« The fuck are you talking about, Marge? » I snap at her.
The Smoking Room feels even smaller now. I can almost hear the graffitis mocking me. But she used those words. The words of my nightmare. Of my hallucination. That can't be right. That can't be normal.
« Lotta folks went into that room. All ended up like you. The nightmares, » she answers after pulling on her cigarette.
« So what. They put people with similar symptoms in that room. They categorize us. In an hospital. Big deal! »
Marge looks at me through her thick, red brimmed glasses: « No. A lot weren't like you. They didn't have the nightmares before. They started there. »
« What are you trying to say, Marge? » I ask, lighting a second cig. Something I haven't done in a long time.
« That room. It brings back things. It holds them. And throws them right back at ya. Be careful, girl. I like you. Wouldn't want you to end up... badly, » she answers.
Rain starts to pour. First, one or two drops hit the netting of the window. Then we can feel the moisture. The wind brings some water inside. A few drops end up on my cheeks. I'm trying to register what she's telling me.
Believing in people, when you're in psychiatry... not that easy. Not that recommended either.
« Marge, are you trying to say I'm attacked by ghosts or something? »
Mohammed barges in at that moment.
« Sorry, need to close the window, » he mumbles. His brown arms show he's actually quite fit when he forces the glass close. It's not an easy task with all the ash and all. The guy lifts. Lead or patients. Probably both.
Marge gets slowly out of the room. Right before the door closes, when the nurse is still fighting to lock the window, she says: « All I'm sayin' is: you should try to change your room. To get some fresh air ya know. » The door and window close at the same time. Mohammed looks at me. The front of him is drenched. I can see sincere concern in his black eyes.
« Are you sure you don't want to sleep more? You know... » he scratches his head « I'm not supposed to let you stay here all night long, actually. »
I didn't know that. Suddenly, I feel empty. I deflat, my elbows on my thighs, my eyes fixed on the floor. Marge is utterly craycray. That's not a surprise. I don't believe in all that crap. I've been diagnosed at seven, I'm just fricking sick. But she is right about one thing. Changing room, changing decor... it could help me.
« Mo' do you think I could change room? Some of the others are empty so... » I try.
« Well, I could send a message to the doc' but I'm not sure she would agree. Is it because of the AC? »
« Yeah, » I answer with a pale smile. And then decide to be a little bit more sincere. « And the sleep paralysis. It's getting worse and sometimes changing your space can ease things. I'd like to try that. »
The nurse looks at me with intensity. Slowly, he sighs.
« I understand. I'll pass the message. But don't get your hopes up. She could say no and... »
« To take some bloody sleeping pills instead, I know. »
That night, I don't stay in the Smoking Room. First time in ages. I sit in my desk chair and look out the window. The storm is strong. It doesn't rain often in the south of France. But when it does, it's powerful. Lightning blinds me. I close my eyes, seeing the ray of light imprinted on the back of my head.
When I wake up, my face is flat against the desk. I have a pen in my hand I don't remember picking up. I don't remember even owning a black pen for all that matters. And on the desk, marked in my own writing:
DON'T GO!
ŞİMDİ OKUDUĞUN
The smoking room
KorkuIn a french psychiatric hospital, a woman can't sleep. Are the shapes and voice as unreal as the doctors keep telling her? Anyways, every night, she goes to the smoking room, waiting for the sun to rise.
