They moved slowly, methodically as if to trap a frightened kitten ... or was it a rabid dog?
She was lost. Alone in her darkness. As they came closer, she began an involuntary rocking back and forth and a low moan came from deep within her soul. She opened her eyes and could see their lips moving, but heard no words. Somewhere inside of her, she knew they were words of soothing comfort, but they could not reach her, could not penetrate the silent darkness of her world.
Soon they had her to her feet and she found her voice, screaming out at them, "No! I won't go ... you can't make me go!" She fought like a banshee, her hands flailing, feet kicking out, a contortionist of insanity. All control was gone now, and she fought for her life.
It took six of them to carry her writhing body into the room, and several more to hold her down as they began to restrain her. Wrists pulled, straps applied ... legs splayed out, straps applied. Her screams pierced through the dead quiet of her room, as they went about the job of securing her. The nurse entered the room, the syringe tucked deeply into the pocket of her smock and no one spoke to the frightened child, who laid on the bed ... now whimpering. A swab of alcohol soaked cotton, cold to her overheated skin, was rubbed across her thigh and the needle plunged into the quivering muscle.
As the sedation slowly began to take effect, and her mind whirled into a million pieces, her eyes caught mine and held my gaze. A look of fear and resignation flashed across her small, tortured face and I knew she was no longer there. She had slipped away. I quickly look from one attendant to the next, had they seen what I had just witnessed? Did they know that she was gone? That she had found her safe harbor in the deepest recesses of her tormented mind?
I stood silent, my feet were lead against the concrete of the floor. A tear began to run down my cheek, as I looked upon this child and realized ... I was looking into a mirror. The face of this child ... was mine.
I shook off the image and once again her face loomed before me. I wanted to take that child into my arms, rock her as a mother would an infant. Coo sweet, soft words of solace in her ear. I instinctively reached out to her before I remembered that I stood behind the bullet proof glass of the observation room. I was as helpless as she was. Unable to reach for her, unable to pull her back from the warm abyss she had willingly slipped into.
As I turned to go back to my desk, my body shook with emotions foreign and long forgotten. That could have been my child. That could have been me. I walked slowly down the corridor. I knew that all that separated this child from me, was a chemical in the brain and my face flushed with guilt. Here I was, silently thanking the Powers that be, that it wasn't me tied down on the bed, in that cold, stark room.
I finished my day ... the drive home was a quiet one. I barely spoke to my roommate. I went into my room, closed the door and finally gave the tears permission. As I sat against the wall at the head of my bed, I began to slowly rock back and forth, my body finding it's way into that fetal position as a low moan came ... from deep within my soul.
J. A. Stroud a.k.a. GlassPoet.
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