u/Matkovich9

At least, that’s how I always felt.

Ever since I can remember, there was a disconnect between me and everyone else. People were happy, went out, fell in love, started families… I can't even remember the last time I was able to have a good night's sleep.

Feeling like this feeds itself. You think you are an outsider, and people leave you outside. It is just how things go, I think, because it is how it happened.

I heard somewhere that talking about it helps, but if it did, I would be feeling great right now, since I talk to myself constantly.

Never having friends, not even an acknowledgement once in a while, makes you think something is wrong with you from the start. But if it was there for as long as I can remember, was it even wrong, or simply part of how I was made? Hard to tell, and even though talking with anyone would be nice, not having this confirmed is even better.

It didn't change much during my whole life. I got a job where everyone did, worked where everyone worked. It all seemed… meaningless, like what I did didn’t matter. I never cared about money or possessions anyway. All I had were the clothes on my body, and that was enough for me.

Walking around the city, seeing it change so fast was odd, but I've seen it before. People like to push things forward. I always heard that being in nature was good for people, so I went to the beach more often than anywhere else. Things don’t change much there, but the feeling of alienation is still the same. Nights are better. If being in nature really helps, it wouldn’t be my voice people would hear saying so, if I even have one at this point.

The thought that at least I had my mother made me feel a little better. I hoped she would understand what I was going through; she had been with me all the way through it. She was always there for me. But she would go out even less. With time, I think my constant sadness made her worse. I should stop visiting her all the same.

I fought being alone a lot, at first. I would go to all sorts of events, trying to fake being part of whatever was going on. At that point, feeling normal was more important than being normal.

I went to local fairs. I wouldn't buy anything; I never knew where my change went. I must have left it with my mom. I would act like I belonged there, even if it was just by myself. No one seemed to catch on, or care. I think that was the point.

I once crashed a wedding. I always thought the dresses were weird, but if they liked them, it was fine. After that, there was a huge party. People would dance, drink, laugh… all the things a celebration is supposed to do.

I liked that one in particular because the man conducting the ceremony came and talked with me. It had been a while since that happened; my voice barely came out. He asked how I was doing and if I planned to stay. But then he asked if I would like to go to his church. I heard religious people always try to convert you, so I told him, “Maybe.” He said I should stay longer and talk to more people if I could. I thanked him, but at that point felt like it was too much. So I left.

Museums here were something else. Somehow, every time I came back, they had a different exhibition. That's probably why the staff wouldn’t stay long; imagine having to learn a whole new exhibition every time one came in, when you were just some young worker looking for easy money. Since it was just me there most of the time, I would make their life easier and keep to myself. Plus, I just liked to look at the exhibits, and obviously bash the weird ones. People dressed much better in the pictures. Clothes today are strange, less elegant. Styles of dress change quickly — that’s the whole point. People don’t want to look the same as they did last month. I’ll keep the ones I like, thank you very much.

Cinema was always all the rage, so I would go there from time to time. Ever since it became more popular, it was another place where I could blend in and feel a sense of normality, since most people came with friends. I got my ticket and sat at the front, where there would be fewer people, but still enough. The stories never made any sense, but I wasn't there for them. Also, the actors' names were getting harder and harder to pronounce. My God, where do they even come from?! A place that treats people like me a little better, I hope.

One thing I would avoid was funerals. They were too sad, and I respected the fact that people were grieving the loss of someone they loved. I hope that one day, I have someone who cares enough to cry when I'm gone. But just a little; they should be happy afterward. I am not completely unhinged.

Every day feels like it's the last day. A man can only go so far with willpower alone. I didn’t want to throw this baggage on anyone, especially my mother, but who else would hear my woes?

It was a hard walk to her home, knowing how our talk would be. She was a good woman, and I was the one who had failed, not her.

What choice did I have? I couldn’t see one anymore.

She looked at me the same way she always did: happy to see me, but sad that nothing had changed. It had been a while since I had visited her. We talked a bit about her life and how she'd been. My younger brother takes good care of her; he knows I can't offer much help anymore. His health has been getting worse, though. I know it's an awful thing to think, but at least she’ll be gone before him. That is the normal course of life. It’s still awful.

When the time finally came, I spoke plainly. I couldn’t take it anymore. An entire life on the outside. She took it well at first and told me she loved me. She understood why I felt this way, but all she could do was plead with me.

“I can't bear to see you die a second time, son.”

It explained why every day began with the same step down.

At least, that’s how I always felt.

Ever since I can remember, there was a disconnect. People were happy, fell in love, started families… I can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep.

Feeling like this feeds itself. You think you are an outsider, and people leave you outside. It’s just how things go, since it’s how it happened. 

Never having even an acknowledgement makes you think something is wrong with you from the start. But if it was there for as long as I can remember, was it even wrong, or simply part of who I am? Even though talking with anyone would be nice, not having this confirmed is even better.

I heard somewhere that talking helps, but if it did,I would be doing great by now, since I talk to myself constantly.

It didn't change much during my whole life. I got a job where everyone did, worked where everyone worked. It all seemed meaningless, like what I did didn’t matter. I never cared much about money or possessions anyway. All I had were the clothes on my body, and that was enough. 

Walking around the city, seeing it change so fast was odd, but I've seen it before. People like to push things forward. It just made me feel more isolated, though. I went to the beach more often than anywhere else because people said nature helped. Things don’t change much there, but the feeling stayed the same. Nights were better. If nature really helped, it wouldn’t be my voice people would hear saying so, if I even have one at this point. 

The thought that at least I had my mother made me feel a little better. She had been with me all the way through it. She was always there for me. But with time, I think my constant sadness made her worse. I should have stopped visiting her. 

I fought being alone a lot, at first. I would go to all sorts of events, trying to fake being part of whatever was going on. At that point, feeling normal was more important than being normal. 

At local fairs, I wouldn't buy anything. I never knew where my change went. I must have left it with my mom. I just walked around, acting like I belonged there. No one seemed to catch on, or care. I think that was the point.

I once crashed a wedding. I always thought the dresses were weird, but who am I to judge? I liked this one in particular because the man conducting the ceremony came and talked with me. It had been a while since that happened; my voice barely came out. He asked how I was doing and if I planned to stay. Then he asked if I would like to go to his church. I heard religious people always try to convert you, so I told him, “Maybe.” He said I should stay longer and talk to more people if I could. I thanked him, but that was too much. So I left. 

Museums here were something else. Somehow, every time I came back, they had a different exhibition. That's probably why the staff wouldn’t stay long; imagine learning a whole new exhibition every time one came in. Since it was just me there most of the time, I would make their life easier and keep to myself. Plus, I liked to look at the exhibits, and obviously bash the weird ones. People dressed much better in the pictures. Clothes today are strange, less elegant. Styles change quickly — that’s the whole point. People don’t want to look the same as they did last month. I’ll keep the ones I like, thank you very much. 

Cinema was always all the rage, so I would go there from time to time. Ever since it became more popular, it was another place where I could blend in, since most were accompanied by friends. I got my ticket and sat at the front, where there would be fewer people, but still enough. The stories never made sense, but I wasn't there for them. Also, the actors' names were getting harder to pronounce. My God, where do they even come from?! A place that treats people like me better, I hope.

One thing I would avoid was funerals. They were too sad, in addition to me not being a completely unhinged creep. I respected the fact that they were grieving someone they loved. I hope that one day, I have someone who cares enough to cry when I'm gone. But just a little; they should be happy afterward.

Every day feels like it's the last day. A man can only go so far with willpower alone. I didn’t want to throw this baggage on anyone, especially my mother, but who else would hear my woes?

It was a hard walk to her home. She was a good woman. I was the one who had failed, not her. 

What choice did I have? I couldn’t see one anymore.

She looked at me the same way she always did: happy to see me, but sad that nothing had changed. It had been a while since I had visited her. We talked a bit about her life and how she'd been. My younger brother takes good care of her; he knows I can't offer much help anymore. His health has been getting worse, though. I know it's awful to think, but at least she’ll be gone before him. That is the normal course of life. It’s still awful.

When the time finally came, I spoke plainly. I couldn’t take it anymore. An entire life on the outside. She took it well at first and told me she loved me. She understood why I felt this way, but all she could do was plead with me. 

“I can't bear to see you die a second time, son.”

It explained why every day began with the same step down.

At least, that’s how I always felt.

Ever since I can remember, there was a disconnect between me and everyone else. People were happy, went out, fell in love, started families… I can't even remember the last time I was able to have a good night's sleep.

Feeling like this feeds itself. You think you are an outsider, and people leave you outside. It is just how things go, I think, because it is how it happened. 

I heard somewhere that talking about it helps, but if it did, I would be feeling great right now, since talking is all I do. I talk to myself constantly.

I no longer feel sad about it, at least not all the time. The sting only hits every now and then.

Never having friends, not even an acknowledgement once in a while, makes you think something is wrong with you from the start. But if it was there for as long as I can remember, was it even wrong, or simply part of how I was made? Hard to tell from my own perspective, and even though talking with anyone would be nice, not having this confirmed is even better.

It didn't change much during my whole life. I got a job where everyone did, worked where everyone worked. It all seemed… meaningless, like what I did didn’t matter. I never cared about the money or possessions anyway. All I had were the clothes on my body, and that was enough for me.

Walking around the city, seeing it change so fast was odd, but I've seen it before. People like to push things forward. It just made me feel more isolated, though. I always heard that being in nature was good for people, so I went to the beach more often than anywhere else. Things don’t change much there, but the feeling of alienation is still the same. Nights are better. If being in nature really helps, it wouldn’t be my voice people would hear saying so, if I even have one at this point. 

The thought that at least I had my mother made me feel a little better. I hoped she would understand what I was going through; she had been with me all the way through it. She was always there for me. But she would go out even less. At least that explains my behavior. With time, I think my constant sad state made her worse. I should stop visiting her all the same.

I fought being alone a lot, at first. I would go to all sorts of events, trying to fake being part of whatever was going on. At that point, feeling normal was more important than being normal. 

I went to local fairs. I wouldn't buy anything; I never knew where my change went. I must have left it with my mom. I don't care about money. I would act like I belonged there, even if it was just by myself. No one seemed to catch on, or care. I think that was the point. 

I once crashed a wedding. I always thought the dresses were weird, but if they liked them, it was fine. After that, there was a huge party. People would dance, drink, laugh… all the things a celebration is supposed to do.

I liked this one in particular because the man conducting the ceremony came and talked with me. It had been a while since that happened; my voice barely came out. He asked how I was doing and if I planned to stay long. But then he asked if I would like to go to his church. That took some of the comfort out of it, but I heard religious people always try to convert you, so I told him, “Maybe.” He said I should stay longer and talk to more people if I could. I thanked him, but since I liked to just be around at that point, that was too much. So I left.

Museums here were something else. Somehow, every time I came back, they had a different exhibition. That's probably why the staff wouldn’t stay long; imagine having to learn a whole new exhibition every time one came in, when you were just some young worker looking for easy money. Since it was just me there most of the time, I would make their life easier and keep it to myself. Plus, I just liked to look at the exhibits, and obviously bash the weird ones. People dressed much better in the pictures. Clothes today are strange, less elegant. Styles of dress change quickly — that’s the whole point. People don’t want to look the same as they did last month. I’ll keep the ones I like, thank you very much.

