Impulse (3 page)

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.
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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.

63

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, 59

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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.
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65

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 61

66

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. 62

67

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. 63

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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. 64

69

Watching

Pretty Vanessa as the group tries to freak her out, whether

that's spilling spine-chilling tales or clamming up altogether.

Nothing really 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 flicked-up or just totally misunderstood?" 65

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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 flicked-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.
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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. 67

72

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.
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The Grim Reapers

Appear in the hail. 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 69

74

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? 70

75

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 hung 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. 71

76

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. 72

77

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. 73

78

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.

79

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. 75

80

Oh yes, I know all about the disorder. Its 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.

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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. 77

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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, i
f

they knew?
I wasn't sure exactly who "they" were, but it was certainly true

that nasty tongues would gossip. At stake were both our worlds. I didn't care, but it was a risk she wouldn't take. 78

83

Now That I've Opened

That bottle of memories, they're pouring out like wine, crimson and bittersweet. Ignoring the throbbing pain,

I think back to a crisp fall Saturday morning, my parents and sister hundreds of miles away in California.

Cara is my twin, though we're about as alike as snowflakes--a general resemblance, but peer under a microscope, and we're completely different. Cara's in-your-face, while I handle things much more discreetly.

You might call me sneaky, though I'd call me clever, and on that particular day, all by myself, clever 79

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me was in need of company.

Emily and I had not yet been together, but she was most definitely on my radar. She was far above the usual objects of my lust--sleek and bronzed, fearless of the star

raining radiation on this ozone-deprived planet. The only thing she ever feared was our short-lived love. 80

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I Knew None of That Then

I only knew she was the prettiest thing ever to run by our house. She was a falcon on the wing, and I wanted to fly along. She jogged past every morning, around eight. That day I stood like a fisherman waiting to cast his line and reel in something worth trawling for. I watched her sinewy body run by before calling out her name.

"Emily." She turned and gave a probing look, as if she'd never seen me before. And here I'd been disrobing her regularly in my overactive imagination. I guess she was lonely too. Unseemly fascination 81

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made her do an about-face.

Panting gently, she drew even.

Hello, Conner How can I

help you this enchanting day?

Several things came quickly to mind, things to save for later.
My
eyes poked hers. "I just wanted

you to know I find you quite

beautiful." 82

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Dinner's a Little Late Tonight

Guess there was some kind of problem in the rec room. Figures it would be a night when I could chow down a horse. Okay, maybe not a horse. But half a cow.

Food's a funny thing. When I was a little kid, we never had much food, but I don't remember being hungry. Wonder how Ma managed to feed

me when I was an actual baby. Formula, I hear, costs major bucks, and I just can't see her letting me snuggle up against her titties. Those things 63

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were bait, and not for babies. No sir, I can't imagine how I made it past the mewling stage.