Broken

Mother always told me to stay out of other people’s business, but I was never really good at listening.  I was however good at disappointing.  I disappointed her the day I took the job at the local mental hospital instead of finishing medical school.

“Miss,” his voice bounced off the bare tables in the empty room, “may I have a glass of water.”

Turning I saw no other nurses, so I assumed he was speaking with me.

“I’m not crazy,” he proclaimed as I placed the glass of water on his table.  “I’m not crazy.”

“Alright sir,” I replied.  In training they taught us to affirm and appease, and never upset a patient.  I moved to leave, but my feet seemed rooted in their spot.

“I don’t belong here,” his voice dropped to a whisper.  “You have to believe me.  Believe me that I’m not crazy.  Believe me and set me free.  Come with me.”  His dark eyes pried into my soul.

“I have to get back to work,” I mumbled into the floor.

“Wait,” he called out.  “You’re beautiful, you know.  Bring me a glass of water tomorrow.”

Beautiful. I dwelled over that word as I hurried down the hall to my station.  Beautiful.  No, I wasn’t beautiful.  Mother always called me homely; ‘a homely child and a bit of an odd bird,’ I’d hear her giggle with her friends.  But this man, with the dark eyes and sharp chin had called me beautiful.

Day after day, I brought him a glass of water.  Day after day, he told me of a new place we could journey.  Day after day, he slowly convinced me he wasn’t crazy or maybe it was the nights that convinced me of such.

At night in the darkness of my flat, I saw him often.  I imagined making dinner for two instead of one.  He would watch my favorite shows with me and we would fall asleep in the bed, him reading a book, me a magazine.  In sleep he invaded my dreams.  I drowned time and time again in his steel grey eyes. 

One day I realized his love had given me a new life, and thus I vowed to do the same.  I knew all the backdoors, even had a key to unlock each one.  I deserved more than this place.  He deserved a life with me.

Now, here I sit, telling my story to the gentle breeze and the passing cloud.  Dropped off in a foreign land; forgotten by the man who would love me forever.  Perhaps I was the crazy one after all.

My sandals lie on the beach discarded from my feet.  The water laps at my ankles.  The breeze tickles my chin.

I stare at the moon and finish my story to the audience of stars.  In my hand I conceal a heart, a discarded piece of candy he gave me one day.  I twisted it and yearned to believe it was his love he had given to me.

Tonight, I cry out to the moon.  The water rests upon my knees.  Death holds more promise than living life with a broken heart.

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This fictional post is written in response to the Red Writing Hood prompt "Water gives life. Water takes it away."