madhouse

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
a story about a little boy from Eastern Europe(Moldova, ex-Soviet Union country) who get's to a mental hosptial for no reason. the doctors insist that he is sick and that he should get the treatment there.

my first attempt, not the full story because the rest of it is in process. i will update it soon.

Submitted: May 24, 2013

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Submitted: May 24, 2013

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They say people who dwell in the past do not have any future. How do you expect to breathe while having your head stuck up your arse?

While I was about 2 years old, my mother was getting her University degree in Chsinau, and to keep things right, my grandmother was taking care of me in the meanwhile. At about noon our neighbour, old lady Vera came to keep us up to date with the village gossip. My grandmother was more of a home person. Probably because of her already conical shape, which impeded her to join my grandfather in the field work. “Is that what she said? And I was thinking she would have a bit of decency. Screw it Vera, as long as we’re healthy, it doesn’t matter. They can kiss our asses.” And such speeches could last for hours. When I got hungry, I asked her for some food and for some good minutes I was fed with “Hold on, no one’s chasing you”. At one point I’ve had it and told her I was going to my godmother’s to eat and sneaked through the backyard. It was quite hot that day, and I was feeling how the laziness in me grew proportional to the degrees outside. However my appetite for playing surpassed my hunger and I’d got tangled in a game with the girls from my neighbourhood. They were my cousins, besides I didn’t have the habit to go red in the company of girls. After the intersection near my neighbourhood, I’d have to walk for about 2 minutes to get home. When my grandmother, a hard-working talker, drowned her tongue in a glass of words, she went to escort the guest to the gate. That was when she saw me playing with the daughters of her “nemesis”. I though she’d tear her veins from the rage with which she yelled at me, ordering to get back inside. At her third calling, I started running towards her. At the moment I’d appeared from behind the corner with the speed of a blind fly, I suddenly felt like I’d crashed into a black dream. I woke up in the arms of uncle Petrea was continuously splashing water on me from a cup while holding me tight to his chest. His face was white as a ghost and terrified. He thought he killed me when he’d hit me with his car. In the meanwhile, my godmother got there. Frightened to death by the sight, she somehow managed to snap out of it and got me to the hospital. She was the one that insisted I’d be checked out by the village’s doctor. Treatments were of course prescribed. I recall not feeling my ass for a while because of the injections. As you may know there is no such thing as a deed without consequences, so there were consequences here too. For my mom the nights were getting longer and longer, as I used to wake her up in the middle of the night, screaming and wetting my bed. My sight was getting worse also and soon enough I became a “four-eyes”. My grandmother used to comfort my mom, trying to convince her that everything would be fine and that she shouldn’t bother the doctors so much.

We moved to a new house after a while. The paper hangings were falling off and the floor in the hall was such a mess that you could loose your foot, trying to get it out of the holes. It wasn’t our house; it was owned by the “Sel. Sovet” and these two floors were supposed to shelter 4 families. We were housed on the first floor, next to a man who couldn’t shut up even for a minute. One day, while coming back from the groceries store with my mum, she asked him about his wife and how’s he doing overall. As I understood back then, his wife was a good friend of my mum’s sister. As their conversation progressed it slowly morphed into an hour of political disputes. At one point, my ears were starting to hurt from the erosion provoked by their topics and as my attention-seeking techniques were no longer working, I decided to bail. Mr. Serghei was so thin that he could have easily been used as a scarecrow. His shoulder bones were shaping as some tree branches which were always one step from collapsing, when he used to come back home dead drunk holding the walls of the house, or to be fair to the walls, when they were holding him. His riddled skin looked like it was the same age as the grave. I remember his imposing tone echoing throughout the yard, when he yelled at me with his burned voice not to fool around with the pigs. He used to spend his nights with his bottle friends spilling their brains out on the cold stones of our yard. The second day, like a little Sherlock, I would always use to follow the blood trails to find the path of the tension. 


© Copyright 2020 Noreah J. All rights reserved.

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