Why am I here? Yeah, I know. People ponder the big questions in life, about existence, life, the world and all the connotations that it brings. The only question on my mind is "Why am I here?" Literally, why this room? This slate-colored room of concrete. Why? Deep down, if I really think about it. I know the answer. It all goes back to about a month ago. Or was it yesterday? Who knows anymore. The concept of time is beginning to escape me. My name is Edward Patraglia. But ever since I can remember, everybody's called me Elvis. I can't remember why that started, or why Elvis. Then again, nowadays I can't remember much. Anyway, back to my concrete cube. Why am I here? Why me? WHY? Again, the more I think about what happened in the past, the more it seems to coagulate inside my head. Court. Everyone was wearing suits, I remember seeing and hearing my name a lot. I remember twelve somber people looking at me with what seemed like pity. Now I'm stuck in this cube. The only link I have left to the outside world is my twitter feed. #whyamihere. It seems unfair, but maybe that's just because I just can't remember anything. #whathappened. I've stopped wondering, and now I've pretty much just accepted that I will be here until I die. I black out.
I wake up and experience the strange sensation of not being able to move my arms. What was this white thing that stopped me from moving? WHY? A burly security guard looks down at me. He tells me a story of how I broke out of my cell and almost ripped a nurse's throat out. Me? I don't remember doing that at all... Is that why I'm here? Did i do it before? The guard sticks a needle into my arm and blackness takes me again. When I wake up again the straight jacket is off, but next to me sits a small paper cup filled with pills. So many shapes and colors. A solitary sticky note sits next to it. Take Immediately, it reads in immaculate handwriting. I take the pills quickly. My twitter feed sits next to me. I see posts I can't remember. #therapy. #gettingbetter. The last one on the feed, dated yesterday, catches in my throat. #insane. Me? Did I write that? Am I insane? The only answer that even remotely makes sense to me is Yes. #Darkness. #Acceptance. #Insanity.
This reminds me about this one time I fell asleep on my back and woke up on my front. I'm still in stupor as to how that happened
ReplyDeleteElvis is both creepy and likable. I think this is a cool way to use hash tags.
ReplyDeleteMake his twitter real
ReplyDeleteI like this. I wonder what it would be like to write posts and then forget you ever wrote them. That alone might drive somebody mad.
ReplyDeleteI really like this. Very well done with creating the scene of the hospital, and the memory loss. You could definitely expand on this, but you have already told a long story with not many words.
ReplyDeletehmm....I enjoyed your piece and your use of hash tags to explain confusion.
ReplyDeleteI had an idea for a screenplay similar to this. The concept of viewing the world through the eyes of an insane person intrigues me because you can go where ever you want with it. The characters can have any motivation you want them to. If you ever continue to work with this idea I'll be sure to look at it.
ReplyDeletemaybe this is the beginning of a longer story?
ReplyDeletehmm it was fun to read.:)
ReplyDelete