Cinema was always all the rage, so I would go there from time to time. Ever since it became more popular, it was another place where I could blend in and feel a sense of normality, since most were accompanied by their friends. I got my ticket and sat at the front, where there would be fewer people, but still enough. The stories never made any sense, but I wasn't there for them. Also, the actors' names were getting harder and harder to pronounce. My God, where do they even come from?! A place that treats people like me a little better, I hope.

One thing I would avoid was funerals. They were too sad, in addition to me not being a completely unhinged creep. I respected the fact that they were grieving the loss of someone they loved. I hope that one day, I have someone who cares enough to cry when I'm gone. But just a little; they should be happy afterward. I am not completely unhinged.

Every day feels like it's the last day. A man can only go so far with willpower alone. I didn’t want to throw this baggage on anyone, especially my mother, but who else would hear my woes?

It was a hard walk to her home, knowing how our talk would be. She was a good woman, and I was the one who had failed, not her.

What choice did I have? I couldn’t see one anymore.

She looked at me the same way she always did: happy to see me, but sad that nothing had changed. It had been a while since I had visited her. We talked a bit about her life and how she'd been. My younger brother takes good care of her; he knows I can't offer much help anymore. His health has been getting worse, though. I know it's an awful thing to think, but at least she’ll be gone before him. That is the normal course of life. It’s still awful.

When the time finally came, I spoke plainly. I couldn’t take it anymore. An entire life on the outside. She took it well at first and told me she loved me. She understood why I felt this way, but all she could do was plead with me.

“I can't bear to see you die a second time, son.”

It explained why every day began with the same step down.

At least, that’s how I always felt.

Ever since I can remember, there was a disconnect between me and everyone else. People were happy, went out, fell in love, started families… I can't even remember the last time I was able to have a good night's sleep.

Feeling like this feeds itself. You think you are an outsider, and people leave you outside. It is just how things go, I think, because it is how it happened.

I heard somewhere that talking about it helps, but if it did, I would be feeling great right now, since I talk to myself constantly.

Never having friends, not even an acknowledgement once in a while, makes you think something is wrong with you from the start. But if it was there for as long as I can remember, was it even wrong, or simply part of how I was made? Hard to tell, and even though talking with anyone would be nice, not having this confirmed is even better.

It didn't change much during my whole life. I got a job where everyone did, worked where everyone worked. It all seemed… meaningless, like what I did didn’t matter. I never cared about money or possessions anyway. All I had were the clothes on my body, and that was enough for me.

Walking around the city, seeing it change so fast was odd, but I've seen it before. People like to push things forward. I always heard that being in nature was good for people, so I went to the beach more often than anywhere else. Things don’t change much there, but the feeling of alienation is still the same. Nights are better. If being in nature really helps, it wouldn’t be my voice people would hear saying so, if I even have one at this point.

The thought that at least I had my mother made me feel a little better. I hoped she would understand what I was going through; she had been with me all the way through it. She was always there for me. But she would go out even less. With time, I think my constant sadness made her worse. I should stop visiting her all the same.

I fought being alone a lot, at first. I would go to all sorts of events, trying to fake being part of whatever was going on. At that point, feeling normal was more important than being normal.

I went to local fairs. I wouldn't buy anything; I never knew where my change went. I must have left it with my mom. I would act like I belonged there, even if it was just by myself. No one seemed to catch on, or care. I think that was the point.

I once crashed a wedding. I always thought the dresses were weird, but if they liked them, it was fine. After that, there was a huge party. People would dance, drink, laugh… all the things a celebration is supposed to do.

I liked that one in particular because the man conducting the ceremony came and talked with me. It had been a while since that happened; my voice barely came out. He asked how I was doing and if I planned to stay. But then he asked if I would like to go to his church. I heard religious people always try to convert you, so I told him, “Maybe.” He said I should stay longer and talk to more people if I could. I thanked him, but at that point felt like it was too much. So I left.

Museums here were something else. Somehow, every time I came back, they had a different exhibition. That's probably why the staff wouldn’t stay long; imagine having to learn a whole new exhibition every time one came in, when you were just some young worker looking for easy money. Since it was just me there most of the time, I would make their life easier and keep to myself. Plus, I just liked to look at the exhibits, and obviously bash the weird ones. People dressed much better in the pictures. Clothes today are strange, less elegant. Styles of dress change quickly — that’s the whole point. People don’t want to look the same as they did last month. I’ll keep the ones I like, thank you very much.

Cinema was always all the rage, so I would go there from time to time. Ever since it became more popular, it was another place where I could blend in and feel a sense of normality, since most people came with friends. I got my ticket and sat at the front, where there would be fewer people, but still enough. The stories never made any sense, but I wasn't there for them. Also, the actors' names were getting harder and harder to pronounce. My God, where do they even come from?! A place that treats people like me a little better, I hope.

One thing I would avoid was funerals. They were too sad, and I respected the fact that people were grieving the loss of someone they loved. I hope that one day, I have someone who cares enough to cry when I'm gone. But just a little; they should be happy afterward. I am not completely unhinged.

Every day feels like it's the last day. A man can only go so far with willpower alone. I didn’t want to throw this baggage on anyone, especially my mother, but who else would hear my woes?

It was a hard walk to her home, knowing how our talk would be. She was a good woman, and I was the one who had failed, not her.

What choice did I have? I couldn’t see one anymore.

She looked at me the same way she always did: happy to see me, but sad that nothing had changed. It had been a while since I had visited her. We talked a bit about her life and how she'd been. My younger brother takes good care of her; he knows I can't offer much help anymore. His health has been getting worse, though. I know it's an awful thing to think, but at least she’ll be gone before him. That is the normal course of life. It’s still awful.

When the time finally came, I spoke plainly. I couldn’t take it anymore. An entire life on the outside. She took it well at first and told me she loved me. She understood why I felt this way, but all she could do was plead with me.

“I can't bear to see you die a second time, son.”

It explained why every day began with the same step down.

At least, that’s how I always felt.

Ever since I can remember, there was a disconnect between me and everyone else. People were happy, went out, fell in love, started families… I can't even remember the last time I was able to have a good night's sleep.

Feeling like this feeds itself. You think you are an outsider, and people leave you outside. It is just how things go, I think, because it is how it happened. 

I heard somewhere that talking about it helps, but if it did, I would be feeling great right now, since talking is all I do. I talk to myself constantly.

I no longer feel sad about it, at least not all the time. The sting only hits every now and then.

Never having friends, not even an acknowledgement once in a while, makes you think something is wrong with you from the start. But if it was there for as long as I can remember, was it even wrong, or simply part of how I was made? Hard to tell from my own perspective, and even though talking with anyone would be nice, not having this confirmed is even better.

It didn't change much during my whole life. I got a job where everyone did, worked where everyone worked. It all seemed… meaningless, like what I did didn’t matter. I never cared about the money or possessions anyway. All I had were the clothes on my body, and that was enough for me.

Walking around the city, seeing it change so fast was odd, but I've seen it before. People like to push things forward. It just made me feel more isolated, though. I always heard that being in nature was good for people, so I went to the beach more often than anywhere else. Things don’t change much there, but the feeling of alienation is still the same. Nights are better. If being in nature really helps, it wouldn’t be my voice people would hear saying so, if I even have one at this point. 

The thought that at least I had my mother made me feel a little better. I hoped she would understand what I was going through; she had been with me all the way through it. She was always there for me. But she would go out even less. At least that explains my behavior. With time, I think my constant sad state made her worse. I should stop visiting her all the same.

I fought being alone a lot, at first. I would go to all sorts of events, trying to fake being part of whatever was going on. At that point, feeling normal was more important than being normal. 

I went to local fairs. I wouldn't buy anything; I never knew where my change went. I must have left it with my mom. I don't care about money. I would act like I belonged there, even if it was just by myself. No one seemed to catch on, or care. I think that was the point. 

I once crashed a wedding. I always thought the dresses were weird, but if they liked them, it was fine. After that, there was a huge party. People would dance, drink, laugh… all the things a celebration is supposed to do.

I liked this one in particular because the man conducting the ceremony came and talked with me. It had been a while since that happened; my voice barely came out. He asked how I was doing and if I planned to stay long. But then he asked if I would like to go to his church. That took some of the comfort out of it, but I heard religious people always try to convert you, so I told him, “Maybe.” He said I should stay longer and talk to more people if I could. I thanked him, but since I liked to just be around at that point, that was too much. So I left.

Museums here were something else. Somehow, every time I came back, they had a different exhibition. That's probably why the staff wouldn’t stay long; imagine having to learn a whole new exhibition every time one came in, when you were just some young worker looking for easy money. Since it was just me there most of the time, I would make their life easier and keep it to myself. Plus, I just liked to look at the exhibits, and obviously bash the weird ones. People dressed much better in the pictures. Clothes today are strange, less elegant. Styles of dress change quickly — that’s the whole point. People don’t want to look the same as they did last month. I’ll keep the ones I like, thank you very much.

Cinema was always all the rage, so I would go there from time to time. Ever since it became more popular, it was another place where I could blend in and feel a sense of normality, since most were accompanied by their friends. I got my ticket and sat at the front, where there would be fewer people, but still enough. The stories never made any sense, but I wasn't there for them. Also, the actors' names were getting harder and harder to pronounce. My God, where do they even come from?! A place that treats people like me a little better, I hope.

One thing I would avoid was funerals. They were too sad, in addition to me not being a completely unhinged creep. I respected the fact that they were grieving the loss of someone they loved. I hope that one day, I have someone who cares enough to cry when I'm gone. But just a little; they should be happy afterward. I am not completely unhinged.

Every day feels like it's the last day. A man can only go so far with willpower alone. I didn’t want to throw this baggage on anyone, especially my mother, but who else would hear my woes?

It was a hard walk to her home, knowing how our talk would be. She was a good woman, and I was the one who had failed, not her.

What choice did I have? I couldn’t see one anymore.

She looked at me the same way she always did: happy to see me, but sad that nothing had changed. It had been a while since I had visited her. We talked a bit about her life and how she'd been. My younger brother takes good care of her; he knows I can't offer much help anymore. His health has been getting worse, though. I know it's an awful thing to think, but at least she’ll be gone before him. That is the normal course of life. It’s still awful.

When the time finally came, I spoke plainly. I couldn’t take it anymore. An entire life on the outside. She took it well at first and told me she loved me. She understood why I felt this way, but all she could do was plead with me.

“I can't bear to see you die a second time, son.”

It explained why every day began with the same step down.

At least, that’s how I always felt.

Ever since I can remember, there was a disconnect between me and everyone else. People were happy, went out, fell in love, started families… I can't even remember the last time I was able to have a good night's sleep.

Feeling like this feeds itself. You think you are an outsider, and people leave you outside. It is just how things go, I think, because it is how it happened. 

I heard somewhere that talking about it helps, but if it did, I would be feeling great right now, since talking is all I do. I talk to myself constantly.

I no longer feel sad about it, at least not all the time. The sting only hits every now and then.

Never having friends, not even an acknowledgement once in a while, makes you think something is wrong with you from the start. But if it was there for as long as I can remember, was it even wrong, or simply part of how I was made? Hard to tell from my own perspective, and even though talking with anyone would be nice, not having this confirmed is even better.

