Coats

That was it, a final kiss, a final hug and accompanied by 24 other men, he left cramped in the back of an army truck. Neil had always been a fighter; he had been suspended 18 times for starting a fight at school. It only seemed logical for him to go on and join the army. As for me, the psychiatrist had always told me I was “mentally unfit” or too “unstable” in my head to go fight or even leave the asylum where I lived. They would come in my room, five times a week, and would talk to me for sometimes hours at a time. It was always a comforting part of my day, away from the cold looks I was given by the other patients outside. I would recognize my doctors by their white lab coats; their faces were irrelevant, just the sight of the clean white fabric would bring me comfort. But for Neil, that was it, he was really gone.

 The days went on and the doctors kept coming by every day. Their voices would fade away while I was sucked into wonderful dreams. I would imagine peaceful worlds far away from the horrors of our own. Simultaneously, the news about the war worsened. Neil’s letters described the enemy groups slowly closing in and every day the morning radio would divulge to me the names of the fallen men. While the doctors kept coming, their coats strangely slowly started to deteriorate. The pure and innocent white gave place to a dirty greyish color and the previously meticulously placed stitches loosened and tore, revealing parts of the black jacket worn underneath. I felt less and less safe and the coats seemed to symbolize it.

 A few weeks later, the morning news stopped broadcasting. Many had already fled the city, but as patients of the asylum, we never got the choice. Kept in our dorms when the sirens rung, we never got out. My days were spent sitting on my bed, waiting for my doctors; the boredom didn’t help my moral. Their visits became scarce and their now almost completely black coats only reminded me of my loneliness. After 16 dreadful days, the coat worn on the shoulders of the doctor that came in appeared red, a bright dazzling red. Armed with a 2.5 inch needle he walked towards me while a black figured appeared in the frame of the door. The figure extended his arm to me and placed his long bony fingers over my eyes. A bright light appeared in front of me and it was over, they had decided we weren’t worth the effort saving.

Mudie, Luisetta. A file photo of a patient suffering from mental illness. Digital image. Rfa. Radio Free Asia, 27 Aug. 2012. Web. 23 Jan. 2015.