E-Issue3_Finallydonep

Inside
Kelly Aiello
Minds Matter Magazine Volume II Issue I Arts & Media
I turn my head, feel the stiffness of a pillow
beneath my skull. I am weak on the bed, and
can see a silver bedpan filled to the brim with
thick, black muck.
My heart is still racing. All this time later.
I feel nausea. I am not able to control my
muscles. I raise my hand, help, where am I, tremors
through my arm, my fingers uncontrollable.
My arm falls to the scratchy sheets of the bed.
I feel more vomit rising. More black mess into
another silver bedpan. A thick, soft hand holding
the bedpan. I vomit more.
“Get it out,” the voice is not kind. “Get it
out girl. You have to drink more.”
I shake my head, more of a swivel on my
neck. Look up to the nurse, the woman holding
the bedpan I am rapidly filling with my barf. Her
eyes are blank. She places the bedpan on the table
beside her. Passes me a cup filled with black
goo.
“If you don’t drink this, I’ll have no choice
but to shove a tube down your throat. Do you
want that?”
eyes.
The doctor comes in. He is tall. With glasses.
Bitch. I feel the tears stinging under my
I hate you I hate you I hate you.
Graphic by Phoebe Maharaj
“We need to take your arterial blood.
What you ingested has a dangerous effect on
blood pH.” I know. I’m not stupid. “This will hurt.”
I have a name. My mouth gurgles words
perfectly formed in my head. I feel a prick in my
wrist. A tugging sensation. Then like a thousand
spikes being shoved up my arm and into my
heart.
I scream. I keep thinking that he is going
to rip my arteries out through my wrist all the
way up to my heart. My arm is burning; every
bone breaking. I plead, stop, please stop. I see
the nurse behind him. She looks at me, disappointment
masking any kindness she may have
had.
Patches, stickers, are then placed on my
bare chest. Beeping machines pulled up to my
bed. “Your heart is in danger,” the doctor mumbles.
My heart is already dead. Why do you
think I’m here.
Then everything goes dark.
I wake up in a room. A brightly lit room.
It smells different. The sounds are different. I
can’t hear the rhythmic beeping of the machines
anymore. My belly hurts but I no longer feel the
urgency to barf. The sense of panic, of franticness
around me is gone.
I look to the side, down to the floor. I
can see sunlight spreading its fingers across the
linoleum tiled floor. I look to my feet and see I am
covered in a blue blanket. And a hospital gown.
My arm is taped up. Bruises upon bruises. I open
my mouth, hello? – a croak comes out and pain
radiates through my throat.
I look up again, to the source of the
sunlight, the window. I am horrified to see bars,
two inch squares, covering the entire small window.
No, no, no, no.
“Hello, sleepy-head,” a voice comes from
the doorway with no door. I turn and see at a
small, dark haired woman. “May I come in?” Her
face is kind. Wrinkles creasing her eyes as she
smiles at me. She’s spent her life smiling.
I look back up at the window, the bars,
and nod.
“I need to take more blood, sweetie.” She
starts to unearth my arm from the gown. I look
down and watch her small fingers work and she
slaps on gloves. I see a splotch of dried blood in
the crux of my elbow. My wrist is purple.
“From where?” I mumble. Swallow. Another
shot of pain.
“Oh honey, I’m really good at this.” She
smiles at me again. Skin pulling up to her brown
eyes. I want to like her smile but it feel like she’s
smiling at a child. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe
she will take care of me. Maybe she will make the
pain go away. “How are you feeling this afternoon?”
Afternoon?
I just look at her.
Graphic by Phoebe Maharaj
“Pretty rotten no doubt,” she answers for
me. “Do you know where you are?”
I shake my head, no. No, I don’t fucking
know. And why are there goddamn bars on my
window?
“Honey, you tried to hurt yourself. Do you
remember that?”
Fuck off. I turn my head, the pillow sheet
rustling under my greasy hair. Look up to the ceiling.
“You’re in Homewood. You’ll be spending
a few days here, honey.”
That’s when I hear the girl in the room
next to me shouting. I look through the doorless
door and see the uniformed men rushing into the
room. The small woman beside me smiles but
her head is shaking, back and forth. No crinkles
around her eyes.
I don’t remember much about that…day,
days, events. But I remember that girl’s cries.
Moaning cries. Get me out of here.
My heart is still racing. Fifteen years later.
Kelly Aiello
2 nd Place UTSC Winner
Non-Fiction
Kelly Aiello is a second-time undergraduate
student at the University of Toronto St. George
Campus, currently studying neuroscience and
psychology. Her first degree is in political science.
She is an advocate for mental health and strives,
through her writing, to help break the stigma
around mental illness. In her free time, Kelly
writes, paints, gardens and travels.
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