Page 95 of Switch!
The new patient registration process involves a tedious amount of paperwork. This is supposed to help people feel less crazy? I’m not allowed to keep my personal effects. This includes my shoelaces. Probably in case I try to hang myself with them, but I don’t ask. I intend to stay calm, quiet, and indisputably sane so they can’t find any reason to keep me here.
The rest of the day passes quickly. Two different doctors interview me, my blood is drawn, I pee into a cup, and then I’m shown to my room. I don’t get a private suite, to my disappointment. I suppose that makes sense, considering the reason I’m here, although my new roommate isn’t there to watch over me. He’s a fellow patient.
“I would do anything for a drink right now,” he says for what must be the twentieth time.
I’m not sure what his name is. I heard it when we were first introduced but was too overwhelmed by everything to take it in. Now I’ve had manymanyhours to adjust to his singular obsession with booze.
“My cousin drank rubbing alcohol once,” he says while sitting on the corner of the bed, his hands shaking. He must be in his thirties. His hair is thinning, and he’s not in the best shape. “It can get you drunk. Did you know that?”
“Nope,” I respond, hoping that will be the end of it.
“Yeah. It messed up my cousin real bad. First he complained about his throat burning, but we figured that’s normal for hard liquor. Then he started puking up blood. I had to rush him to the emergency room. First time I ever drove. I was only fourteen.”
“What happened to him?” I ask from my own bed, where I sit cross-legged.
“He nearly died. I don’t know what was wrong with him exactly. Just that he was in the hospital for a week. Now he can’t eat spicy food. Or most things. Whenever I see him, he’s always munching on saltines.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
“Yeah. But I’d risk it now, if you had a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Except I would be smart. I’d water it down instead of doing shots.”
I’m pretty sure that would still poison him. A teacher lectured us about it at school once. The alcohol isn’t the right type or something. “I don’t have any,” I say when I notice his eager stare.
“Too bad. I don’t think I’m going to get any sleep tonight.”
One of his knees is now bouncing along with his hands.
“Me neither,” I mutter because something has upset Patrick, enough that he’s wailing inside of me. I’m reminded of my old apartment in Cheyenne and how sirens from emergency vehicles would drown out the sound of the TV. That’s what Patrick is like, although his siren is powered by human misery. This manifests as a feeling rather than a sound and is always in the back of my mind. Sometimes it becomes more intense. I’m not sure why. I only know that it’s slowly driving me insane.
“I guess we should try,” my roommate says, rising and pulling back the blankets. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”
We’re both locked in this room. Someone comes by once an hour to check on us. We can use an old-fashioned intercom if we need to speak to whoever is manning the nurses’ station. The entire experience is odd, like the love child of a jail cell and a hotel room.
I follow my roommate’s lead and get ready for bed. I take off everything but my underwear, folding my clothes neatly and placing them on the dresser between our two beds. I wouldn’t normally treat my clothes with such reverence, but I only have the one outfit. I appreciate Jesse’s thoughtfulness. I only wish he’d brought more. After crawling beneath the blankets, I take off my underwear too, since it won’t get any fresher from me wearing it all night. Maybe I’ll spend tomorrow in the bathrobe I wore to the emergency room.
The thought makes me laugh as I settle down and press my cheek against the pillow. It’s the last joy I feel for the next hour. I try every trick I can think of to get myself to fall asleep—clenching muscles and relaxing them, mentally naming all the elements on the periodic table—things that usually work, but they don’t now. Listening to my roommate toss and turn doesn’t help, but what’s really keeping me up is the swirling mass of anguish inside my mind.
I want to escape into my black box where it would be perfectly silent, if I so desire. My only reservation is what Patrick will do once he’s in control again. A thought occurs to me then, making my eyes shoot open. I know he’s been depressed for quite some time, but the most recent bout might be my fault. Patrick must realize that he’s no longer steering this ship. Setting him loose might calm him down again.
I relinquish control. At first he just lays there. Patrick doesn’t seem confused about his surroundings. My previous hosts remained alert, even while I directed events. Like them, his mind must be creating its own explanations for any unusual behavior. Although he shouldn’t feel too confused about a botched suicide attempt landing him in a psychiatric hospital.
Patrick doesn’t seem to feel any better now that he’s been set free. His insides continue to ache with sorrow. If anything, his misery is even more potent now. He slides out of bed, his movements slow and stealthy. Patrick walks to the end of the bed, pulling the comforter along with him. This he lets fall to the floor. He returns to untuck the top sheet so it’s loose. Then he starts rolling it, like he plans on making a rope he can use to climb out the window.
I’ll need to find something to hang it from.
Patrick glances around.
Nothing. The shower head maybe.
Oh. He’s not planning to break out of here. Patrick has another sort of escape in mind. Little more than ten minutes have passed since I gave him control, and already he’s trying to find a new way to die.
I can’t allow that. I reassert control. Patrick resists, but I have more experience at this sort of thing and quickly dominate him. I hurriedly make the bed again before a nurse can open the door and find me standing there naked. Then I slide between the sheets, but I don’t bother closing my eyes. Patrick is already wailing again, his anguish radiating through my mind and making me feel depressed. If he wants to die so bad, I’m tempted to try booting him out of this body completely. That would be murder, intentional this time, which I could never live with.
Another idea occurs to me. I’m not sure if it’s moral, or if it’ll work. Only one way to find out. I retreat into my black box, but along the way, I mentally spread my arms wide and attempt to grab hold of Patrick by focusing on the source of the unhappiness. Success! I find myself in a square room with obsidian walls, but for once I’m not alone. Standing in front of me is a man who looks very much like Patrick, but in a way that I’ve only caught glimpses of in his memories. He’s healthier. Physically anyway. Patrick glances around, as if puzzled, his head whipping back to check on me distrustfully.
“Where am I?” he asks.
“Inside the black box,” I respond. “Don’t be scared. It’s a good place.” I’m about to explain that he merely needs to imagine something and it’ll appear, when I wonder if that’s what I’ve done. I wanted him here with me, but how do I know if he’s real? Patrick could be tying sheets around his neck back in the real world. “Uh… Be right back.”