It didn't change much during my whole life. I got a job where everyone did, worked where everyone worked. It all seemed… meaningless, like what I did didn’t matter. I never cared about the money or possessions anyway. All I had were the clothes on my body, and that was enough for me.

Walking around the city, seeing it change so fast was odd, but I've seen it before. People like to push things forward. It just made me feel more isolated, though. I always heard that being in nature was good for people, so I went to the beach more often than anywhere else. Things don’t change much there, but the feeling of alienation is still the same. Nights are better. If being in nature really helps, it wouldn’t be my voice people would hear saying so, if I even have one at this point. 

The thought that at least I had my mother made me feel a little better. I hoped she would understand what I was going through; she had been with me all the way through it. She was always there for me. But she would go out even less. At least that explains my behavior. With time, I think my constant sad state made her worse. I should stop visiting her all the same.

I fought being alone a lot, at first. I would go to all sorts of events, trying to fake being part of whatever was going on. At that point, feeling normal was more important than being normal. 

I went to local fairs. I wouldn't buy anything; I never knew where my change went. I must have left it with my mom. I don't care about money. I would act like I belonged there, even if it was just by myself. No one seemed to catch on, or care. I think that was the point. 

I once crashed a wedding. I always thought the dresses were weird, but if they liked them, it was fine. After that, there was a huge party. People would dance, drink, laugh… all the things a celebration is supposed to do.

I liked this one in particular because the man conducting the ceremony came and talked with me. It had been a while since that happened; my voice barely came out. He asked how I was doing and if I planned to stay long. But then he asked if I would like to go to his church. That took some of the comfort out of it, but I heard religious people always try to convert you, so I told him, “Maybe.” He said I should stay longer and talk to more people if I could. I thanked him, but since I liked to just be around at that point, that was too much. So I left.

Museums here were something else. Somehow, every time I came back, they had a different exhibition. That's probably why the staff wouldn’t stay long; imagine having to learn a whole new exhibition every time one came in, when you were just some young worker looking for easy money. Since it was just me there most of the time, I would make their life easier and keep it to myself. Plus, I just liked to look at the exhibits, and obviously bash the weird ones. People dressed much better in the pictures. Clothes today are strange, less elegant. Styles of dress change quickly — that’s the whole point. People don’t want to look the same as they did last month. I’ll keep the ones I like, thank you very much.

Cinema was always all the rage, so I would go there from time to time. Ever since it became more popular, it was another place where I could blend in and feel a sense of normality, since most were accompanied by their friends. I got my ticket and sat at the front, where there would be fewer people, but still enough. The stories never made any sense, but I wasn't there for them. Also, the actors' names were getting harder and harder to pronounce. My God, where do they even come from?! A place that treats people like me a little better, I hope.

One thing I would avoid was funerals. They were too sad, in addition to me not being a completely unhinged creep. I respected the fact that they were grieving the loss of someone they loved. I hope that one day, I have someone who cares enough to cry when I'm gone. But just a little; they should be happy afterward. I am not completely unhinged.

Every day feels like it's the last day. A man can only go so far with willpower alone. I didn’t want to throw this baggage on anyone, especially my mother, but who else would hear my woes?

It was a hard walk to her home, knowing how our talk would be. She was a good woman, and I was the one who had failed, not her.

What choice did I have? I couldn’t see one anymore.

She looked at me the same way she always did: happy to see me, but sad that nothing had changed. It had been a while since I had visited her. We talked a bit about her life and how she'd been. My younger brother takes good care of her; he knows I can't offer much help anymore. His health has been getting worse, though. I know it's an awful thing to think, but at least she’ll be gone before him. That is the normal course of life. It’s still awful.

When the time finally came, I spoke plainly. I couldn’t take it anymore. An entire life on the outside. She took it well at first and told me she loved me. She understood why I felt this way, but all she could do was plead with me.

“I can't bear to see you die a second time, son.”

It explained why every day began with the same step down.

Ever since my life took a downturn, people thought it would be a good idea to find help, but I guess therapy doesn't work when people think that what's making you sick is all in your head. Talking about it doesn't work. Maybe writing it will. I'm stuck in this hospital bed anyway, and I've got time. Plus, I couldn't waste the opportunity to see the irony.

Back in the day, when I was just an aimless teenager, I figured I should just get a job; at least I would have money to spend aimlessly. Work was hard to find and the only place that accepted me was a hospital, weirdly enough—the biggest one in the city and the one that I was born in. I thought it was like a full-circle kind of thing, like I was helping the place that helped me get into this world. I was a teenager, after all.

This wasn’t one of those ancient European cities, but the building still looked like something people don’t build anymore. It had old architecture, like something vampires would live in, but painted white. 

My job was pretty good, and I really liked working there, making friends, and helping people, even if some of them couldn't really be helped all that much. Such is life. 

I guess the managers liked me too, because they fast-tracked me to bigger responsibilities and even paid for my studies to become a nurse. They didn't get a lot of men interested in this job, and they really wanted someone to work in the psychiatric wing.

At first, the job consisted of just giving pills to people and entertaining the occasional “crazy talks.” The team that ran that wing was older, maybe in their thirties or forties, but they were nice and helped me get used to the work.

The doctors treating the patients would tell us that it was part of our job not to get into patients' delusions, but since they weren't there all day, the guys working there always seemed to ignore that part, and so did I; I didn't know why they did that, though.

Every now and then they would give me odd jobs around the hospital. I figured it was so I could learn more about the place while still doing something.

On my occasional errands, I would come across people asking for information, looking for people and places that I didn't know about yet. So, most of the time, I would just direct them to an information desk. Half the time they wouldn't go. Maybe they didn't really want to find their loved ones suffering… or worse. 

Since it was a huge hospital, it was also noisy; you'd always hear shouting, crying, and stretchers being rushed to the emergency room. 

One day, right as I came back from an errand, the head nurse told me I needed to go to the fifth floor and hand some papers to the guys working there since no one else wanted to. That floor was new compared to the rest of the hospital and reserved for surgeries. You would need to take a different elevator to access it normally. “The new guy should take them, and don't forget to take the stairs! The elevator is broken,” I heard my “friend” say, laughing his ass off as I walked away. The papers needed to be delivered fast, and since I was the new guy, I had no choice. I figured those lazy bastards just didn't want to climb all the way up there.

The way up was through an old corridor, and the stairs looked like they weren't used that often anymore. They were even sectioned off. Old hospital, mold, I thought. I had to ask around, and some people looked genuinely surprised that I even wanted to find it. 

On my way through the fourth floor, on a set of stairs that never seemed to end, a well-dressed woman stopped to ask me how her father was. I told her I didn't work on that floor and she should ask the people working there. Before I could even finish, she scoffed, saying that no one wanted to work in that hospital, and just went down the stairs. That floor looked very quiet, so I guess she was right. When I finally got to the fifth floor, the woman at the desk took the papers. As I was getting ready for my journey back, she said, “Did you take the stairs? Don't go back through there, take the old service elevator out back.” It would have been nice to know about that on the way up, too. The only thought that came to my mind at the time was that my coworkers truly were assholes for testing my cardio like that. 

When I got back from my tour around the hospital, no one said a thing. I guess my furious look made the joke stale. “Why didn't you guys tell me about the service elevator? Wanted me to pass out on the way down?” That was it for a few weeks. No more stairs or errands for me, plus I was getting tired of having to answer the same questions every time I passed the main hall. There was a giant sign that says “information desk” right there! Anyway, thank God.

Since it was a psychiatric wing, most people were knocked out by their meds by the time the night shift got there, so it was a joke we had that most of their work was clocking in. One patient, hearing our conversation, said he was going to give the night nurse a good scare to “make her work a little.” We all had a laugh, since I was getting his sleeping pills ready at that very moment. There would be no scare. 

By the time I was getting ready to greet the night shift and go home, I was told I had to work an extra shift, since one of them was sick. Extra money, I thought, so I took it since the other guys didn't look so keen on staying on short notice.

For the first few hours, it did seem like we were right. The hardest part of my job WAS clocking in. I had my lunch break. I even watched some fights on my phone. I could get used to it. That was until around 2 AM. I was feeling exhausted; I wasn't used to staying up that long. Outside, I could still faintly hear movement, even if I couldn’t see anyone. It is a big hospital, after all. Inside that wing, all I had were those purposefully harmless white walls, long corridors, and the ticking of that huge clock on the wall. It almost seemed like I was the one who took those sleeping pills. The wall next to me looked so soft and comfortable. I leaned against it and almost slept. 

On one of my “long blinks” I saw it: the son of a bitch, butt-naked with a blanket over his shoulder. *He must've spat out his pills*, I thought. I had to check on him; after all, he was under my care and was unwell. I called his name, but he just ignored me, so I had to go all the way there. When I touched his shoulder, he turned, pushed me as hard as he could, and ran. I fell on my ass but tried to give chase, only to turn the corner and see there was no one there. I guess the commotion made people wake up, and the guy that just pushed me was on the other side of the hall, groggy from his pills. I just stood there for a couple of minutes trying to figure out what just happened. When I told the head nurse, she just laughed at me. “You'll get used to it, honey.” I must've been dreaming.

For all of the good and funny days I had working at the psych ward, one thing was certain: I did not want to be on the late night news as the guy who was brutally murdered by a rabid patient while working night shifts at a hospital, so I asked to be transferred to the general ward. 

My first day there, I thought that maybe the “brutally murdered” thing was better. I had so much work, so many patients to take care of, and for the first time, I came face-to-face with how frail we all are. How some diseases eat people, both the sick and their families. It was a harsh contrast from goofing around with mental patients. 

One day, while I was caring for an old lady, she said that I spooked her. I apologized. She laughed and said, “I thought you were an angel coming to take me!” I am handsome, but not that handsome. I didn’t want to waste the opportunity, so I bragged about it to another coworker a couple of hours later, but she did not seem to find it funny. The only thing she said was, “Poor thing.” The old lady died the next day.

We would get these “predictions” from time to time. Like the surge—that's when a terminally ill patient gets a last burst of energy, starts eating, talking, hell, some even start to walk again. Some family members knew what that meant, some didn't. It was heartbreaking just the same.

There were times when a patient would see an angel, just like the old lady, or the grim reaper coming for them. And about the grim reaper, we actually had one there. He was an old doctor; so old, in fact, that he might've been around when this place was being built. That is probably why he never got fired, because every time he came in to make the rounds, we would have an abnormally large number of deaths. I don’t know if he was trying to free up beds for “new customers" or sheer incompetence, but I just couldn't believe that he never got caught with whatever he was doing.

Night shifts were fine due to the reduced workload most of the time, however, if things went sideways, there were also fewer people to help. Normally, when someone dies, a special team comes in to prepare, collect the body, and take it to the morgue where all deaths are investigated. Again, I have no idea how that doctor wasn’t caught.

On one of those busy nights, the day shift couldn't finish getting this one guy ready, so it fell to me to get it done. Preparing a body isn’t difficult; you just clean it and bag it. But it takes a sort of mentality to go from “them” to “it” that I just didn’t have yet. Since it was my job, and I couldn't just let him—it—rot there, I got it done.

When I got to the morgue, there was only one guy working. For such a huge hospital, they sure liked to cut back on staffing.

“Busy night, huh? Reaper came in?” he asked.

