February 07, 2002 :: 12:20 a.m.
a conspiracy theory
Blah. I don't have too much to write about, but I thought I'd sneak in an entry before diaryland goes down for a while.
I feel like I'm covered in bugs. You know how you get these little crawly itches all over, for no reason? Yeah, I've got that. They are currently attacking my neck, my back, my right forearm, my right calf, my left foot, and my left thigh. Dammit. Now they're working on the back of my head and my right shoulder. Agh! It just keeps spreading! Every time I scratch one itch, five more crop up someplace else. It's a conspiracy, I tell you. The government knows I'm on to them - they know I have the secret papers, and the briefcase - so they planted a colony of tiny insects in my blankets. The insects will drive me horribly mad with their incessant biting; my mind will deteriorate, becoming more feeble with each passing day, until I can no longer hide the information that I possess.
They'll come with their cots and their straps and their big white van, telling my mother that I'm very ill and that I must go with them to receive the proper treatment. They'll sedate me and throw me in the back of the van, slapping my weak and slackened face from side to side for amusement, pelting me with expensive government gadgets. By the time we get to the institution, I'll be battered and bloody. The nurses there will ask why, and I'll try to tell them what's really going on, but the government agents will pass my words off as the ramblings of a crazy woman. "She hurts herself," they'll say. "Her mother has to hide the baseball bats and the porcelain keepsake plates." The nurses will nod knowingly, and gather up the papers for the men to sign. "She can't sign it herself," they'll explain. "Her mother gave us permission to sign her in." They'll pull out a paper with my mother's signature on it, and the nurses will glance at me and smile weakly, shaking their heads. "It's such a shame," they'll whisper, cupping their mouths. Once all the paperwork is signed, the agents will ask for a moment with me before I'm taken to my room.
"We have the papers," they'll say, taunting me. "We have the briefcase." They'll wave the secret things in front of me, delighting in my defeat. The nurses will come knocking after five minutes, thanking the agents for bringing me to the institution, and assuring them that I will be very well cared for. The agents will leave, smiling their smug smiles, secure in the knowledge that I'll never be able to cause them trouble again. The nurses will lead me down the bright white halls to my new home, a padded room with a mattress and a bedpan. "Press this button by the door if you need anything," they'll say. They'll lock me in and go to take care of their other patients, coming to see me again only when I ring for water or they bring me my meals. I'll spend the rest of my days cooped up in a windowless room, attempting to dig through the pads and the concrete walls with the plastic spoon that comes standing in my applesauce. It will bring me some comfort, the efforts to escape, but I know that I'll never get out. I will be forever silenced, and the government will win.
Damn bugs.
back & forth
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