St. Ansgar at Night

Just a normal night in the St. Ansgar Hospital’s Day Room; twenty of us huddled around the warm radiance of the wide screen television, the smell of popcorn in the air, small shadows at the outer edge of the glow darting in and out of view.

Although my eyes were locked onto the television, a dark shadow the size of a rat ducked its coal black head around the corner of the credenza holding the set. For a fraction of a second, it looked in my direction, and then slipped behind the set, again.

The shadows were three shades darker than black. When I sat up in my recliner, I focused on the shadows. Just before the commercial on TV, another shadow ran along the baseboards, toward the door leading to the kitchen, and then it just disappeared.

I shook my head and refocused my attention. If you haven’t guessed, St. Ansgar was not a normal hospital. The wall split open, and dazzling white light shone from the opening. Blinded momentarily, I looked for the shadows, but nothing stirred.

Two minutes later, another shadow darted from behind the television, scampering in the opposite direction towards the grandfather’s clock, but the shadow managed to stay two feet in front of my gaze. Suddenly, the clock struck nine, even though the face showed the time as 8:50.

About an hour later, there was a sound of something scratching on the back screen door. I slowly entered the kitchen and waited patiently until I heard the scratching on the screen once again. Flipping on the light switch, I flung open the door and thundered, “Gotcha!” but nothing was there.” Damned wind had me jumping at sounds deep in the night. There was only the lone red-eyed shadow wolf darting across the back yard, just like every other night at this time. But he never scratched on the door.

Hallucinating in St. Ansgar’s was commonplace; however, under normal circumstances, I could distinguish hallucinations from reality. For instance, I knew the blue python slipping out of the crack in the wall was not there, but I let it go on so I could see what it would do next. Right before my eyes, the brown, white, and black snake changed to red and black paisley with yellow highlights.

The orderly in pale-purple striped scrubs entered the room, distributed pills, and slipped thermometers under our tongues – noting results on her clipboard as she went from patient to patient. Careful to keep her distance from the snake.

Note to self: This one might be real. “What’s my temperature?”

“You’re at 103°. Same as you were two hours ago. You belong in bed.”

“But what about Sponge . . .”

She interrupted, “It’s a rerun. You can see it later. Now, it’s bedtime.” As she escorted me to my room, I understood why I saw a paisley snake – my brain was simmering in fever.

Once there, I asked, “May I have some water?”

“Sure. With or without crushed ice.”

“With, please.” As I fished crushed ice from my cup, I watched the talking sponge on the television. Have you ever watched a talking sponge while having a high fever? Try it sometime without the ice.

I pulled up a blanket to my chin. Moments later, I started to sweat profusely. Seeing a pile of carrot colored lizards with peacock blue stripes on the floor, I realized they needed the blanket more than I – their stripes were normally aquamarine but changed to turquoise whenever their bodies cooled. I kicked the cover to the floor and rolled on my side, away from the lizards. To my surprise, I now faced a lizard-eating, Giant Stag Beetle the size of a tri-colored collie.

“Please pass the mustard,” requested the beetle. “These things taste better with a little brown mustard with horseradish sauce.”

Since I didn’t have mustard of any kind, I pressed the button on the television’s remote control, and a red light with a nurse symbol came on. Don’t they know there are male nurses, too?

As I waited for the nurse, I watched the Giant Stag Beetle use its mandibles to bite the heads off all the striped lizards, before cutting the little reptiles into bite-sized morsels, and then devouring every smidgeon of the little critters. Once finished, the beetle emitted a thunderous belch as a slimy liquid poured over its thorax, before slithering into the bathroom.

Moments later, Nurse Cratchit, the nurse from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, entered my hospital room. Yeah, I know the nurse character is really named Mildred Ratched, but dammit, it’s my hallucination in my psychiatric ward. “What is it now?” snapped the nurse.

I remained silent while I watched a pink hippopotamus dig its way out of the walls. If I told Cratchit, she would give me more medication. It had been four days since my last dosage. At that time, I saw my wife come out of my hospital bathroom and stare at me for an eternity. Frowning back at her, I asked, “What are you doing?” She promptly disappeared.

The nurse pushed a button on my remote control to turn it off. “Why did you press the call button?” When I did not utter a word, she placed her hand on her left hip and wagged her right index finger at me. Unfortunately, her hand was bloody, and her middle finger was missing. Every time she aimed her pointer finger at me, a little squirt of blood shot towards my face. Although I felt the warm blood hit my cheeks, when I tried to wipe the blood away, it did not show on my hands.

Had I taken my hallucinations seriously, it would have scared the crap out of me, but I knew what I saw was delirium. I insisted, “I didn’t press the button.”

“You pressed the Nurse button on your remote control,” countered Cratchit.

I spat, “No, you pressed it.”

She replied with her standard line before administering shock treatments: “So, are we having delusions again?”

I looked over the edge of my bed and didn’t see any snakes wrapped around Cratchit’s ankles. “I know delusions when I see ’em.”

“Like when you saw the Zippy Zombies?” queried Cratchit in a droll tone.

“Zombies do exist. However, the term ‘Zippy Zombies’ was meant to be a joke; a wisecrack.”