“Yeah, about that guy, wh—”

He interrupted me. “Thanks for bringing it in. Since I can’t leave this place alone, it would have been a while until someone came up to get him, and I don't like to keep them waiting.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem. It was my first time doing it, though. Hope everything is alright.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll take him from here.”

A few days later, a rumor went around about a guy who was declared dead and taken to the morgue. When they went to check later, there were scratch marks on the inside of the bag, as if he was trying to get out. They were saying it was the Lazarus effect. I read somewhere that it’s a rare return of a heartbeat. This is a big hospital, and people like to gossip and make up stories. But I couldn't help but think about the guy I took down there. I kept thinking about how that doctor could have declared him dead, how the drugs or whatever he did weren't strong enough to kill him, and how I was the one who let him suffocate to death in a body bag. I held on to the thought that the guy that took him did his job better than the reaper. I think I need therapy.

While I didn't want to go back to the psych ward, I did miss my first coworkers. They were assholes, but so was I. We would meet in the break room from time to time. They would crack jokes, talk about the latest loony antics the patients were up to, and how some of them never seemed to be able to stay away for too long. It's sad how mental health issues take hold of you and make you a permanent fixture of a place as awful as this. Better than dying, though.

This is by no means an easy job and the people that stay long enough are few and far between. Too much work, too much stress, too much death. It's not for everyone. People bounce from hospital to hospital just to get a “fresh start” somewhere else. I was starting to get the same idea, and maybe I just needed to stumble into this decision.

Around my one-year mark there, I overheard some people talking about what the new management was doing. “Did you hear it? They are finally gutting the fourth floor. I think they are going to make a memorial or something there.”
I didn't get around the hospital much at that time. I was finding out that being given more responsibilities wasn't a perk after all, just a lot more work, so I was entirely out of the loop. I asked why they were getting rid of an entire floor, and they said, “Because of the gas leak. Three people died there and a bunch got really ill a while back. Plus, that woman a few years earlier…”

That made no sense. I had worked there for almost a year. A WHOLE year! I would have heard about it. I would have seen it on the news or something. There had been people there just a few months earlier, I’m sure of it! I wasn't crazy, not yet anyway. I had to see it.
I took the elevator from the ground floor, where I worked. It wouldn't open on the fourth, so I exited on the fifth. I saw that lady, the receptionist. She looked confused; she wasn't expecting me. But she quickly realized what I was thinking when I had my eyes fixed on that corridor.
She stood up. “Don't g—”

I bolted down the first set of stairs. When I reached the next landing, there she was.

That woman.

She was lying at the bottom of the stairs, bloodied, her head cracked against the wall, her high heels snapped in half. She hadn't just walked away that day. I had been unlucky enough to see where she always ended up.

I had no tools to deal with this.

I ran back up as fast as I could. When I got to the top, my heart was pounding. I felt like I was going to vomit, and all I could say was, “I don't think those guys are my friends at all!”

I woke up a few hours later in one of the beds meant for patients.

After coming to, they said I was talking nonsense to the fifth floor staff about a dead woman downstairs. They called it burnout, but since I punched a guy on my way out and had to be physically restrained, there I was, back in the psych ward, but now on the other side. At least I'll finally get that therapy I was looking for.

It is certainly different being on this side of things. They wanted me to say everything I needed to “get off my chest,” but at the same time, no one really cared. I remembered the rule about not indulging patients' delusions, and clearly, they weren’t indulging mine. 

There was an almost entirely new crew working there. Part of the renovations by the new hospital management. They wanted to move away from the sad, old, creepy aesthetic and toward a modern one, so there were a lot of layoffs. Or so I heard.

One thing they couldn’t get rid of was the religious aspect of the place. There were all sorts of statues, names and phrases written on the walls, and other sacred items in that hospital, and unless they wanted to bring down the wrath of the Catholic Church, every single religious resident of that city, and maybe God Himself, they had to keep them. That meant keeping the old traditions of priests and nuns visiting patients.

That usually happened with critical cases. Pneumonia is a big deal when you are a child or an old person, so they would come and pray for patients like that because you might as well try everything at that point. I actually got a visit from an old priest who had prayed for me when I was a child, hospitalized for that same reason more than a decade prior. This time, at least, we had a conversation. 

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm fine, Father. And you?”

“As well as God allows me.”

“That's good to hear.”

“I’m glad to see you survived back then. Although I'm sad to see you back here. I'm sure you'll pull through just as you did once before.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Father. I hope you are right.”

“I’ll keep you in my prayers, son.”

Funny how some things stick with you. Even though I was really young back then, I still remembered his face. It looked exactly the same as it did the first time I saw him. I guess not even death can keep a man of God from his duties. 

I've been here for a while now, since my mind apparently still isn't in the right place. Even if they didn’t believe everything, they believed most of it, and some of the meds helped a little. The doctors came in with the usual generic questions: “Are you sleeping well? Are you eating? Taking your meds on time?” As if I have any choice. But one thing stuck.

“Are you still hearing voices?”

“I've never heard things that weren't there,” I answered.

“The night crew told me you keep talking to yourself sometimes.”

“No. I only talk to the five night-shift workers when the noise outside keeps me from sleeping. No extra voices in my head.” 

“There are only four workers at night.”

Well, I think I'm still learning things about this place.

It's been so long since I was locked in this place. I can't even remember what crime I committed anymore. 

They come in to give me food; I guess they can't let me starve to death. 

Sometimes I get used to the loneliness; I have no choice anyway, since all I have to look at are grey walls.

I’ve always liked to get my runs in, but it’s been a while since I was able to. There’s barely any space for it in here, not unless I want to hit my face against a wall or these cell bars, which I do sometimes.

Every now and then I try to catch someone's attention outside, but they don't care. Why would they? They don't know why I ended up here. 

I miss my mom, my dad… gosh, I'm sorry for whatever I did that put me in this place and got us separated. I only hope they can forgive me someday.

Being alone for this long has made me happy with the little contact that I get. I'm polite whenever they come in with food, and even when they clean my quarters, though they make me stay away. Safety reasons, I guess.

Winters are harsh, but at least I have a good coat, so I even enjoy it a little. Summers, on the other hand, are a struggle, since they can't give me anything different to put on.

I'm getting older now, and hope for a different life is slipping away from me, so I try to make the most of this almost permanent solitary confinement. 

I can only hope it changes soon. 

It's been so long since I was locked in this place. I can't even remember what crime I committed anymore.

They come in to give me food; I guess they can't let me starve to death.

Sometimes I get used to the loneliness; I have no choice anyway, since all I have to look at are grey walls.

I’ve always liked to get my runs in, but it’s been a while since I was able to. There’s barely any space for it in here, not unless I want to hit my face against a wall or these cell bars, which I do sometimes.

Every now and then I try to catch someone's attention outside, but they don't care. Why would they? They don't know why I ended up here.

I miss my mom, my dad… gosh, I'm sorry for whatever I did that put me in this place and got us separated. I only hope they can forgive me someday.

Being alone for this long has made me happy with the little contact that I get. I'm polite whenever they come in with food, and even when they clean my quarters, though they make me stay away. Safety reasons, I guess.

Winters are harsh, but at least I have a good coat, so I even enjoy it a little. Summers, on the other hand, are a struggle, since they can't give me anything different to put on.

I'm getting older now, and hope for a different life is slipping away from me, so I try to make the most of this almost permanent solitary confinement.

I can only hope it changes soon.

Desde que minha vida desandou, as pessoas acharam que seria uma boa eu procurar ajuda, mas acho que terapia não funciona quando pensam que o que está te fazendo mal tá só na sua cabeça. Se falar sobre isso não funciona, talvez escrever funcione. De qualquer forma, como estou preso neste hospital, tenho bastante tempo. Além disso, eu não podia perder a oportunidade de enxergar a ironia.

Naquela época, quando eu era só um adolescente sem rumo, achei que devia arrumar um emprego; pelo menos assim eu teria dinheiro para gastar sem rumo também. Era difícil encontrar emprego na época, e o único lugar que me aceitou foi um hospital, por mais estranho que pareça — o maior da cidade e o mesmo em que eu nasci. Achei que era meio como se um ciclo se fechasse, como se eu estivesse ajudando o lugar que me ajudou a vir ao mundo. Eu era um adolescente, afinal de contas.

Não era uma daquelas cidades europeias antigas, mas o prédio ainda parecia algo que as pessoas não constroem mais. Tinha uma arquitetura antiga, tipo um lugar onde vampiros morariam, só que pintado de branco.

Meu emprego era bom, e eu gostava muito de trabalhar lá, fazer amigos e ajudar as pessoas, mesmo que algumas delas não pudessem ser ajudadas tanto assim. Fazer o quê.

Acho que os gestores também gostaram de mim, porque rapidamente me encheram de responsabilidades maiores e até pagaram meus estudos para eu virar enfermeiro. Não apareciam muitos homens interessados nesse tipo de trabalho, e eles queriam desesperadamente alguém para trabalhar na ala psiquiátrica.

No começo, o trabalho consistia basicamente em dar comprimidos às pessoas e ouvir, de vez em quando, uns “papo de maluco”. A equipe que tocava aquela ala era mais velha, talvez na casa dos trinta ou quarenta, mas eles eram legais e me ajudaram a me acostumar ao serviço.

Os médicos que tratavam os pacientes nos diziam que fazia parte do nosso trabalho não entrar nos delírios deles, mas, como eles não ficavam lá o dia inteiro, o pessoal que trabalhava ali sempre parecia ignorar essa parte, e eu também ignorava; só não sabia por que eles faziam isso.

De vez em quando, me davam umas tarefas aleatórias pra fazer pelo hospital. Eu imaginava que era para eu conhecer melhor o lugar enquanto ainda fazia alguma coisa útil.

Nessas tarefas ocasionais, eu cruzava com pessoas pedindo informações, procurando gente e lugares que eu ainda nem conhecia. Então, na maioria das vezes, eu só mandava a pessoa para o balcão de informações. Metade das vezes, elas nem iam. Talvez, no fundo, não quisessem encontrar seus parentes sofrendo... ou pior.

Como era um hospital enorme, também era bem barulhento; dava para ouvir gritos, choros e macas sendo levadas às pressas para a emergência.

Um dia, assim que voltei de uma dessas tarefas, a enfermeira-chefe disse que eu precisava ir ao quinto andar e entregar uns papéis para o pessoal de lá, já que mais ninguém queria. Aquele andar era novo em comparação com o resto do hospital e reservado para cirurgias. Normalmente, era preciso pegar outro elevador para chegar lá. “O novato que leve, e não esquece de ir pela escada! O elevador está quebrado”, ouvi meu “amigo” dizer, se acabando de rir enquanto eu me afastava. Os papéis precisavam ser entregues rápido e, como eu era o novato, não tive escolha. Achei que aqueles desgraçados preguiçosos simplesmente não queriam subir tudo aquilo.

O caminho era por um corredor antigo, e a escada parecia não ser muito usada havia algum tempo. Estava até isolada. Hospital velho, mofo, pensei. Tive que ficar perguntando, e algumas pessoas pareceram sinceramente surpresas por eu sequer querer encontrá-la.

