Spazzycat101
GryphonABLaZ(E). Lawful chaotic good
Beginning with a short story set and based off of a dystopian world, originally written for a creative writing class.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Present
I live in a cell. It's about the size of a typical small bedroom, and looks very much like one a teenager of decades ago might have lived in. The walls are coloured with a range of hues, mostly greens and blues, but only small peeps can be seen behind a curtain of pencil and pen drawings of people, creatures, places and things from various worlds of my creation. The bedspread of pinks and oranges is wrinkled beneath me. Me, in all my bland splendor, dressed in black spandex leggings and a slightly baggy white shirt over a black sports bra. I didn't like the hospital gown I was given, so they let me have this. It's a depressingly coloured ensemble, but it’s better than a hospital gown, and I think it compliments my eyes and hair. Chocolate coloured eyes and a short, fluffy pixie cut of hair. With supervision, they let me bleach a small bit in the front, but the original colour is still visible. It's no shade different from my eyes. I’m spread out over the vividly coloured covers, which compensate for the bore of neutral colour I am. Light from the barred window lights up the room, streaming through the curtains decorated with hand-drawn patterns. The light looks suspended in the green and purple ribbons that run from wall to wall to weave a gentle web of colour hanging inches below the actual ceiling. It was catching the intangible in a net. One arm is stretched out towards the ceiling, and I'm spreading the same colours over my skin with marker in beautiful, nonsensical spirals and shapes with no two lines intersecting. I jerk violently in response to a sudden rap at the heavy steel door of my cell, and a jagged line of shock skewers the elegant, pointless pattern. The door is only distinguishable by a transition from thumbtacks to magnets bearing the weight of the art on the walls. Before I can respond, the door opens slowly with the flourish of paper to present an escort of three armed guards. The tension in my shoulders is melted into a relieved disappointment. Beneath her helmet, one of them looks at me like she wants to ask what the ink on my skin means, but she’s too afraid to. I answer anyway, after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
‘I was bored,’ I told her. What other reason could I have?
She responds only with an even more uncomfortable expression and more silence.
‘So is this another evaluation?’
They answer with a nod.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3 years prior.
I was sitting in a classroom, another face among the rows of students. Our class was neither small nor large at twenty-five students exactly. This subject was history. Even though I struggled to remember dates and asked the teacher to repeat himself more often than any other student, it was my favorite subject. It had to do with the telling of stories, and it put things into perspective to think that every name in every textbook was a person as deep as myself or another, who might have struggled over decisions that sculpted today.
But characters and plot development weren't what this class was about.
‘Can anyone tell me when the mental health initiative was founded?’
A small crowd of raised hands.
‘The thirties.’ The answer when a student was called.
‘Good. Now the initiative was created to help identify and treat cases of mental illness and deficiencies. In the early 2000’s, our understanding of mental health was very limited…’
Often, I had to silently repeat every word the teacher said in order to pay attention. I had been diagnosed with ADHD the previous year and, very true to the acronym, I had extreme difficulty with anything requiring attention unless it was something that I found interesting. Such a thing was this. The notes my pencil scribbled out slanted slightly, crossing the lines because I was looking at the teacher rather than my writing and my other hand was in the air.
‘Yes?’
‘Did the founding of the initiative follow any big events? Was there something that directly prompted it?’ As soon as I was speaking my hands were over the paper again, prepared to continue its sloppy stream of words.
A pause, then words.
‘Well, over a couple of decades before, social studies and surveys reported that there was a surprisingly high amount of minor mental illnesses that went untreated and sometimes undiagnosed. They also noticed an upward trend in general youth anxiety, depression, and suicide attempts, as horrible as it sounds. There was also a slight increase of annual incidents involving people who were afflicted by more serious mental diseases. Since the founding of the initiative there has been a dramatic decrease in all of those and more.’
I saw a few of the class lower their heads or fidget uncomfortably at the slightly dark turn in the topic, but I was not among those.
‘Also, do you know how he initiative treats their patients? Like what kind of different therapies do the employ?’
