when I do, I get drugs.” “You've gotten rather agitated all the sudden. Why are you mad? ” “I'm not mad.” The man breathed, his words sliding through his teeth like paper through a shredder. “I'm just repeating the same lines that every one of you quacks like to hear from me. I'm medic-ca-ted now so you won't get to see me snap and rage and take a shit on your desk. Though I am very interested in taking a shit on it right now. Give me my pills or I'm leaving.” “Her name was Celeste, wasn't it? The name of your princess friend. You stopped talking about her when you were ten. Why?” “Fuck this.” Mark stood up and slung his knapsack to his back. “I don't need to take this shit. You can take your bullshit and stuff it up your ass.” He walked over to the door and threw it open. Relishing in the crack of the door hitting the wall and the plaques hanging shaking. His hand grasped the door knob and he considered trashing the entire place. Fuck his job. Fuck his life. Fuck it all. “Her name was Princess Celestia? You didn't like it when someone said her name wrong. You attacked a male nurse over it when you were nine. Am I saying it right? Princess Celestia. Does it ring any bells in you?” The man froze, one foot ready to step over the threshold. “I- I-” His mouth moved. “What about her?” “Just answer this one question and I will write out whatever drug you wanted to try.” Dr. Ward said, standing up from his place behind the desk. “Who was she to you?” Mark blinked, his head aching. “I can't really remember.” “You're lying. Stop lying to yourself and face it. Medicine can only do so much. Who was she?” “I don't have time for this.” The man shook his head, fighting the phantom pain that made his legs weak. It's been years he heard that name. The doctors back then thought she was an imaginary friend. Some sort of coping method to handle the kidnapping and brainwashing. In any sense, she couldn't have been real and if she was, the truth would be much darker. Either she was a trusted older child, implicit in their crimes or one of the head kidnappers. God, he didn't want to know. He didn't care to know. “I'm working the graveyard shift. I'll see you, Thursday. Fuck off.”