“You know, you shouldn’t do it; wisecrack. In this ward, a good-natured witticism can result in a horrible mistake, resulting in a lobotomy, or even worse.” Cratchit sneered, “Do you catch my drift?”

She’s threatening me again. Obediently, I replied. “Yes, nurse.”

When she lifted her hand, it was wrapped around a syringe filled with bronze fluid.

Another hallucination? Bronze does not liquify until it reaches 1000°C. Pointing at the needle, I asked, “Is that for me?”

“It’s for everyone who sees paisley or plaid animals. Have you been seeing those terrible creatures again?”

“I don’t know. What do you want?”

“I want you to get all better. This will help you sleep.”

“When I sleep, I dream. I don’t want to dream.”

Cratchit lowered the syringe and asked, “What kind of dreams?”

Lost for words, I mumbled, “Normal ones.”

“Describe ‘normal,’” pressed the nurse.

“You know, I dream about the USA, baseball, apple pie, and Druid Housewives.”

“Druid Housewives? You dream about Druid Housewives?”

WOOPS! I said the wrong thing. How can I survive my reckless comment?

Before I could reply, Cratchit probed, “Are the dreams sexual in nature?”

“No, they’re patriotic.”

“Why would you fear patriotic dreams? Besides, can you describe how Druid Housewives are patriotic?”

It’s a gotcha moment. What can I say? “Never mind.”

“No, please. I’m dying to hear your answer.”

“You’ll just think I’m crazy.”

Cratchit chuckled, “That ship has already sailed, so humor me. Please describe how Druid Housewives are patriotic?”

“In my dreams, the Druid Housewives are all wearing British Flags.”

“How is that patriotic?”

 “When the sun sets, the housewives strip naked and don clothes made from past and present American Flags. The most popular flag is the Gadsden flag.

“Isn’t that the Don’t Tread on Me flag?” When I nodded, she added, “That sounds like the beginning of a kinky S & M dream.”  

“I don’t let it come to that.”

“How do you prevent it?”

“I know when I’m dreaming. I’ve known that since I was eight years old. If my dreams are scary or sad, I can force myself to wake up.”

The nurse laid her syringe down and grabbed her clipboard to scribble a note. “Hmm! That’s interesting. Can you do that every time you have a nightmare?”

“Almost always.”

“Almost?” challenged Cratchit.

“I have this one dream, and it always takes place in the middle of a mall with a hotel attached to it. Sometimes the details change, but I’m always placed in a situation where I need to fly home on a moment’s notice, without my luggage. In some dreams, I think about my luggage when I’m on the plane, or in the airport, or I’m in my hotel room, and my bags have been stolen. Most of the time I need to awake, but in some cases I go to the second level of dreaming.”

“Which is?” poked the Inquisitor.

“I need to make a decision. Either I leave my luggage and fly home. Or I get my bags and miss my flight?”

“What option do you choose most frequently?” Neither. I force myself to awake.”

Expecting a psychological revelation, Cratchit’s head dropped as she grumbled, “So, where does your Housewife Druid dream take place? Stonehenge?”

“No, Colorado. But the Colorado Mountains on the horizon look like a profile of the Stonehenge rock formation.”

“What else do Druid Housewives do to seem patriotic?”

“They run up and down the halls of St. Ansgar’s screaming, ‘The British are coming. The British are coming.’ Don’t you think that’s patriotic?”

“Are they dressed when they do that?”

“Certainly! It wouldn’t be very patriotic if they were naked, would it?”

“You tell me,” poked Cratchit.

I scoffed, “Nurse, I’m a little disturbed, but I’m not perverted.”

“So, you see Druid women running up and down the halls doing their best Paul Revere imitations.”

“Is that a question or a statement?” I folded my hands behind my head and leaned back. “Does it really matter? They are of no consequence.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“And you’re the one stressing over my dreams.

“I’m not stressing about them.”

“Well, I’m not, either. I meant my reply to be in the sanest possible way. They are good things.”

“Yet, you’re afraid to dream. There must be something else to cause your nightmares.”

She’s lifting the needle, again. I need to buy some time. “I’m much better now than I was two weeks ago.

Cratchit lowered her syringe. “What do you mean?”

“Two weeks ago, I saw Shadow Demons with bright red eyes. They scared me out of sleep. Now, I wake myself up during a bad dream. I used to wake in a cold sweat, but now I’ve learned to identify a dream as a dream. I awake to a more peaceful awareness, except when the Shadow Demons are near.

“Why do you think that is?”

Unable to stop myself, I blurted a limerick:

“Terror, horror, panic, shock.

Those are things dreams unlock.

Trepidation, anguish, fear, and fright.

Those are things that fill my night.”

“I see Hippopotami performing a pirouette,

In fishnet hose that make them sweat.

When they dance their wacky waltz,

They eagerly bump bellies until it halts.”

“After ending their badass ballet.

They finish their bawdy display.

As they close their eyes to nap.

They see another day unwrapped.”

Unamused by my rhyme, Nurse Cratchit jabbed my ass with the needle. One by one, the little shadow-rats rested on my warm chest.

So ends another typical night at St. Ansgar’s Asylum for Challenged Writers.