‘Ah, no, the initiative doesn't release much about different therapies available, in positive it varies from patient to patient.’ The teacher moved their gaze from me to glance over the rest of the room. ‘Any other questions? Are we alright to move on?’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Present
The walk down to the doctor’s office is long sometimes, but it never feels like it lasts forever. I occupy myself enough by mentally contrasting the slap of my bare feet to the squeak and scuff of the soles of the guards’ shoes on concrete, and glaring at how painfully bland halls are in comparison to my cell. Even the smell is different. My cell smells like warm dusty cloth and blankets and marker ink and pencils and paper, all beneath the scent of a citrus-and-herbs scented candle that I’ve never been aloud to light. The hallways smell like dust too, but cold like concrete. There were doors on either side of the hallway at regular intervals, they looked just like mine from the outside, save a different number on a plastic plaque next to each. Whenever I walk past them I like to wonder what kind of people are behind them. I wonder if they keep everything about them straight and clean or if they know how to maneuver a mess, if they like tea or hot chocolate. I wonder why they're here, if they spend more time in other worlds than they do this one, like me, or if they see things others can't find, or if people tell them things nobody else knows. They must be at least half as interesting as me, otherwise they wouldn't be here, in one of the initiative’s compounds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Present
I live in a cell. It's about the size of a typical small bedroom, and looks very much like one a teenager of decades ago might have lived in. The walls are coloured with a range of hues, mostly greens and blues, but only small peeps can be seen behind a curtain of pencil and pen drawings of people, creatures, places and things from various worlds of my creation. The bedspread of pinks and oranges is wrinkled beneath me. Me, in all my bland splendor, dressed in black spandex leggings and a slightly baggy white shirt over a black sports bra. I didn't like the hospital gown I was given, so they let me have this. It's a depressingly coloured ensemble, but it’s better than a hospital gown, and I think it compliments my eyes and hair. Chocolate coloured eyes and a short, fluffy pixie cut of hair. With supervision, they let me bleach a small bit in the front, but the original colour is still visible. It's no shade different from my eyes. I’m spread out over the vividly coloured covers, which compensate for the bore of neutral colour I am. Light from the barred window lights up the room, streaming through the curtains decorated with hand-drawn patterns. The light looks suspended in the green and purple ribbons that run from wall to wall to weave a gentle web of colour hanging inches below the actual ceiling. It was catching the intangible in a net. One arm is stretched out towards the ceiling, and I'm spreading the same colours over my skin with marker in beautiful, nonsensical spirals and shapes with no two lines intersecting. I jerk violently in response to a sudden rap at the heavy steel door of my cell, and a jagged line of shock skewers the elegant, pointless pattern. The door is only distinguishable by a transition from thumbtacks to magnets bearing the weight of the art on the walls. Before I can respond, the door opens slowly with the flourish of paper to present an escort of three armed guards. The tension in my shoulders is melted into a relieved disappointment. Beneath her helmet, one of them looks at me like she wants to ask what the ink on my skin means, but she’s too afraid to. I answer anyway, after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
‘I was bored,’ I told her. What other reason could I have?
She responds only with an even more uncomfortable expression and more silence.
‘So is this another evaluation?’
They answer with a nod.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3 years prior.
I was sitting in a classroom, another face among the rows of students. Our class was neither small nor large at twenty-five students exactly. This subject was history. Even though I struggled to remember dates and asked the teacher to repeat himself more often than any other student, it was my favorite subject. It had to do with the telling of stories, and it put things into perspective to think that every name in every textbook was a person as deep as myself or another, who might have struggled over decisions that sculpted today.
But characters and plot development weren't what this class was about.
‘Can anyone tell me when the mental health initiative was founded?’
A small crowd of raised hands.
‘The thirties.’ The answer when a student was called.
‘Good. Now the initiative was created to help identify and treat cases of mental illness and deficiencies. In the early 2000’s, our understanding of mental health was very limited…’
Often, I had to silently repeat every word the teacher said in order to pay attention. I had been diagnosed with ADHD the previous year and, very true to the acronym, I had extreme difficulty with anything requiring attention unless it was something that I found interesting. Such a thing was this. The notes my pencil scribbled out slanted slightly, crossing the lines because I was looking at the teacher rather than my writing and my other hand was in the air.
‘Yes?’
‘Did the founding of the initiative follow any big events? Was there something that directly prompted it?’ As soon as I was speaking my hands were over the paper again, prepared to continue its sloppy stream of words.
A pause, then words.
‘Well, over a couple of decades before, social studies and surveys reported that there was a surprisingly high amount of minor mental illnesses that went untreated and sometimes undiagnosed. They also noticed an upward trend in general youth anxiety, depression, and suicide attempts, as horrible as it sounds. There was also a slight increase of annual incidents involving people who were afflicted by more serious mental diseases. Since the founding of the initiative there has been a dramatic decrease in all of those and more.’
I saw a few of the class lower their heads or fidget uncomfortably at the slightly dark turn in the topic, but I was not among those.
‘Also, do you know how he initiative treats their patients? Like what kind of different therapies do the employ?’
‘Ah, no, the initiative doesn't release much about different therapies available, in positive it varies from patient to patient.’ The teacher moved their gaze from me to glance over the rest of the room. ‘Any other questions? Are we alright to move on?’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Present
The walk down to the doctor’s office is long sometimes, but it never feels like it lasts forever. I occupy myself enough by mentally contrasting the slap of my bare feet to the squeak and scuff of the soles of the guards’ shoes on concrete, and glaring at how painfully bland halls are in comparison to my cell. Even the smell is different. My cell smells like warm dusty cloth and blankets and marker ink and pencils and paper, all beneath the scent of a citrus-and-herbs scented candle that I’ve never been aloud to light. The hallways smell like dust too, but cold like concrete. There were doors on either side of the hallway at regular intervals, they looked just like mine from the outside, save a different number on a plastic plaque next to each. Whenever I walk past them I like to wonder what kind of people are behind them. I wonder if they keep everything about them straight and clean or if they know how to maneuver a mess, if they like tea or hot chocolate. I wonder why they're here, if they spend more time in other worlds than they do this one, like me, or if they see things others can't find, or if people tell them things nobody else knows. They must be at least half as interesting as me, otherwise they wouldn't be here, in one of the initiative’s compounds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
