Supermarket - Bobby Hall Page 0,53

you let this bitch doctor back in, it’s over, bye-bye. And I can’t have that now, can I?”

Was I in the supermarket or was I in a hospital? Was I a character inside of some book? Was I some asshole on a typewriter writing my own fate, solely for the entertainment of readers? Solely for self-validation? Self-preservation? Self-worth? Was I just some creative who was destroying my life for accolades and achievements?

“I won’t stop until you’re back here in Muldoon’s, Flynn. I won’t stop until we’re together again like old times. I need you to believe in me. I need you to believe in me so I can live.”

Suddenly, the floor was made of wax, melting by the second. I was drowning in the tiles. Struggling with every breath, using all my might to stay afloat until . . .

I awoke, unable to move, held down in a bed by leather restraints. The room was dark, yet familiar. As I looked around, tears fell from my eyes.

“What the fuck is happening to me?” I cried.

I was alone, and the clock said 4:17 a.m. I drifted off into sleep, or delusion, or whatever was to become of my weary mind. In that moment, I let go of everything, and then . . . all of it came back.

I woke in the same bed, but the restraints were gone. The lights were on. The clock read 7:14 a.m. When I opened my eyes, I could see Lola.

Or, rather, Olivia Cross.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked.

“The nuthouse,” I replied.

She laughed.

“How do you feel, Flynn?”

“I feel okay . . . but I have a lot of questions.”

“I’ll tell you everything after breakfast. Get yourself something to eat. Let’s meet in my office after,” she said with a smile, putting her hand over mine in a very comforting way.

As I made my way toward the cafeteria, I walked past a man clutching a cup of coffee. He was mumbling to himself, staring at a wall.

“Coffee, coffee, coffee,” he said.

He was the same man from the supermarket—the one I would see every day. Joe! I walked around the place; it wasn’t what I imagined a nuthouse to be like. Instead of it being full of crazy patients rocking back and forth, screaming and drooling over themselves, it was actually pretty quiet. The part I was in looked like a freshman dorm common area. Patients were reading and talking among themselves.

There was a Christmas tree lit up in the corner, decorated with ornaments. White lights were strung around the perimeter of the room. The windows were frosted. Passing a calendar, I saw that it was mid-December. There was a TV playing lightly. A group was watching soap operas, and a circle of people on the other end were making homemade stockings. There was an area full of board games, and right there sat an old black man who resembled the guy from outside Muldoon’s. He was sitting alone by the window playing chess. Against himself, it would appear. His pieces were red, and his invisible opponent’s were white.

The place reminded me more of a rehab center or old people’s home than an insane asylum—but I guess that’s just because of how mainstream media depicts lunatics in film and TV. Like soulless raving madmen held captive in an asylum.

As I neared the cafeteria, I was met by a woman with a familiar face. It was Ann, the same woman who worked in the pharmacy. Just as she had done a million times before in the store, she gave me my daily dose of multivitamins.

“Hey there, sweetheart, don’t forget your pills!” she said, planting a bevy of pills in the palm of my hand. Only here and now, I realized they weren’t multivitamins at all. These were pills. Like hard-core psychiatric medication. All shapes, sizes, and colors. This freaked me the fuck out.

I pretended to consume them. After she left I quickly took them out from under my tongue and put them in the right pocket of my favorite brown jacket . . . which had an alarming amount of the pills already in it.

How long have I been here?

In the cafeteria, I saw so many familiar faces from the supermarket, including the doctor in the white coat. I made my way to where the food was being served and grabbed a tray. They were serving eggs with bacon and a side of toast. I got some orange juice, which was dispensed from a machine, the same