No caminho pelo quarto andar, em uma escadaria que parecia não acabar nunca, uma mulher bem-vestida me parou para perguntar como estava o pai dela. Eu disse que não trabalhava naquele andar e que ela deveria perguntar ao pessoal de lá. Antes que eu terminasse, ela bufou, dizendo que ninguém queria trabalhar naquele hospital, e simplesmente desceu a escada. Aquele andar parecia muito quieto, então acho que ela tinha razão. Quando finalmente cheguei ao quinto andar, a mulher da recepção pegou os papéis. Enquanto eu me preparava para minha jornada de volta, ela disse: “Você veio pela escada? Não volte por lá, pegue o elevador de serviço antigo lá nos fundos.” Teria sido muito bom saber disso na subida. O único pensamento que me veio à cabeça na hora foi que meus colegas eram mesmo uns arrombados por testarem meu cardio daquele jeito.

Quando voltei do meu tour pelo hospital, ninguém disse nada. Acho que minha cara de ódio fez a piada perder a graça. “Por que vocês não me falaram do elevador de serviço? Queriam que eu desmaiasse na descida?” Isso bastou por algumas semanas. Nada de escadas nem missões aleatórias para mim, além de que eu já estava ficando cansado de responder às mesmas perguntas toda vez que passava pelo saguão principal. Tinha uma placa gigante “balcão de informações” escrito bem ali! Enfim, graças a Deus.

Como era uma ala psiquiátrica, a maioria das pessoas já estava apagada pelos remédios quando o plantão noturno chegava, então a gente brincava que a maior parte do trabalho deles era bater o ponto. Um paciente, ouvindo a nossa conversa, disse que ia dar um belo susto na enfermeira da noite para “fazer ela trabalhar um pouquinho”. Todos nós rimos, já que eu estava preparando os soníferos dele naquele exato momento. Não ia ter susto nenhum.

Quando eu estava me preparando para passar o plantão e ir embora, me disseram que eu teria que dobrar, porque uma das pessoas da noite estava doente. Dinheiro extra, pensei, então aceitei, já que os outros não pareciam muito a fim de ficar em cima da hora.

Nas primeiras horas, realmente pareceu que a gente estava certo. A parte mais difícil do meu trabalho ERA bater o ponto. Fiz meu intervalo. Até assisti a umas lutas no celular. Dava para me acostumar com essa dinâmica. Até dar por volta das duas da manhã. Eu estava exausto; não estava acostumado a ficar acordado até tão tarde. Do lado de fora, eu ainda conseguia ouvir uma certa comoção, mesmo que não desse pra ver ninguém. Era um hospital grande, afinal de contas. Dentro daquela ala, tudo que eu tinha eram aquelas paredes brancas, feitas de propósito para acalmar, os corredores longos e o som do tique-taque de um relógio enorme na parede. Parecia até que quem tinha tomado aqueles soníferos era eu. A parede ao meu lado parecia tão macia e confortável. Encostei nela e quase dormi.

Em uma das minhas “piscadas longas”, eu vi: o filho da puta, peladão, com um lençol jogado sobre o ombro. Ele deve ter cuspido os comprimidos, pensei. Eu precisava dar uma olhada nele; afinal, ele estava sob meus cuidados e não estava bem. Chamei o nome dele, mas ele simplesmente me ignorou, então tive que ir até lá. Quando toquei no ombro dele, ele se virou, me empurrou com toda a força e correu. Caí de bunda no chão, mas tentei correr atrás, só para virar a esquina e ver que não havia ninguém ali. Acho que a comoção acordou algumas pessoas, e o cara que tinha acabado de me empurrar estava do outro lado do corredor, grogue por causa dos remédios. Fiquei parado ali por alguns minutos tentando entender o que tinha acontecido. Quando contei à enfermeira-chefe, ela só riu de mim. “Você se acostuma, querido.” Eu devia estar sonhando.

Apesar de todos os dias bons e engraçados que tive trabalhando na ala psiquiátrica, uma coisa era certa: eu não queria aparecer no noticiário da madrugada como o cara que foi brutalmente assassinado por um surtado enquanto trabalhava no plantão noturno em um hospital, então pedi transferência para a enfermaria geral.

No meu primeiro dia lá, pensei que talvez a parte do “brutalmente assassinado” fosse melhor. Eu tinha trabalho demais, pacientes demais para cuidar e, pela primeira vez, dei de cara com o quanto todos nós somos frágeis. Com a forma como algumas doenças acabam com as pessoas, tanto os doentes quanto suas famílias. Era um contraste pesado em relação a ficar fazendo graça com pacientes psiquiátricos.

Um dia, enquanto eu cuidava de uma senhora, ela disse que eu a assustei. Pedi desculpas. Ela riu e disse: “Achei que você fosse um anjo vindo me buscar!” Eu sou bonito, mas não tanto assim. Não quis desperdiçar a oportunidade, então me gabei disso para outra colega algumas horas depois, mas ela não pareceu achar graça. A única coisa que ela disse foi: “Coitadinha.” A senhora morreu no dia seguinte.

De vez em quando, a gente recebia essas “previsões”. Como aquela melhora da morte — é quando um paciente terminal ganha uma última explosão de energia, começa a comer, conversar, alguns até voltam a andar. Alguns familiares sabiam o que aquilo significava, outros não. Era triste de qualquer jeito.

Havia vezes em que um paciente via um anjo, como aquela senhora, ou o ceifador vindo buscá-lo. E, falando no ceifador, a gente tinha um lá. Era um médico velho; tão velho, na verdade, que talvez estivesse lá durante a construção do hospital. Provavelmente era por isso que ele nunca foi demitido, porque toda vez que ele passava visita, a gente tinha um número de mortes simplesmente fora do comum. Não sei se ele estava tentando liberar leitos para “novos clientes” ou se era pura incompetência, mas eu simplesmente não conseguia acreditar que ele nunca tivesse sido pego pelo que quer que seja que estivesse fazendo.

Plantões noturnos eram tranquilos na maior parte do tempo por causa da carga reduzida de trabalho; no entanto, se as coisas desandavam, também havia menos gente para ajudar. Normalmente, quando alguém morre, uma equipe especial vem preparar e recolher o corpo e levá-lo ao necrotério, onde todas as mortes são investigadas. Repito, não sei como aquele médico nunca foi pego.

Em uma daquelas noites corridas, o plantão do dia não conseguiu terminar de preparar um homem, então sobrou para mim. Preparar um corpo não é difícil; você só limpa e coloca no saco. Mas é preciso ter uma mentalidade específica para passar de “ele” para “isso”, e eu ainda não tinha. Como era meu trabalho, e eu não podia simplesmente deixar ele — aquilo — apodrecer ali, eu fiz o que tinha que fazer.

Quando cheguei ao necrotério, só havia um cara trabalhando. Para um hospital tão grande, eles com certeza gostavam de economizar em funcionários.

“Noite cheia, hein? O Ceifador passou lá?”, ele perguntou.

“É, sobre esse cara, qu—”

Ele me interrompeu. “Valeu por trazer. Como não posso deixar este lugar sozinho, ia demorar até alguém subir para buscar ele, e eu não gosto de deixar eles esperando.”

“É, claro, sem problema. Foi minha primeira vez fazendo isso, então espero que esteja tudo certo.”

“Não se preocupe. Eu cuido dele daqui pra frente.”

Alguns dias depois, correu um boato sobre um cara que foi declarado morto e levado ao necrotério. Quando foram verificar depois, havia marcas de arranhão por dentro do saco, como se ele tivesse tentado sair. Diziam que era o efeito Lázaro. Li em algum lugar que é um retorno raro dos batimentos cardíacos. Este é um hospital grande, e as pessoas gostam de fofocar e inventar histórias. Mas eu não conseguia parar de pensar no cara que levei até lá. Eu ficava pensando em como aquele médico poderia ter declarado ele morto, em como as drogas, ou seja lá o que ele fez, não foram fortes o suficiente para matá-lo, e em como fui eu quem deixou ele sufocar até morrer dentro de um saco para cadáver. Eu me agarrei à ideia de que o cara que o recebeu fez o trabalho dele melhor do que o ceifador. Acho que preciso de terapia.

Embora eu não quisesse voltar para a ala psiquiátrica, eu sentia falta dos meus primeiros colegas. Eles eram uns otários, mas eu também era. A gente se encontrava na sala de descanso de vez em quando. Eles faziam piadas, falavam sobre as últimas maluquices dos pacientes e sobre como alguns pareciam nunca conseguir ficar longe por muito tempo. É triste ver como problemas de saúde mental se agarram a você e te transformam em parte da mobília de um lugar tão horrível quanto esse. Bom, melhor do que morrer.

Este não é, de forma alguma, um trabalho fácil, e as pessoas que ficam tempo suficiente são raras. Trabalho demais, estresse demais, morte demais. Não é para todo mundo. As pessoas passam de hospital para hospital só para ter um “recomeço” em outro lugar. Eu estava começando a ter a mesma ideia, e talvez só precisasse tropeçar nessa decisão.

Perto de completar um ano lá, ouvi algumas pessoas falando sobre o que a nova gestão estava fazendo. “Você ficou sabendo? Finalmente estão reformando o quarto andar. Acho que vão fazer um memorial ou algo assim por lá.”

Naquela época, eu não circulava muito pelo hospital. Estava começando a perceber que receber mais responsabilidades não era benefício nenhum, só muito mais trabalho, então eu estava completamente por fora. Perguntei por que estavam se livrando de um andar inteiro, e me disseram: “Por causa do vazamento de gás que teve por lá. Três pessoas morreram e um monte ficou muito mal um tempo atrás. Além daquela mulher uns anos antes...”

Aquilo não fazia sentido. Eu tinha trabalhado ali por quase um ano. UM ano INTEIRO! Eu teria ouvido falar. Teria visto no jornal ou em algum lugar. Tinha gente lá só alguns meses antes, tenho certeza! Eu não estava louco, pelo menos ainda não. Eu precisava ver com meus próprios olhos.

Peguei o elevador no térreo, onde eu trabalhava. Ele não abria no quarto andar, então saí no quinto. Vi aquela mulher, a recepcionista. Ela pareceu confusa; não estava me esperando. Mas logo percebeu o que eu estava pensando quando viu meus olhos fixos naquele corredor.

Ela se levantou. “Não v—”

Disparei escada abaixo pelo primeiro lance. Quando cheguei ao patamar seguinte, lá estava ela.

Aquela mulher.

Ela estava caída no fim da escada, ensanguentada, a cabeça rachada contra a parede, os saltos altos quebrados ao meio. Ela não tinha simplesmente ido embora andando naquele dia. Eu só tive o azar de ver onde ela sempre acabava.

Eu não tinha como lidar com aquilo.

Corri de volta para cima o mais rápido que pude. Quando cheguei ao topo, meu coração estava disparado. Senti que ia vomitar, e tudo que consegui dizer foi: “Acho que aqueles caras não são meus amigos coisa nenhuma!”

Acordei algumas horas depois em uma das camas destinadas aos pacientes.

Depois que recobrei a consciência, disseram que eu estava falando coisas sem sentido para a equipe do quinto andar sobre uma mulher morta lá embaixo. Chamaram aquilo de burnout, mas, como soquei um cara e em algum momento precisei ser contido à força, lá estava eu, de volta à ala psiquiátrica, mas agora do outro lado. Pelo menos finalmente eu teria aquela terapia que eu estava procurando.

