2004 - Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science

Virgosby Ryan ScottHonorable Mention, Short Story CompetitionHis hands shook a little as he fumbledthrough his glove compartment, looking forhis box of Turkish Jade Camels. It was notuncommon for his hands to shake, for he wasa nervous child. He had long been labeled as“troubled” by those nearest him so the shakingwas hardly of note to him anymore. His face,normally a plaintive olive, had, after flushingbright red, drawn a melancholic pale. He battledwith the cheap lighter until his cigarettehad finally been lit, and then glanced throughhis rear view mirror at the blue duffel bag,green pillow, and red quilt that he had hastilythrown into his back seat a little over fourhours before as he blew his first puff of smoke.“I suppose I’m done crying” he thought. Itwasn’t a conscious choice of defiance and personalstrength; his glands were empty, his eyeswere sore and more tears were literally impossibleat this point. He took a small sip from thebottle of Sprite that lay in the cup holder of hisJeep Cherokee before putting the cigarette backto his lips, taking off the safety brake andputting the vehicle in drive. “I’m almost toGeorgia—don’t want to stop now.”He had no idea where he was going. Hehonestly could not remember why he had left.Surely something traumatic had occurred thatcould spur him to make the decision to abandonhis life at home, but he could not thinkwhat it was. Something must have driven himto continue driving on across the Alabamastate line into Georgia, but he did not knowwhat it was. Something must have happened.There had to be something. But no. Nothing.The sun went down as he directed his routenorth to South Carolina. Nights were nevereasy for him. Ever since he could remember hehad had nightmares or bad thoughts in thedarkness. The setting of the sun literallydrained him of all energy. As the stars cameout, his mind became a fluid pool of time andspace. Events, places, and people of the pastintermingled with those of the present andthose that might be the future. He saw vividlythe entrance to Mountain View Hospital inGadsden, Alabama— that ethereal place wherehe had lived for over a month in a constanthaze brought about by twenty-four-hour-a-daytherapy and the rigors of de-tox. “We believethat each patient has individual needs thatmust be mutually identified, planned and metin order to facilitate the attainment of his/heroptimal level of functioning and maximumhealth potential,” the check-in sheet had read.He thought it funny that he could still rememberits exact wording.He had tricked himself for a while intobelieving that these people were totally insaneand he was completely and totally separatefrom them. He then came to believe that it hadbeen those on the outside that were the onesinsane and that he had finally found “his” peopleand a place to belong, but this too wasfalse. “You are in control,” his psychiatrist hadtold him. “It’s not easy— It’s a fight every dayto the death— but you are in control.” He hadbelieved her. Perhaps he still did. “Don’t stayhere,” she had told him. So he didn’t. Andwithin a month’s time he had left MountainView, according to his sign-out sheet, a “recoveredbi-polar.” ”What signifies recovery?” heangrily demanded, silently in his head to Godor whatever higher being was there to definethe limits and boundaries of “recovery.” Hadhe really recovered? Was recovery even a realisticallypossible goal?He remembered that James, one of thepatients at Mountain View, had been totallyconvinced that the idea of recovery was a lietold by societal heads in order to suppress individualityand force conformity. Perhaps Jameshad been right. He had liked James a greatdeal. James was, unlike himself, unashamed ofwhat society considered to be his weaknesses.James was flagrantly open about an addictionto some form of speed as well as his homosexuality.But the fact remained; he was on theS V0 3