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The static. That's the main thing.
The voice of one thousand computers all screaming in the back of your head.
You slump in the room they give you, perfectly nice. You're dressed in white, trousers and jacket. Bed. Bathroom. Desk. TV on 24 hours a day. No way to measure time. Always always the static.
You are ill.
The TV tells you what you are, white writing typed on black, old typewriter font.
At first you ignore the writing. But you see it all the time, from every angle. Then you need to argue.
I'm fine.
You are ill.
You look at the screen, you're fine. You shout at the top of your lungs, you're fine.
You are ill.
You whisper now. I'm fine.
So far you've refused anything they give you. A big bowl of pills on the desk. You throw the bowl at the screen, pills fly everywhere, the screen stays the same.
You are ill.
You look for a way out. No hope. Door is solid steel.
You are ill. You will see pretty things.
This is new, you look at the screen.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You whisper stop.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
Help.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
The pills are on the floor.
You are ill.
You will see pretty things.
You will be happy.
You will be safe.
Last anger, you scream no. A fist hits the screen.
White suit splattered with blood from your rage.
You can make it stop.
You can be helped.
You should take the medicine.
You will see pretty things.
You can't cry any more, there's no point. You haven't uttered a sound since your rage.
You are healed.
You refuse to be healed.
The screen responds to you. You forced yourself to throw up, don't take the pills they offer.
You will see pretty things.
I don't want to see them.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You will see pretty things.
You shout. No words, just a scream. Stay you, always.
You remember what life was outside. The dry heat of the desert. The music. Drink. Guns.
You will see pretty things.
You force a smile. You refuse to wear the white suit they offer, it's crumpled in a corner.
You are ill. We shall heal you.
I'm fine.
You stand in front of the screen, naked and defiant.
You are ill.
Yes I am. I like it.
You are ill.
You keep remembering. Music was good. You played a harmonica. You sang. You can sing now. Old songs, friends made fun of you for it.
There must be some way out of here, said the joker to the thief.
There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.
Old song. Fine song.
You are ill.
I'm singing. Bob Dylan.
You are ill.
You don't know the time. You lie on the floor, you refuse to use their bed.
You sleep.
You wake up shivering. The temperature has fallen, the behind the static are hidden fans whirring.
The screen is blank.
You wrap up in the bed sheets, refusing to wear their white suit. Your stomach growls in protest, you haven't eaten in some time. You don't know how long. There's no time in the room.
You're awake.
You noticed.
This is new. Your words are on the screen now.
You are ill.
I'm not ill.
Why do you refuse to be helped?
I don't need help.
We will make you happy.
They're selling postcards of the hanging. They're painting the passports brown.
You're singing again.
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors, the circus is in town.
You do not need to sing. Songs cause sadness.
You refuse to answer. You're sick of seeing your words appear in front of you.
We will make you happy.
You will see pretty things.
You continue to shiver, the temperature drops further. You glance at the white suit.
You try to remember life outside the room. You drove once with lovers and friends into the desert, bonfire and dancing.
If you wear the suit you will be warm.
You ignore the screen, teeth chattering.
You sit down in the corner of the room.
You will see pretty things.
Let us help you.
No.
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