Greetings fellow Steemians! Here is my 18th "5" minute* freewrite. The prompt is: "crazy"
*Not 5 minute this time, 60 minute ;)
This piece is a continuation of my last freewrite, and the fourteenth installment in an ongoing story. Let's see how long I can keep this up, using the prompts provided!
Part I: @bennettitalia/freewrite-129-fingernail
Part II: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-ii-freewrite-130-wasps
Part III: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-iii-freewrite-131-solitude
Part IV: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-iv-freewrite-132-gardening
Part V: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-v-freewrite-132-the-attic
Part VI: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-vi-freewrite-132-plaid
Part VII: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-vii-weekend-freewrite-3-3-2018
Part VIII: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-viii-weekend-freewrite-3-3-2018-apricot
Part IX: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-ix-freewrite-137-witches
Part X: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-x-freewrite-138-syrup
Part XI: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-xi-freewrite-139-artichoke
Part XII: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-xii-freewrite-146-monkey
Part XIII: @bennettitalia/the-strangeling-part-xiii-freewrite-147-witch-with-apple
Freewriting is a daily practice for most poets and fiction writers, designed to loosen up and get things flowing, like stretching before exercise. Visual artists, especially those who draw or paint from life (figures, landscapes, still lives, etc) do something similar in "gesture drawings". After reading several of @poetrybyjeremy's freewrite posts, I got excited to try these again. Many thanks to @mariannewest for hosting this daily freewrite! @mariannewest/weekend-freewrite-03-17-2018-single-prompt-option
https://pixabay.com/en/medium-psychic-female-fantasy-woman-goth-1726601/
A hospital, This was a hospital.
I was floating along one of those long, bare, utilitarian corridors you see in hospitals. Being wheeled, actually, in a wheelchair. There was an IV needle in my arm. I looked over my shoulder at the orderly. He wasn't dressed like an orderly... He was wearing a dark gray, tailored suit. It looked expensive. He had an earpiece, like a bodyguard would wear, and around one of his wrists was a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny charm dangling from it. A flying monkey. Like in The Wizard of OZ.
I looked down at my own clothes. I wasn't wearing a hospital gown. I was wearing black yoga pants and a black t-shirt, and matching running shoes. As if I were on my way to a self-defense class or something. Except I was sitting in a wheelchair being wheeled down a corridor with an IV in my arm.
Oh God.
If this wasn't a hospital, then what? An insane asylum? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Who were these people? Panic surged through me. I reached for the IV, wanting to pull it out.
The orderly placed a gentle hand on top of mine. I looked up at him. He shook his head. "You don't want to do that".
Actually I really, really, seriously did want to do it. But I couldn't. As soon as I heard the words, I found myself unable to follow through with the action. Like paralysis. Only it applied to only the one thing.
I cleared my throat. "I feel fine" I said, in a voice that was shakier than I would have liked. "I'm fine, I can walk". I looked back at the man's face. He shook his head again. "No," he answered, "you can't".
And I couldn't.
It must have been something in the IV.
I looked at the bag. It was a little less than half filled with a transparent, slightly bluish liquid. Pale blue like ocean ice. Unidentifiable, to me at least. And unlabeled.
Except I knew what it was. It was Philtre™. It was used to selectively control the mods during processing. It had to be diluted and mixed with plasma in order to be effectively absorbed. One bag lasted almost a week, as it was not easy for the kidneys to filter it, although its effects were less reliable after the first few days. I knew this, but the me in the scene didn't know. Except the me in the scene was me. These were her memories, but somehow they were also mine.
A man passed us in the corridor, a man I didn't know. His face wore a casual, open expression, but there was a wall there, just behind his eyes. There was no scratching the surface. It was Caspian's face. My face. These were Mia's memories. Mia was being wheeled through the building where I worked.
These realizations registered, barely, somewhere in my head, in some basement room where records are kept filed away for future reference. The pull of these memories was too strong. Identity had become fluid, mercurial. I couldn't hold on to myself.
The wheelchair turned left, down a short side corridor, through an unmarked door and into a luxuriously appointed office. A bank of windows looked out over one of the rivers. There were skyscrapers between us and the water, but they were all comparatively short, leaving the view wide open: buildings. The river. And across the river: more buildings. Who knows how far they went. This city had always been my home, but sometimes it seemed more like a prison. And now, apparently, I actually was being held against my will.
A woman sitting behind the massive mahogany desk stood up, smiled. She was dressed in slacks, a dress shirt, blazer, and chunky heels, all deep charcoal gray, all expertly tailored, like the orderly's. She wasn't the same woman who had given me the pie, which surprised me, though it probably shouldn't have. She walked around the desk, got down on one knee as if preparing to propose to me, and took my hand in both of hers. "Welcome home!" she exclaimed. Her voice was warm and bright and reassuring, and genuinely, believably, enthusiastic, like a beloved kindergarten teacher's.
"Welcome to The Attic".
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