Com certeza é diferente estar deste lado das coisas. Queriam que eu dissesse tudo que precisava “tirar do peito”, mas, ao mesmo tempo, ninguém se importava de verdade. Eu me lembrei da regra sobre não participar dos delírios dos pacientes e eles realmente não estavam participando dos meus.

Havia uma equipe quase totalmente nova trabalhando ali. Parte das reformas da nova gestão do hospital. Eles queriam se afastar daquele visual triste, velho e assustador e ir na direção de algo moderno, então houve muitas demissões. Pelo menos foi o que ouvi.

Uma coisa da qual eles não conseguiram se livrar foi o lado religioso do lugar. Havia todo tipo de estátuas, nomes e frases escritos nas paredes e outros objetos sagrados naquele hospital; e, a menos que quisessem atrair a ira da Igreja Católica, de cada morador religioso daquela cidade e talvez do próprio Deus, eles tinham que manter tudo. Isso significava manter as velhas tradições de padres e freiras visitando pacientes.

Isso geralmente acontecia em casos críticos. Pneumonia é coisa séria quando você é criança ou idoso, então eles vinham rezar por pacientes assim, porque naquela altura não custava nada tentar de tudo. Eu acabei recebendo a visita de um padre que tinha rezado por mim quando eu era criança, internado pelo mesmo motivo mais de uma década antes. Dessa vez, pelo menos, conseguimos conversar.

“Como você está?”, ele perguntou.

“Estou bem, padre. E o senhor?”

“Tão bem quanto Deus me permite.”

“Fico feliz em ouvir isso.”

“Fico feliz em ver que você sobreviveu daquela vez. Embora eu fique triste em vê-lo de volta aqui. Tenho certeza de que você vai sair dessa, assim como saiu antes.”

“Obrigado por suas palavras, padre. Espero que o senhor esteja certo.”

“Vou manter você em minhas orações, filho.”

Engraçado como algumas coisas ficam com a gente. Embora eu fosse muito novo naquela época, ainda lembrava do rosto dele. Estava exatamente do mesmo jeito da primeira vez que o vi. Acho que nem a morte consegue afastar um homem de Deus de seus deveres.

Estou por aqui já tem um tempo, já que minha cabeça realmente não está no lugar certo. Mesmo que não acreditem em tudo, acreditam na maior parte, e alguns dos remédios ajudam um pouco. Os médicos vêm com o mesmo roteiro de sempre: “Você está dormindo bem? Está comendo? Está tomando os remédios na hora certa?” Como se eu tivesse alguma escolha. Mas uma coisa ficou.

“Você ainda está ouvindo vozes?”

“Eu nunca ouvi coisas que não estavam lá”, respondi.

“A equipe da noite me disse que você fica falando sozinho às vezes.”

“Não. Eu só converso com os cinco funcionários do plantão noturno quando o barulho lá fora não me deixa dormir. Nenhuma voz a mais na minha cabeça.”

“Só tem quatro funcionários à noite.”

É, acho que ainda estou aprendendo coisas sobre este lugar.

Desde que minha vida desandou, as pessoas acharam que seria uma boa eu procurar ajuda, mas acho que terapia não funciona quando pensam que o que está te fazendo mal tá só na sua cabeça. Se falar sobre isso não funciona, talvez escrever funcione. De qualquer forma, como estou preso neste hospital, tenho bastante tempo. Além disso, eu não podia perder a oportunidade de enxergar a ironia.

Naquela época, quando eu era só um adolescente sem rumo, achei que devia arrumar um emprego; pelo menos assim eu teria dinheiro para gastar sem rumo também. Era difícil encontrar emprego na época, e o único lugar que me aceitou foi um hospital, por mais estranho que pareça — o maior da cidade e o mesmo em que eu nasci. Achei que era meio como se um ciclo se fechasse, como se eu estivesse ajudando o lugar que me ajudou a vir ao mundo. Eu era um adolescente, afinal de contas.

Não era uma daquelas cidades europeias antigas, mas o prédio ainda parecia algo que as pessoas não constroem mais. Tinha uma arquitetura antiga, tipo um lugar onde vampiros morariam, só que pintado de branco.

Meu emprego era bom, e eu gostava muito de trabalhar lá, fazer amigos e ajudar as pessoas, mesmo que algumas delas não pudessem ser ajudadas tanto assim. Fazer o quê.

Acho que os gestores também gostaram de mim, porque rapidamente me encheram de responsabilidades maiores e até pagaram meus estudos para eu virar enfermeiro. Não apareciam muitos homens interessados nesse tipo de trabalho, e eles queriam desesperadamente alguém para trabalhar na ala psiquiátrica.

No começo, o trabalho consistia basicamente em dar comprimidos às pessoas e ouvir, de vez em quando, uns “papo de maluco”. A equipe que tocava aquela ala era mais velha, talvez na casa dos trinta ou quarenta, mas eles eram legais e me ajudaram a me acostumar ao serviço.

Os médicos que tratavam os pacientes nos diziam que fazia parte do nosso trabalho não entrar nos delírios deles, mas, como eles não ficavam lá o dia inteiro, o pessoal que trabalhava ali sempre parecia ignorar essa parte, e eu também ignorava; só não sabia por que eles faziam isso.

De vez em quando, me davam umas tarefas aleatórias pra fazer pelo hospital. Eu imaginava que era para eu conhecer melhor o lugar enquanto ainda fazia alguma coisa útil.

Nessas tarefas ocasionais, eu cruzava com pessoas pedindo informações, procurando gente e lugares que eu ainda nem conhecia. Então, na maioria das vezes, eu só mandava a pessoa para o balcão de informações. Metade das vezes, elas nem iam. Talvez, no fundo, não quisessem encontrar seus parentes sofrendo... ou pior.

Como era um hospital enorme, também era bem barulhento; dava para ouvir gritos, choros e macas sendo levadas às pressas para a emergência.

Um dia, assim que voltei de uma dessas tarefas, a enfermeira-chefe disse que eu precisava ir ao quinto andar e entregar uns papéis para o pessoal de lá, já que mais ninguém queria. Aquele andar era novo em comparação com o resto do hospital e reservado para cirurgias. Normalmente, era preciso pegar outro elevador para chegar lá. “O novato que leve, e não esquece de ir pela escada! O elevador está quebrado”, ouvi meu “amigo” dizer, se acabando de rir enquanto eu me afastava. Os papéis precisavam ser entregues rápido e, como eu era o novato, não tive escolha. Achei que aqueles desgraçados preguiçosos simplesmente não queriam subir tudo aquilo.

O caminho era por um corredor antigo, e a escada parecia não ser muito usada havia algum tempo. Estava até isolada. Hospital velho, mofo, pensei. Tive que ficar perguntando, e algumas pessoas pareceram sinceramente surpresas por eu sequer querer encontrá-la.

No caminho pelo quarto andar, em uma escadaria que parecia não acabar nunca, uma mulher bem-vestida me parou para perguntar como estava o pai dela. Eu disse que não trabalhava naquele andar e que ela deveria perguntar ao pessoal de lá. Antes que eu terminasse, ela bufou, dizendo que ninguém queria trabalhar naquele hospital, e simplesmente desceu a escada. Aquele andar parecia muito quieto, então acho que ela tinha razão. Quando finalmente cheguei ao quinto andar, a mulher da recepção pegou os papéis. Enquanto eu me preparava para minha jornada de volta, ela disse: “Você veio pela escada? Não volte por lá, pegue o elevador de serviço antigo lá nos fundos.” Teria sido muito bom saber disso na subida. O único pensamento que me veio à cabeça na hora foi que meus colegas eram mesmo uns arrombados por testarem meu cardio daquele jeito.

Quando voltei do meu tour pelo hospital, ninguém disse nada. Acho que minha cara de ódio fez a piada perder a graça. “Por que vocês não me falaram do elevador de serviço? Queriam que eu desmaiasse na descida?” Isso bastou por algumas semanas. Nada de escadas nem missões aleatórias para mim, além de que eu já estava ficando cansado de responder às mesmas perguntas toda vez que passava pelo saguão principal. Tinha uma placa gigante “balcão de informações” escrito bem ali! Enfim, graças a Deus.

Como era uma ala psiquiátrica, a maioria das pessoas já estava apagada pelos remédios quando o plantão noturno chegava, então a gente brincava que a maior parte do trabalho deles era bater o ponto. Um paciente, ouvindo a nossa conversa, disse que ia dar um belo susto na enfermeira da noite para “fazer ela trabalhar um pouquinho”. Todos nós rimos, já que eu estava preparando os soníferos dele naquele exato momento. Não ia ter susto nenhum.

Quando eu estava me preparando para passar o plantão e ir embora, me disseram que eu teria que dobrar, porque uma das pessoas da noite estava doente. Dinheiro extra, pensei, então aceitei, já que os outros não pareciam muito a fim de ficar em cima da hora.

Nas primeiras horas, realmente pareceu que a gente estava certo. A parte mais difícil do meu trabalho ERA bater o ponto. Fiz meu intervalo. Até assisti a umas lutas no celular. Dava para me acostumar com essa dinâmica. Até dar por volta das duas da manhã. Eu estava exausto; não estava acostumado a ficar acordado até tão tarde. Do lado de fora, eu ainda conseguia ouvir uma certa comoção, mesmo que não desse pra ver ninguém. Era um hospital grande, afinal de contas. Dentro daquela ala, tudo que eu tinha eram aquelas paredes brancas, feitas de propósito para acalmar, os corredores longos e o som do tique-taque de um relógio enorme na parede. Parecia até que quem tinha tomado aqueles soníferos era eu. A parede ao meu lado parecia tão macia e confortável. Encostei nela e quase dormi.

Em uma das minhas “piscadas longas”, eu vi: o filho da puta, peladão, com um lençol jogado sobre o ombro. Ele deve ter cuspido os comprimidos, pensei. Eu precisava dar uma olhada nele; afinal, ele estava sob meus cuidados e não estava bem. Chamei o nome dele, mas ele simplesmente me ignorou, então tive que ir até lá. Quando toquei no ombro dele, ele se virou, me empurrou com toda a força e correu. Caí de bunda no chão, mas tentei correr atrás, só para virar a esquina e ver que não havia ninguém ali. Acho que a comoção acordou algumas pessoas, e o cara que tinha acabado de me empurrar estava do outro lado do corredor, grogue por causa dos remédios. Fiquei parado ali por alguns minutos tentando entender o que tinha acontecido. Quando contei à enfermeira-chefe, ela só riu de mim. “Você se acostuma, querido.” Eu devia estar sonhando.

Apesar de todos os dias bons e engraçados que tive trabalhando na ala psiquiátrica, uma coisa era certa: eu não queria aparecer no noticiário da madrugada como o cara que foi brutalmente assassinado por um surtado enquanto trabalhava no plantão noturno em um hospital, então pedi transferência para a enfermaria geral.

No meu primeiro dia lá, pensei que talvez a parte do “brutalmente assassinado” fosse melhor. Eu tinha trabalho demais, pacientes demais para cuidar e, pela primeira vez, dei de cara com o quanto todos nós somos frágeis. Com a forma como algumas doenças acabam com as pessoas, tanto os doentes quanto suas famílias. Era um contraste pesado em relação a ficar fazendo graça com pacientes psiquiátricos.

