Words
By Sara Rosenthal
He came in on a Tuesday, his arm broken in two places, his leg twisted until it had snapped. They had decided he had been mugged in his own home, although some say he was pushed off the side of a bridge. No matter the story, whichever true, he found himself staying in room thirteen of Peril Hospital. In the blue and white hospital gown, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, the nurses would visit him every day. Whirling throughout his brain, like mixed colors on a canvas, the words "insane,'" "mental," and "psychotic" were omnipresent.
When his brain wasn't hypnotized by the heinous words of his past, he would listen to the buzzing gossip of the nurses. On one particular evening, when the dark clouds roared and the wind howled, the trees swaying as though they wanted to run, the nurses gossip took a dreadful turn. They had been gossiping about a new male nurse in their midst when a petite young nurse with a clipboard in hand brought up a sore subject for the patient next door. She had noticed his odd behavior when she delivered his breakfast to him every morning. "He's an oddball," she would mutter shaking her head with a half smile on her face as she exited. This time was different though, this time worry was clearly printed on her face in bold lettering. "I believe our patient in room thirteen is mentally unstable." When the patient they were discussing overheard this something inside him snapped. Colors blurred in his mind, the words scrambling, yelling, pounding in his brain.
Day after day a need grew inside him, a need to silence the words that have haunted him since he was a child. He couldn't bare to hear them anymore. The whispers grew to deafening shouts that rattled his bones. The inked words spilled throughout his whole being, devouring him whole. The need to mute clawed its way to his heart. It started as a buzz like a nasty fly hovering over him, then went in for the kill. He craved stillness. It would be worth it, of course it would, he knew it would be. It was decided, he would defeat them, the words, the people; he would silence them all.
He came in on a Tuesday, his arm broken in two places, his leg twisted until it had snapped. They had decided he had been mugged in his own home, although some say he was pushed off the side of a bridge. No matter the story, whichever true, he found himself staying in room thirteen of Peril Hospital. In the blue and white hospital gown, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, the nurses would visit him every day. Whirling throughout his brain, like mixed colors on a canvas, the words "insane,'" "mental," and "psychotic" were omnipresent.
When his brain wasn't hypnotized by the heinous words of his past, he would listen to the buzzing gossip of the nurses. On one particular evening, when the dark clouds roared and the wind howled, the trees swaying as though they wanted to run, the nurses gossip took a dreadful turn. They had been gossiping about a new male nurse in their midst when a petite young nurse with a clipboard in hand brought up a sore subject for the patient next door. She had noticed his odd behavior when she delivered his breakfast to him every morning. "He's an oddball," she would mutter shaking her head with a half smile on her face as she exited. This time was different though, this time worry was clearly printed on her face in bold lettering. "I believe our patient in room thirteen is mentally unstable." When the patient they were discussing overheard this something inside him snapped. Colors blurred in his mind, the words scrambling, yelling, pounding in his brain.
Day after day a need grew inside him, a need to silence the words that have haunted him since he was a child. He couldn't bear to hear them anymore. The whispers grew to deafening shouts that rattled his bones. The inked words spilled throughout his whole being, devouring him whole. The need to mute clawed its way to his heart. It started as a buzz like a nasty fly hovering over him, then went in for the kill. He craved stillness. It would be worth it, of course it would, he knew it would be. It was decided, he would defeat them, the words, the people; he would silence them all.
By Sara Rosenthal
He came in on a Tuesday, his arm broken in two places, his leg twisted until it had snapped. They had decided he had been mugged in his own home, although some say he was pushed off the side of a bridge. No matter the story, whichever true, he found himself staying in room thirteen of Peril Hospital. In the blue and white hospital gown, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, the nurses would visit him every day. Whirling throughout his brain, like mixed colors on a canvas, the words "insane,'" "mental," and "psychotic" were omnipresent.
When his brain wasn't hypnotized by the heinous words of his past, he would listen to the buzzing gossip of the nurses. On one particular evening, when the dark clouds roared and the wind howled, the trees swaying as though they wanted to run, the nurses gossip took a dreadful turn. They had been gossiping about a new male nurse in their midst when a petite young nurse with a clipboard in hand brought up a sore subject for the patient next door. She had noticed his odd behavior when she delivered his breakfast to him every morning. "He's an oddball," she would mutter shaking her head with a half smile on her face as she exited. This time was different though, this time worry was clearly printed on her face in bold lettering. "I believe our patient in room thirteen is mentally unstable." When the patient they were discussing overheard this something inside him snapped. Colors blurred in his mind, the words scrambling, yelling, pounding in his brain.
Day after day a need grew inside him, a need to silence the words that have haunted him since he was a child. He couldn't bare to hear them anymore. The whispers grew to deafening shouts that rattled his bones. The inked words spilled throughout his whole being, devouring him whole. The need to mute clawed its way to his heart. It started as a buzz like a nasty fly hovering over him, then went in for the kill. He craved stillness. It would be worth it, of course it would, he knew it would be. It was decided, he would defeat them, the words, the people; he would silence them all.
He came in on a Tuesday, his arm broken in two places, his leg twisted until it had snapped. They had decided he had been mugged in his own home, although some say he was pushed off the side of a bridge. No matter the story, whichever true, he found himself staying in room thirteen of Peril Hospital. In the blue and white hospital gown, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, the nurses would visit him every day. Whirling throughout his brain, like mixed colors on a canvas, the words "insane,'" "mental," and "psychotic" were omnipresent.
When his brain wasn't hypnotized by the heinous words of his past, he would listen to the buzzing gossip of the nurses. On one particular evening, when the dark clouds roared and the wind howled, the trees swaying as though they wanted to run, the nurses gossip took a dreadful turn. They had been gossiping about a new male nurse in their midst when a petite young nurse with a clipboard in hand brought up a sore subject for the patient next door. She had noticed his odd behavior when she delivered his breakfast to him every morning. "He's an oddball," she would mutter shaking her head with a half smile on her face as she exited. This time was different though, this time worry was clearly printed on her face in bold lettering. "I believe our patient in room thirteen is mentally unstable." When the patient they were discussing overheard this something inside him snapped. Colors blurred in his mind, the words scrambling, yelling, pounding in his brain.
Day after day a need grew inside him, a need to silence the words that have haunted him since he was a child. He couldn't bear to hear them anymore. The whispers grew to deafening shouts that rattled his bones. The inked words spilled throughout his whole being, devouring him whole. The need to mute clawed its way to his heart. It started as a buzz like a nasty fly hovering over him, then went in for the kill. He craved stillness. It would be worth it, of course it would, he knew it would be. It was decided, he would defeat them, the words, the people; he would silence them all.