A few weeks ago, I was admitted into hospital. It was my mum who called them. At first, I didn’t understand why she was telling me things like, “You’re not making sense,” Or, “You’re confusing me, darling.” I thought she was the confused one. I thought everybody was confused, and I was the only person seeing the truth, seeing the world for what it really was, and maybe I still do believe that.
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The day before I was admitted, we went on a walk with our dog. All of the cars were moving in slow motion. The sun was brewing pink and orange tones into the sky. Children were riding bikes and playing in the street. It was just like home. The home away from home. The home we had to move away from, because of the clock. Because of the germs and the false “I love you.”
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Three years prior, right before my grandmother passed away, she asked if I wanted to go on a walk with her and mum. I said, “No. Not today.”
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I think my grandmother found Fuzzy on our walk. She showed her the deepest parts of her soul: The freedom. The mermaid. The melody.
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I arrived at the hospital with my arms weaved around my arms, my entire body trembling, but I knew she was there, behind me, watching, following. It warmed me to my core. I was taken to my room and the blankets couldn’t match that warmth she brought. The patterns in the bathroom’s walls began to morph into fish that were floating into the drain. The hinges on the door looked like little bugs trying to crawl upwards, but they never quite reached the top.
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They needed help.
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You needed help.
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