The nurses placed a picture of a butterfly on my door. I miss the hospital sometimes. The people there were like my second family, though I barely knew any of them. I think I miss the man who sat outside my door and yelled at the TV the most. He was loud, but he didn’t scare me. After I was admitted, he asked the nurses to put two braids in his hair, and when I stepped by him to go to bed at night, he would say, “Goodnight, Lila, my friend.”
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Turned out he was yelling at the politicians, accusing them of being pedophiles.
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I slept soundly with him outside my door.
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There was a lady there as well. She let me borrow her sweater the night I came in. It was soft and had all the colours of the rainbow spewing through the fabric. She told me, “I’ll need this back, darling, because I get cold too sometimes.”
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That night, when I was heading towards my room, I felt inclined to stop and kiss her on the top of the head. She broke out in tears. I don’t know why I kissed her on the head. Sometimes I think ghosts use me as a vessel. Because I feel too much. I want to understand all that I meet, comfort them, rock them to sleep.
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My dog can sense them sometimes, when they try to enter the house. He only lets the good ones inside.
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