“See you tomorrow.”
“See you mum.” I handed her my long-loved copy of The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic. Into mum’s tote it went, next to the tupperware which three hours ago had contained neatly pealed orange slices, all the white fibres removed.
I looked on from the gazebo as my mother crossed the front lawn towards her parked car, the first time she’d driven it in years.
“Dinner!” the nurse called.
I wasn’t hungry—I hadn’t been in months—but meekly I complied. The world went black as my eyes adjusted to the special women’s ward’s dim fluorescent light. Then vision returned—long, narrow corridor, patients seated shoulder-to-shoulder, heads turned upwards, all eyes on the ancient television affixed high on the wall, out of reach, blaring the latest instalment in the daily soap we’d been watching for weeks.
I wonder if the staff would let us watch something, anything, else if I asked. With reading options limited to the few pre-approved magazines that were all deadly dull, the telly was my only entertainment—come to think of it, the daytime drama with all the hair pulling and hurled insults was probably doing more damage to our supposedly fragile psyches than any magazine…
A resounding clang pierced my reverie—the metal door had slammed shut. Then the familiar click of the lock, and my soul shattered as I was once again reminded I was behind bars.
Will I ever get out of here?
Val Saksornchai 