The Zoo Called New York

Please No CSS

 

I hate the stares I get on the streets. They treat me like a zoo creature, like I want to spend my whole life being inspected. I feel like I come from a different planet. They just don't understand what it’s like to go through this.

My name is Carmen Forrester, and this is my story.

 

I was admitted to Evergreen Hills Mental Institution 2 years ago. I had been home alone all day. When my husband found me, I was sitting in my closet, a knife at my side, singing a lullaby to my 4-year-old son. I was rushed immediately here, where I was given extensive interrogation. When questioned, though, I couldn’t remember a minute of it. Their explanation for it is that I suffered from insurmountable stress, and whenever my stress levels reached a dangerous point, I did weird things that I cannot remember.

When I finally met some friends at Evergreen Hills, I clung to them like a lifeline. I was close to being transferred to somewhere worse, and I knew I had to prove myself to be allowed to stay.

 

I laugh at the thought, being allowed to stay at a psych ward. I quickly stop though, seeing people stare at me. Sure, I live in a tattered bathrobe and carpet slippers, but they just don't understand what life is like for me. I put my head down and rush even faster to the quaint little coffee shop across the street named Java Dave's. It is here that I’m meeting my new friends.

Their names are Elaine, admitted for attempting to drown her 1-year-old (Elaine and I seem to have the worst things in common), Jenny, a nervous wreck who sees murderers around ever corner, and Patricia (Pat for short). No one’s quite sure what’s wrong with her, but it must have been something serious, because she spent her first year here in solitary. Some suspect, because they saw suspicious welts on her arms, that she may have been a depressed cutter on the rampage. No one presses the subject, for fear of angering her.

Upon walking in, I immediately spotted them. I mean, they weren’t exactly hard to find; Elaine in her bathrobe, Jenny rocking back and forth muttering, and Pat staring blankly, watching a different movie than the rest of us.

I had been a little apprehensive to meet them. Sure we were from the same building, but that didn’t mean we had anything in common. I wasn’t really afraid of being judged because the people I live with (I find it better to say that that the insane people who share my building) are surprisingly unjudgemental. I guess it would be hard to judge, seeing as how that would be like insulting themselves.

I sit down, and see that they are all already armed with their first book, A Hundred Years of Solitude. I had attempted to read it in college, but it wasn’t exactly engrossing at the time. I was hoping, that with the help of my new book club members (I avoid saying friends because I seem to be a friendship phobe), I would find it more entertaining.

“Order! Order!” Elaine’s powerful voice brought me out of my reverie. You would never expect such a commanding voice to come from such a petite person, and for a second I looked around to see if someone else had said it.

“Now, as you know, we have been declared “insane or unstable” by the bosses, but does that stop us from enjoying good books and living our life how we want to? No!” She shouted that last syllable so loudly, people started to stare. Immediately I was embarrassed. Not because of Elaine, no, but because I was wishing I would have at least worn my better bathrobe. Right now, I was wearing a vomit-colored robe, hadn’t bothered to do any makeup beyond a layer of Chapstick, and had grabbed my hair and roughly clipped it to the top of my head. It teetered precariously, and wondered how long it could hold up.

I realized that the whole time I had been babbling to myself, Elaine and Jenny had been talking. I learned this trick a long time ago: if you aren’t following a conversation, just say “Yeah!” a lot, shake your head, and throw in a few “You got that right!’s” for good measure.

When I finally joined back in the conversation, it had turned to the technicalities. “I say we meet once a week on Fridays,” Jenny suggested quietly. “I mean, I don’t know about you, but my schedule isn’t exactly full. I’m empty from here to eternity.”

Patricia busted out in raucous laughter at this, surprising us all. She had seemed so reserved, but all it had taken was a little humor to crack her “tough” shell.

“I say we read two chapters a week, and make this place our official meeting place,” said Patricia, casting an adoring glance at the coffee and the barista making it. He caught her eye, but then blushed and looked away.

Until now, I guess none of us had never really realized just how young Pat was. If she were allowed to go to a salon, get her hair done, and buy new makeup, she wouldn’t look out of place at a nightclub.

“Ooooh, Pat, I can see why you would want to stay!” said Jenny, which drew many hoots and hollers from all of us. Who says us crazies can’t be normal once in a while?

 We just shared a patented “girly moment”. After that, I felt the need to sip margaritas (even though no alcohol was allowed in Rolling hills) and gossip about anything and everything. It’s amazing how meeting new people can radically change your views. Before, the closest thing I had to a friend was Rupert, my stuffed bunny.

Author's Note

Rough copy. What do you think so far? Interesting, or just too weird?

Reviews

[Nevah Ann]

It's a very interesting idea. I'm excited to see what you do with it. The bathrobes are very funny and made me laugh. :) You might want to try adding a little more detail though. Nice Work! :)