Um dia, enquanto eu cuidava de uma senhora, ela disse que eu a assustei. Pedi desculpas. Ela riu e disse: “Achei que você fosse um anjo vindo me buscar!” Eu sou bonito, mas não tanto assim. Não quis desperdiçar a oportunidade, então me gabei disso para outra colega algumas horas depois, mas ela não pareceu achar graça. A única coisa que ela disse foi: “Coitadinha.” A senhora morreu no dia seguinte.

De vez em quando, a gente recebia essas “previsões”. Como aquela melhora da morte — é quando um paciente terminal ganha uma última explosão de energia, começa a comer, conversar, alguns até voltam a andar. Alguns familiares sabiam o que aquilo significava, outros não. Era triste de qualquer jeito.

Havia vezes em que um paciente via um anjo, como aquela senhora, ou o ceifador vindo buscá-lo. E, falando no ceifador, a gente tinha um lá. Era um médico velho; tão velho, na verdade, que talvez estivesse lá durante a construção do hospital. Provavelmente era por isso que ele nunca foi demitido, porque toda vez que ele passava visita, a gente tinha um número de mortes simplesmente fora do comum. Não sei se ele estava tentando liberar leitos para “novos clientes” ou se era pura incompetência, mas eu simplesmente não conseguia acreditar que ele nunca tivesse sido pego pelo que quer que seja que estivesse fazendo.

Plantões noturnos eram tranquilos na maior parte do tempo por causa da carga reduzida de trabalho; no entanto, se as coisas desandavam, também havia menos gente para ajudar. Normalmente, quando alguém morre, uma equipe especial vem preparar e recolher o corpo e levá-lo ao necrotério, onde todas as mortes são investigadas. Repito, não sei como aquele médico nunca foi pego.

Em uma daquelas noites corridas, o plantão do dia não conseguiu terminar de preparar um homem, então sobrou para mim. Preparar um corpo não é difícil; você só limpa e coloca no saco. Mas é preciso ter uma mentalidade específica para passar de “ele” para “isso”, e eu ainda não tinha. Como era meu trabalho, e eu não podia simplesmente deixar ele — aquilo — apodrecer ali, eu fiz o que tinha que fazer.

Quando cheguei ao necrotério, só havia um cara trabalhando. Para um hospital tão grande, eles com certeza gostavam de economizar em funcionários.

“Noite cheia, hein? O Ceifador passou lá?”, ele perguntou.

“É, sobre esse cara, qu—”

Ele me interrompeu. “Valeu por trazer. Como não posso deixar este lugar sozinho, ia demorar até alguém subir para buscar ele, e eu não gosto de deixar eles esperando.”

“É, claro, sem problema. Foi minha primeira vez fazendo isso, então espero que esteja tudo certo.”

“Não se preocupe. Eu cuido dele daqui pra frente.”

Alguns dias depois, correu um boato sobre um cara que foi declarado morto e levado ao necrotério. Quando foram verificar depois, havia marcas de arranhão por dentro do saco, como se ele tivesse tentado sair. Diziam que era o efeito Lázaro. Li em algum lugar que é um retorno raro dos batimentos cardíacos. Este é um hospital grande, e as pessoas gostam de fofocar e inventar histórias. Mas eu não conseguia parar de pensar no cara que levei até lá. Eu ficava pensando em como aquele médico poderia ter declarado ele morto, em como as drogas, ou seja lá o que ele fez, não foram fortes o suficiente para matá-lo, e em como fui eu quem deixou ele sufocar até morrer dentro de um saco para cadáver. Eu me agarrei à ideia de que o cara que o recebeu fez o trabalho dele melhor do que o ceifador. Acho que preciso de terapia.

Embora eu não quisesse voltar para a ala psiquiátrica, eu sentia falta dos meus primeiros colegas. Eles eram uns otários, mas eu também era. A gente se encontrava na sala de descanso de vez em quando. Eles faziam piadas, falavam sobre as últimas maluquices dos pacientes e sobre como alguns pareciam nunca conseguir ficar longe por muito tempo. É triste ver como problemas de saúde mental se agarram a você e te transformam em parte da mobília de um lugar tão horrível quanto esse. Bom, melhor do que morrer.

Este não é, de forma alguma, um trabalho fácil, e as pessoas que ficam tempo suficiente são raras. Trabalho demais, estresse demais, morte demais. Não é para todo mundo. As pessoas passam de hospital para hospital só para ter um “recomeço” em outro lugar. Eu estava começando a ter a mesma ideia, e talvez só precisasse tropeçar nessa decisão.

Perto de completar um ano lá, ouvi algumas pessoas falando sobre o que a nova gestão estava fazendo. “Você ficou sabendo? Finalmente estão reformando o quarto andar. Acho que vão fazer um memorial ou algo assim por lá.”

Naquela época, eu não circulava muito pelo hospital. Estava começando a perceber que receber mais responsabilidades não era benefício nenhum, só muito mais trabalho, então eu estava completamente por fora. Perguntei por que estavam se livrando de um andar inteiro, e me disseram: “Por causa do vazamento de gás que teve por lá. Três pessoas morreram e um monte ficou muito mal um tempo atrás. Além daquela mulher uns anos antes...”

Aquilo não fazia sentido. Eu tinha trabalhado ali por quase um ano. UM ano INTEIRO! Eu teria ouvido falar. Teria visto no jornal ou em algum lugar. Tinha gente lá só alguns meses antes, tenho certeza! Eu não estava louco, pelo menos ainda não. Eu precisava ver com meus próprios olhos.

Peguei o elevador no térreo, onde eu trabalhava. Ele não abria no quarto andar, então saí no quinto. Vi aquela mulher, a recepcionista. Ela pareceu confusa; não estava me esperando. Mas logo percebeu o que eu estava pensando quando viu meus olhos fixos naquele corredor.

Ela se levantou. “Não v—”

Disparei escada abaixo pelo primeiro lance. Quando cheguei ao patamar seguinte, lá estava ela.

Aquela mulher.

Ela estava caída no fim da escada, ensanguentada, a cabeça rachada contra a parede, os saltos altos quebrados ao meio. Ela não tinha simplesmente ido embora andando naquele dia. Eu só tive o azar de ver onde ela sempre acabava.

Eu não tinha como lidar com aquilo.

Corri de volta para cima o mais rápido que pude. Quando cheguei ao topo, meu coração estava disparado. Senti que ia vomitar, e tudo que consegui dizer foi: “Acho que aqueles caras não são meus amigos coisa nenhuma!”

Acordei algumas horas depois em uma das camas destinadas aos pacientes.

Depois que recobrei a consciência, disseram que eu estava falando coisas sem sentido para a equipe do quinto andar sobre uma mulher morta lá embaixo. Chamaram aquilo de burnout, mas, como soquei um cara e em algum momento precisei ser contido à força, lá estava eu, de volta à ala psiquiátrica, mas agora do outro lado. Pelo menos finalmente eu teria aquela terapia que eu estava procurando.

Com certeza é diferente estar deste lado das coisas. Queriam que eu dissesse tudo que precisava “tirar do peito”, mas, ao mesmo tempo, ninguém se importava de verdade. Eu me lembrei da regra sobre não participar dos delírios dos pacientes e eles realmente não estavam participando dos meus.

Havia uma equipe quase totalmente nova trabalhando ali. Parte das reformas da nova gestão do hospital. Eles queriam se afastar daquele visual triste, velho e assustador e ir na direção de algo moderno, então houve muitas demissões. Pelo menos foi o que ouvi.

Uma coisa da qual eles não conseguiram se livrar foi o lado religioso do lugar. Havia todo tipo de estátuas, nomes e frases escritos nas paredes e outros objetos sagrados naquele hospital; e, a menos que quisessem atrair a ira da Igreja Católica, de cada morador religioso daquela cidade e talvez do próprio Deus, eles tinham que manter tudo. Isso significava manter as velhas tradições de padres e freiras visitando pacientes.

Isso geralmente acontecia em casos críticos. Pneumonia é coisa séria quando você é criança ou idoso, então eles vinham rezar por pacientes assim, porque naquela altura não custava nada tentar de tudo. Eu acabei recebendo a visita de um padre que tinha rezado por mim quando eu era criança, internado pelo mesmo motivo mais de uma década antes. Dessa vez, pelo menos, conseguimos conversar.

“Como você está?”, ele perguntou.

“Estou bem, padre. E o senhor?”

“Tão bem quanto Deus me permite.”

“Fico feliz em ouvir isso.”

“Fico feliz em ver que você sobreviveu daquela vez. Embora eu fique triste em vê-lo de volta aqui. Tenho certeza de que você vai sair dessa, assim como saiu antes.”

“Obrigado por suas palavras, padre. Espero que o senhor esteja certo.”

“Vou manter você em minhas orações, filho.”

Engraçado como algumas coisas ficam com a gente. Embora eu fosse muito novo naquela época, ainda lembrava do rosto dele. Estava exatamente do mesmo jeito da primeira vez que o vi. Acho que nem a morte consegue afastar um homem de Deus de seus deveres.

Estou por aqui já tem um tempo, já que minha cabeça realmente não está no lugar certo. Mesmo que não acreditem em tudo, acreditam na maior parte, e alguns dos remédios ajudam um pouco. Os médicos vêm com o mesmo roteiro de sempre: “Você está dormindo bem? Está comendo? Está tomando os remédios na hora certa?” Como se eu tivesse alguma escolha. Mas uma coisa ficou.

“Você ainda está ouvindo vozes?”

“Eu nunca ouvi coisas que não estavam lá”, respondi.

“A equipe da noite me disse que você fica falando sozinho às vezes.”

“Não. Eu só converso com os cinco funcionários do plantão noturno quando o barulho lá fora não me deixa dormir. Nenhuma voz a mais na minha cabeça.”

“Só tem quatro funcionários à noite.”

É, acho que ainda estou aprendendo coisas sobre este lugar.

Ever since my life took a downturn, people thought it would be a good idea to find help, but I guess therapy doesn't work when people think that what's making you sick is all in your head. Talking about it doesn't work. Maybe writing it will. I'm stuck in this hospital bed anyway, and I've got time. Plus, I couldn't waste the opportunity to see the irony.

Back in the day, when I was just an aimless teenager, I figured I should just get a job; at least I would have money to spend aimlessly. Work was hard to find and the only place that accepted me was a hospital, weirdly enough—the biggest one in the city and the one that I was born in. I thought it was like a full-circle kind of thing, like I was helping the place that helped me get into this world. I was a teenager, after all.

This wasn’t one of those ancient European cities, but the building still looked like something people don’t build anymore. It had old architecture, like something vampires would live in, but painted white. 

My job was pretty good, and I really liked working there, making friends, and helping people, even if some of them couldn't really be helped all that much. Such is life. 

I guess the managers liked me too, because they fast-tracked me to bigger responsibilities and even paid for my studies to become a nurse. They didn't get a lot of men interested in this job, and they really wanted someone to work in the psychiatric wing.

At first, the job consisted of just giving pills to people and entertaining the occasional “crazy talks.” The team that ran that wing was older, maybe in their thirties or forties, but they were nice and helped me get used to the work.

The doctors treating the patients would tell us that it was part of our job not to get into patients' delusions, but since they weren't there all day, the guys working there always seemed to ignore that part, and so did I; I didn't know why they did that, though.

