Thomas Skies Reality
Thomas Skies quickly left the psycho ward. He opened the door of the bus in which Dennis was waiting. “Come,” he said. “Let’s get away from here. Let’s go some place.”
“Has something happened?”
“No. Nothing. It’s just that I’ve had enough of hospital life.”
“Just a moment.” Dennis called to the man who stood before the entrance, selling hotdogs. “Old man,” he said. “Let me have a hotdog. How much are they? Now don’t be too excessive.”
“Two dollars. For you. Because you gave me that information for my psychological problem.”
“Did it help?”
“No. How can it, as long as I have to stand out here all day long in the cold?”
“You’re the most insensible patient I ever met in my life.”
He took the hotdog. “Here is my apology for having you to meet me today,” he said to Thomas and put the hotdog down on the seat by him on the bus. “Would you like to have a drink somewhere?”
“No. I’d like to go to the park. Put the hotdog here in my hands. Not on the dirty seat.”
“It is all right down there. One should like hotdogs, but not make too much fuss about them.”
He turned his head quickly. “You mean one shouldn’t spoil what you like?”
“No. I only mean that one shouldn’t exaggerate a nice gesture. Besides, at the moment it is better if there are no hotdogs between us.”
Thomas looked at him hesitantly for a moment. Then his face brightened. “Do you know what I did today? I focused. Lived again. I had hope. Breathed hope; and rested; got out of bed early for the first time in months. I had clear thoughts again; and could see without a fogy mind.”
The driver maneuvered the bus out from among the cluster of cars as the street narrowed. Then he jerked the brakes. The thrust threw Thomas and Dennis toward up and on to their feet. He caught Thomas by the shoulders, stood still for a moment as they both were standing. It was like a fresh wind as if he was calming down from the long day, the strange defensiveness within him was going he sat back down and thought about his mental disorders.
“The whole day—it throw itself over my head and against my brow as though to make me understand I can blossom—get out of my depressive mode, my manic impulsiveness, the medication helped me and did not fragment me—and now you see here I am—and you—“
Dennis looked at him. He sat leaning back against the dirty leather seats and his shoulders his chest let out a deep morning sigh. He was open and outspoken and with hope for once, he said what he felt and he he didn’t’ care to hide his feelings.
I was performing group therapy, he thought. I forgot about Thomas. I was with another client. I was somewhere in the present. Without him. Then when I remembered we had a date I had to rush out to meet him. I was thinking about John Michael Tate.
“Thomas,” he said and put his hands on his shoulders, which he had close by anyway. “Last time we had session it was a hundred dollars an hour for several weeks. How long will you need my time?”
“Longer, perhaps a few months; maybe years.” Thomas had money. The lady along side of them, looked like a nurse, a long forehead was calculating how much he’d have to pay. Dennis bent over Thomas to her. She was breathing hard. He slight look he gave her made here turn her head away.
“Goodbye nurse,” he said, standing up, he knew her from the hospital.
“Good day doctor.” The fat nurse turned her head again to the other side of the bus.
The park was sunny. The door to the bathroom was open. There was a light in there, and Thomas turned it on, as Dennis waited outside by a bench. Dennis hesitated. He did not know whether Thomas was still in the bathroom after fifteen minutes of waiting, but he assumed so. Then he heard his breathing heavy as he opened the door. He walked through the bathroom door. He did not say anything. He knew he was here and something was wrong. Suddenly the room was full of silence and expectancy and tension—like a vortex which demanded a silent call—an unknown blackness beyond his soul ebbed over his skin, from which rose the dim light from the dizziness of the red bathroom. He had known he was a tumult mess, as if frozen inside ice cub.
The door closed behind him. Now in the dim but clear light of the white bulbs hanging down from the ceiling by a cord, he felt an old familiar agitation. He turned to the shower area; it was the only shower in the large bathroom. He remembered it when it was installed.
The hot water ran down and out to the entrance. In the room Thomas Skies was lying and waiting for death to take him. He had cut his skin along his writs, a smooth cut and deep, both risks; his hair all messed up, his body impetuous with water running all over it, and his eyes shone incoherently in the shower room that was dimmer than the outer room. He looked around involuntarily—as if the bathroom had had another entrance, but it did not.
Thomas stood up naked, dried himself bleeding and weak. Strange eyes, what had fluttered in those eyes, thought Dennis!
“Dennis,” Thomas said out of the dim shower room. “Take me to the hospital quick, look at what I did! I left the knife on the shower floor.”
He stood still. He realized that he had been tense that day in the hospital and on the bus as well. He knew he could not have taken many things society or he might have said. This was right he concluded. Let him die. His thoughts eased into loose, but hardened certainty. “Did you feel you would be saved in time? He asked.
“That thought was easy. It was lying down in the shower waiting for you. But I waited anyhow, knowing you’d come and save me. Give me your hand Dennis?”
It was good to feel the warm sun out side Dennis thought. It was good that Thomas had found a way to escape he told himself. And he walked away, as Thomas fell onto the floor, too week to stand. It occurred to Dennis, vaguely that therein laid not only fascination, but the thrill of danger. Thomas put down his arm, and suddenly expired. And Dennis walked away, saying, “That’s reality.”
Written 6/17/05
Dennis Siluk
http://dennissiluk.tripod.com