Why Were You Screaming Last Night (standard:Psychological fiction, 2343 words)
Author: Anonymous	Added: Jul 29 2010	Views/Reads: 3939/2400	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Delving into the mind of a manic depressive at his worst.

A pale moon shines down upon me. 

-Was I screaming? I ask 

-Yes. You woke everyone up. 

I feel bad about it, but I don't remember screaming or being loud. I
just remember sitting at my desk working. My book had just been 
published and I'm a very famous person now. J.K. Rowling knows this. 
I've got about a thousand more years of life; plenty of time to write 
the greatest story ever told. 

The woman with the Jamaican accent herds us into the cafeteria but there
is not enough room. Everyone is staring. I feel neither embarrassment 
nor exclusion. I take my meal of a ham sandwich, ginger ale, and little 
packets of mayonnaise and sit on a blue plastic chair and eat. The food 
is great. It's revitalizing; especially the ginger ale. You need ginger 
ale to live. It's like alcohol. 

I am sitting there taking notes in my notebook. I am a writer and I have
to understand this experience for what it is. It seems like I've 
stumbled upon something grand, and that's how I feel in the pit of my 
stomach. I see an Asian girl reading ‘The Perfect Blue' and I know that 
book. I've read it, and now I want to read it backwards. That way I 
know what it's really about. Just like the Giver. The Giver was good 
backwards, but forwards it is a mystery only some can discover. I am an 
inductee into it's mysteries that began with Socrates shouting ‘ Eureka 
” so many years ago. An agency dedicated to social good. Everywhere I 
go there are hints of people's involvement. My father is a member, but 
he's forgotten. His memory will awake now that I've ended up here of 
all places. 

The hours are ticking away. I know I am dying, if I am not already dead.
The Wayans Brother's are on TV and it is genius and not a comedy. I 
weep as I realize how the whole thing is about me. These are all the 
mistakes I've made, all the lies I've been told, all the friends I've 
had, good or bad. In the end though, I get the thing that truly matters 
to me. I became the happiest person alive. The whole cross dressing 
angle was simply an elaborate metaphor of my attempts to discover who I 
am. Now I know. 

I have to take a shower soon. If I am fearful and I hesitate even for an
instant, I will die but if I'm strong and courageous I will pass and 
will become famous and wealthy. I feel my way along that stretch of 
hallway that is the green mile, as described in Stephen King's novel. I 
am Rocky Sullivan as I jump into the shower without even taking off my 
boxers. I am happy though because I know I am alive when that cold 
water pours all over my body. I take my time and scrub everywhere, then 
I go to my room. I don't sleep though. I cannot sleep. I try to write, 
but I want to get out of here. I don't want to stay here any longer. I 
hate this place. 

The watchman is there blocking my exit. He is my son. I know this
because he looks just like me. I stare at him. He tells me to go to 
sleep. He is Folk. He is a doctor or maybe a nurse; reading Mario Puzo. 
I know it's a good book and I really want to read it backwards, but he 
tells me he needs this book. He seems upset for some reason and I guess 
he's either happy for me, but maybe sad. He must know how tough it is 
for me. Maybe he's already gone through this. Maybe he is me. I want to 
go to sleep but I feel like I will die. I try to tell him this, but he 
just tells me to go to sleep. 

Maybe I should just die then. I look under my bed. There are needles and
syringes everywhere. There are white packets of heroin and cocaine. I 
can hear them calling. They want me. They're coming after me. I see 
that guy again too, the big one with the goatee. He is injecting it 
into himself. I'm scared of him. I want to die. I want to go to sleep. 

But I can't. Too much is at stake here. My mind races backwards and
forwards without stopping. J.K. Rowling sits in the next room, she is 
the overlord of this facilty located somewhere in Canada . 

Of course, it had to have been in Canada . There was too much at stake
in America . Way too much at stake. The cycle was in full effect; 
everything was coming full circle. First it was the Lord of the Rings, 


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