Every now and then they would give me odd jobs around the hospital. I figured it was so I could learn more about the place while still doing something.

On my occasional errands, I would come across people asking for information, looking for people and places that I didn't know about yet. So, most of the time, I would just direct them to an information desk. Half the time they wouldn't go. Maybe they didn't really want to find their loved ones suffering… or worse. 

Since it was a huge hospital, it was also noisy; you'd always hear shouting, crying, and stretchers being rushed to the emergency room. 

One day, right as I came back from an errand, the head nurse told me I needed to go to the fifth floor and hand some papers to the guys working there since no one else wanted to. That floor was new compared to the rest of the hospital and reserved for surgeries. You would need to take a different elevator to access it normally. “The new guy should take them, and don't forget to take the stairs! The elevator is broken,” I heard my “friend” say, laughing his ass off as I walked away. The papers needed to be delivered fast, and since I was the new guy, I had no choice. I figured those lazy bastards just didn't want to climb all the way up there.

The way up was through an old corridor, and the stairs looked like they weren't used that often anymore. They were even sectioned off. Old hospital, mold, I thought. I had to ask around, and some people looked genuinely surprised that I even wanted to find it. 

On my way through the fourth floor, on a set of stairs that never seemed to end, a well-dressed woman stopped to ask me how her father was. I told her I didn't work on that floor and she should ask the people working there. Before I could even finish, she scoffed, saying that no one wanted to work in that hospital, and just went down the stairs. That floor looked very quiet, so I guess she was right. When I finally got to the fifth floor, the woman at the desk took the papers. As I was getting ready for my journey back, she said, “Did you take the stairs? Don't go back through there, take the old service elevator out back.” It would have been nice to know about that on the way up, too. The only thought that came to my mind at the time was that my coworkers truly were assholes for testing my cardio like that. 

When I got back from my tour around the hospital, no one said a thing. I guess my furious look made the joke stale. “Why didn't you guys tell me about the service elevator? Wanted me to pass out on the way down?” That was it for a few weeks. No more stairs or errands for me, plus I was getting tired of having to answer the same questions every time I passed the main hall. There was a giant sign that says “information desk” right there! Anyway, thank God.

Since it was a psychiatric wing, most people were knocked out by their meds by the time the night shift got there, so it was a joke we had that most of their work was clocking in. One patient, hearing our conversation, said he was going to give the night nurse a good scare to “make her work a little.” We all had a laugh, since I was getting his sleeping pills ready at that very moment. There would be no scare. 

By the time I was getting ready to greet the night shift and go home, I was told I had to work an extra shift, since one of them was sick. Extra money, I thought, so I took it since the other guys didn't look so keen on staying on short notice.

For the first few hours, it did seem like we were right. The hardest part of my job WAS clocking in. I had my lunch break. I even watched some fights on my phone. I could get used to it. That was until around 2 AM. I was feeling exhausted; I wasn't used to staying up that long. Outside, I could still faintly hear movement, even if I couldn’t see anyone. It is a big hospital, after all. Inside that wing, all I had were those purposefully harmless white walls, long corridors, and the ticking of that huge clock on the wall. It almost seemed like I was the one who took those sleeping pills. The wall next to me looked so soft and comfortable. I leaned against it and almost slept. 

On one of my “long blinks” I saw it: the son of a bitch, butt-naked with a blanket over his shoulder. *He must've spat out his pills*, I thought. I had to check on him; after all, he was under my care and was unwell. I called his name, but he just ignored me, so I had to go all the way there. When I touched his shoulder, he turned, pushed me as hard as he could, and ran. I fell on my ass but tried to give chase, only to turn the corner and see there was no one there. I guess the commotion made people wake up, and the guy that just pushed me was on the other side of the hall, groggy from his pills. I just stood there for a couple of minutes trying to figure out what just happened. When I told the head nurse, she just laughed at me. “You'll get used to it, honey.” I must've been dreaming.

For all of the good and funny days I had working at the psych ward, one thing was certain: I did not want to be on the late night news as the guy who was brutally murdered by a rabid patient while working night shifts at a hospital, so I asked to be transferred to the general ward. 

My first day there, I thought that maybe the “brutally murdered” thing was better. I had so much work, so many patients to take care of, and for the first time, I came face-to-face with how frail we all are. How some diseases eat people, both the sick and their families. It was a harsh contrast from goofing around with mental patients. 

One day, while I was caring for an old lady, she said that I spooked her. I apologized. She laughed and said, “I thought you were an angel coming to take me!” I am handsome, but not that handsome. I didn’t want to waste the opportunity, so I bragged about it to another coworker a couple of hours later, but she did not seem to find it funny. The only thing she said was, “Poor thing.” The old lady died the next day.

We would get these “predictions” from time to time. Like the surge—that's when a terminally ill patient gets a last burst of energy, starts eating, talking, hell, some even start to walk again. Some family members knew what that meant, some didn't. It was heartbreaking just the same.

There were times when a patient would see an angel, just like the old lady, or the grim reaper coming for them. And about the grim reaper, we actually had one there. He was an old doctor; so old, in fact, that he might've been around when this place was being built. That is probably why he never got fired, because every time he came in to make the rounds, we would have an abnormally large number of deaths. I don’t know if he was trying to free up beds for “new customers" or sheer incompetence, but I just couldn't believe that he never got caught with whatever he was doing.

Night shifts were fine due to the reduced workload most of the time, however, if things went sideways, there were also fewer people to help. Normally, when someone dies, a special team comes in to prepare, collect the body, and take it to the morgue where all deaths are investigated. Again, I have no idea how that doctor wasn’t caught.

On one of those busy nights, the day shift couldn't finish getting this one guy ready, so it fell to me to get it done. Preparing a body isn’t difficult; you just clean it and bag it. But it takes a sort of mentality to go from “them” to “it” that I just didn’t have yet. Since it was my job, and I couldn't just let him—it—rot there, I got it done.

When I got to the morgue, there was only one guy working. For such a huge hospital, they sure liked to cut back on staffing.

“Busy night, huh? Reaper came in?” he asked.

“Yeah, about that guy, wh—”

He interrupted me. “Thanks for bringing it in. Since I can’t leave this place alone, it would have been a while until someone came up to get him, and I don't like to keep them waiting.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem. It was my first time doing it, though. Hope everything is alright.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll take him from here.”

A few days later, a rumor went around about a guy who was declared dead and taken to the morgue. When they went to check later, there were scratch marks on the inside of the bag, as if he was trying to get out. They were saying it was the Lazarus effect. I read somewhere that it’s a rare return of a heartbeat. This is a big hospital, and people like to gossip and make up stories. But I couldn't help but think about the guy I took down there. I kept thinking about how that doctor could have declared him dead, how the drugs or whatever he did weren't strong enough to kill him, and how I was the one who let him suffocate to death in a body bag. I held on to the thought that the guy that took him did his job better than the reaper. I think I need therapy.

While I didn't want to go back to the psych ward, I did miss my first coworkers. They were assholes, but so was I. We would meet in the break room from time to time. They would crack jokes, talk about the latest loony antics the patients were up to, and how some of them never seemed to be able to stay away for too long. It's sad how mental health issues take hold of you and make you a permanent fixture of a place as awful as this. Better than dying, though.

This is by no means an easy job and the people that stay long enough are few and far between. Too much work, too much stress, too much death. It's not for everyone. People bounce from hospital to hospital just to get a “fresh start” somewhere else. I was starting to get the same idea, and maybe I just needed to stumble into this decision.

Around my one-year mark there, I overheard some people talking about what the new management was doing. “Did you hear it? They are finally gutting the fourth floor. I think they are going to make a memorial or something there.”
I didn't get around the hospital much at that time. I was finding out that being given more responsibilities wasn't a perk after all, just a lot more work, so I was entirely out of the loop. I asked why they were getting rid of an entire floor, and they said, “Because of the gas leak. Three people died there and a bunch got really ill a while back. Plus, that woman a few years earlier…”

That made no sense. I had worked there for almost a year. A WHOLE year! I would have heard about it. I would have seen it on the news or something. There had been people there just a few months earlier, I’m sure of it! I wasn't crazy, not yet anyway. I had to see it.
I took the elevator from the ground floor, where I worked. It wouldn't open on the fourth, so I exited on the fifth. I saw that lady, the receptionist. She looked confused; she wasn't expecting me. But she quickly realized what I was thinking when I had my eyes fixed on that corridor.
She stood up. “Don't g—”

I bolted down the first set of stairs. When I reached the next landing, there she was.

That woman.

She was lying at the bottom of the stairs, bloodied, her head cracked against the wall, her high heels snapped in half. She hadn't just walked away that day. I had been unlucky enough to see where she always ended up.

I had no tools to deal with this.

I ran back up as fast as I could. When I got to the top, my heart was pounding. I felt like I was going to vomit, and all I could say was, “I don't think those guys are my friends at all!”

I woke up a few hours later in one of the beds meant for patients.

After coming to, they said I was talking nonsense to the fifth floor staff about a dead woman downstairs. They called it burnout, but since I punched a guy on my way out and had to be physically restrained, there I was, back in the psych ward, but now on the other side. At least I'll finally get that therapy I was looking for.

It is certainly different being on this side of things. They wanted me to say everything I needed to “get off my chest,” but at the same time, no one really cared. I remembered the rule about not indulging patients' delusions, and clearly, they weren’t indulging mine. 

There was an almost entirely new crew working there. Part of the renovations by the new hospital management. They wanted to move away from the sad, old, creepy aesthetic and toward a modern one, so there were a lot of layoffs. Or so I heard.

One thing they couldn’t get rid of was the religious aspect of the place. There were all sorts of statues, names and phrases written on the walls, and other sacred items in that hospital, and unless they wanted to bring down the wrath of the Catholic Church, every single religious resident of that city, and maybe God Himself, they had to keep them. That meant keeping the old traditions of priests and nuns visiting patients.

That usually happened with critical cases. Pneumonia is a big deal when you are a child or an old person, so they would come and pray for patients like that because you might as well try everything at that point. I actually got a visit from an old priest who had prayed for me when I was a child, hospitalized for that same reason more than a decade prior. This time, at least, we had a conversation. 

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm fine, Father. And you?”

“As well as God allows me.”

“That's good to hear.”

“I’m glad to see you survived back then. Although I'm sad to see you back here. I'm sure you'll pull through just as you did once before.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Father. I hope you are right.”

“I’ll keep you in my prayers, son.”

Funny how some things stick with you. Even though I was really young back then, I still remembered his face. It looked exactly the same as it did the first time I saw him. I guess not even death can keep a man of God from his duties. 

I've been here for a while now, since my mind apparently still isn't in the right place. Even if they didn’t believe everything, they believed most of it, and some of the meds helped a little. The doctors came in with the usual generic questions: “Are you sleeping well? Are you eating? Taking your meds on time?” As if I have any choice. But one thing stuck.

“Are you still hearing voices?”

“I've never heard things that weren't there,” I answered.

“The night crew told me you keep talking to yourself sometimes.”

“No. I only talk to the five night-shift workers when the noise outside keeps me from sleeping. No extra voices in my head.” 

“There are only four workers at night.”

Well, I think I'm still learning things about this place.