Long? I haven’t been here long. No, not long. I have been here forever. I don’t keep up with the nights, the days, the meals, the sleep. I don’t keep count. Not anymore. I used to keep count, but I was afraid it would turn me crazy.
Crazy? That’s why they say I’m here. I don’t know what I have, but they say I have it. I don’t agree, but they don’t mind. They bring me in, they sit me down. They watch me, always. I sleep, I eat, I hide the pills. I won’t take the pills.
Pills. Always pills. They have so many, blue, green, white and red. I don’t get the little pink pill, and I am glad. I wouldn’t take it anyway. I never take the pills. That’s the one thing they can’t make me do, no matter what they tell my husband
Husband? Yes I have a husband. Hard to believe, isn’t it. I know it is. I forget him sometimes. I forget him because he has forgotten me. He only sees what they tell him I am. He forgets that I was once his fiery woman.
Woman born. I wonder sometimes if that is my crime. Why they put me here, for being woman. I didn’t like their game and I didn’t like their rules. We were supposed to be equal, supposed to work together. That was before the children.
Children always under foot. Why do I have to stay with the children, always. I wanted to write, but they took my pen. I’m sure they didn’t mean to take it, but away it has gone. He knew he was taking it, but take it he did. Away the paper, away the pen.
Pen and paper, gone away, gone below. He hid it from me, I wonder where. Is that why I’m crazy, because I crave them so? Because I prefer to write than tend the little one in the crib? Because the cake never turns out as well as tale?
Tales are tall, but not lies all. My dream was only to write. I married for love, but the ring became a chain. And endless rope that kept me bound, that kept the pen from hand. I reached, I stretched, but the chain was short, not long.
Long? I haven’t been here long. No, not long. I have been here forever.