Intro to Tara Part.
Original title: The Ballad of Tara Part
By Mark William Darus
Bright, dark, bright, dark, bright dark, lights flash above her.
THUD! The bed she is strapped to slams through a door, leading to others on her way to the emergency room arena of Mercy Street hospital.
Light and black, light and black, her pupils in a constant state of change, unable to soundly focus on anything without a swirling blur.
Unable to smell anything around her with the oxygen mask taped to her face, she wonders, ‘where the hell am I?’
Trace sounds, most distant, echoing, she hears: “her BP is steady, but her pulse is not consistent at all. We’ve got to move faster, people.” With those voices, the steady hiss of oxygen fills her ears, as the voices state: “I-I-I-I thi-thi-think we’re, we’re we’re losing losing losing her her her” echoing over and over again as if in some deep cavern.
Stabilizing her in the ER, planting her in a Suicide Watch area. Tara lays tranquilized as Haloperidol makes her physically unable to react though her mind never stops thinking, wondering, screaming madly. “Who did this to me?”
Viewing her from behind the two-way mirror, her family and some of the staff look at her with both fascination and outright horror. The amount of dosage given her, she should be knocked out cold, yet she is not and they contemplate why this is.
“She’s always had delusions, heard voices, been a changeling.” Tara’s sister speaks plainly, looking through the glass that separates them.
“Yeah, fuck, her voice even changes…” her brother trails off.
“People, have you even heard of the movie Sybil?” Tara’s eldest brother, highly sarcastically states.
Fuck them all, we’re okay, aren’t we? Tara thinks. Christ, why can’t I move my arms or legs? Damn them all to hell with their drugs, minds and shit. Fuck them all!
“hmmm, a Multiple! Can’t say I have seen many of these. We’ll treat her for now, but a better suited facility would be more beneficial for her,” an attending says to the room nestled behind the mirror.
Days pass placing Tara into a land of sedation and pleasant grounds only embraced by her through barred windows. Lost in a world she did not have any control over, she waits for her chance to bolt.
“Hello Tara, I’m doctor Franks. I’m here to help you.” a dark haired male said to her in a blank voice. Looking down at her with a look of superiority.
Tara, clamped to the very bed threatening bed-sores, wanting a shower, wanting to simply stretch her arms out. Wanting to walk and talk without drugs, starring at the man above her.
“Yeah, nice to fuckin’ meet ya. When can I walk again? Damn it, just let me move my legs a bit, fucker!”
“We can work on those things, Tara.”
“Why are you calling me Tara? I’m Kara, you worthless dickhead!”
“No, you’re Tara.”
“Asshole, no I am not!”
“Very well, Kara.” This doctor has a high knowledge of multiple personalities and responds with calm, unthreatening tone.
Her face changing quickly, as it did in transition from Tara to Kara, Phil sobs in a voice most hurt, pleading “Can’t you just let me move, a little bit, these restraints hurt.”
“In time I am most sure we can make this happen. What is your name, please?”
Face twisted, eyes crying completely, mouth twisting as it fights for non-quivering words, “I’m Phil, Dr. Franks. Nice t-t-t-o meet you.”
“Sorry, Phil. It was not my intention to neglect you.”
“Thank you, Dr. Franks.”
“Tara, why did you try to kill yourself?” Franks questioned her with an easy tone, slightly shifting in his leather chair.
Looking around the tiny world around her, noticing beige walls, white tiled ceiling, grey flooring. Her throat incredibly dry, nearly locking down, she asks, in the tone of a 4 year old, “can I please have a dwink of water.”
“Sorry. Please forgive me. Of course you can.” Leaning over her, he loosens the arm restraints binding them painfully so close to her, noticing bruises profound. Turning from her, he walks to the sink and fills a glass for her and places a straw into it. He knows this will gain her trust. Small token, but meaning much to the one held.
Tara begins to move her arms about. ‘Freedom, sweet freedom , they still work! I was worried for a while there.’ She moves her fingers slowly across her high cheek boned face, liking the feeling of something caressing her more than that of air. ‘they must have gone to the way-back on the drugs.’
“Again, my apologies, Tara, “ Dr Franks says as he hands her the plastic cup.
He angles her bed to the 90 degree position as the sounds of servo motors make it happen.
Taking the white and red striped straw into mouth, she happily begins to suck. Liquid annihilating the worst case of cotton mouth in history as she takes in the best tasting water that only the deprived could now. Tongue splashed, lips wet once again as their dry cracks are engulfed and feel mercy from moist grace. Upper torso muscles more alive, mouth tasting the first thing in days.
Feeling far more capable now to address his question, she says, “I didn’t try to commit suicide.” She looks at him, wanting a rare steak and, maybe, eggs.
“Sorry, Tara, but your sister did find you nearly dead on the floor of your house.”
Looking down with a sheepish face, a wavering male voice takes hold and begins to speak. “It wasn’t Tara, Dr. Franks. I tried to kill us. We have suffered for so long I felt it necessary to pull the p-plug and end us. I really d-d-didn’t want to, please believe m-Me! I had-”
“Phil, you cocksucker! You always try to sell us out!” Kara’s voice sharp and hard like that of a 10 inch butchers knife cutting thin bloody steak.
Most diligent, recognizing the changes before him, he asks, “Kara, please don’t interrupt Phil. I promise you, you’ll have your chance to speak. Phil, what suffering is that you speak of?”
Phil talks honestly, “Confusion. We walk into a store with a reason in mind and we forget why. We buy things we don’t need or want. We wanted food and buy socks or candles and wonder why we go hungry hours after arriving home. This is misery. I gave up and tried to kill us.” Phil looks to the ceiling, gazing from that of Dr Franks view.
“Fucking wanker!” Ebony, a British accented black woman cries out as she descends her fiery glance at Franks. “Mate, you are weak! Off the trolley, buggered, no kippers. You miss Dr. Who so much?”
“And whom might you be, please,”
“I’m Ebony, mind-eater!”
“Grand to meet you, Ebony.” Franks voice, with the greatest of training and experience, wondering of the minefield he has walked into, speaks evenly.
Watching Tara before him, he asks. “Tara, would you like a cheeseburger?”
“I can has cheezzburger?” Tara asks the four word answer in three separate and distinctive voices.
“I’ll order it for you! Any condiments?”
“ketchup would be nice,” Tara says nearly peacefully.
“I want lettuce and tomatoes,” Kara states most loud.
“Tartar sauce! I need tartar sauce,” Ebony exclaims with thick accent.
“Uh, could I have anchovies, please, Doctor?” Phil inquires meekly.
Dr. Franks takes a step back as he hears a chorus of three females voices speak from that of a single mouth.
“No, Phil, we’re not going there!”
Leaving the room, Dr Franks gets several cheeseburgers with various condiments.
Mark William Darus 09192012
Authors Note: This is the very first entry, somewhat changed, in the Ballad of Tara Part.
This is her entry to the world of psych wards, insane assylums and what some might call a journey into mental health. There will be more to follow this entry as it ties into the entry of Tara: Room of 9 Doors a few days ago.
Eclipising all, as you constantly keep doing. Mark, the face pic on this entry conveys a sentiment that must have collided with your thoughts of writings long ago.
ReplyDeleteYou may be a psychopath, but no more so than that of any fictional artist and writer as they display an altered sense of reality. Fuck the haters, Merke, keep on running without stop. My deerest friend, know this, Move to Alaska and you will have a home like none you have ever known.
Love,
-Tabitha,