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A pop-up book of flowers from grade 4 are driving her insane...

Insane fun

Postby what a spectacle » 8/7/2005, 6:07 pm

This is a piece I wrote for my english coursework a while ago. Its kinda a short story, but also sort of monolougeish. I dunno

Connor’s Garden

I’m not really sure how I ended up here. I don’t remember much these days. Not since they started visiting me. It weren’t always this bad, they’d come every now an’ then. It’s everyday now, nearly. An’ its always the same. I’ll be sitting in me garden, minding me own business, an’ all of a sudden I’ll get real sleepy. I never get sleepy normally, so I know that summat is wrong. I always wake up in the same room. It’s all cold and sterile, like summat has sucked the happiness out. An’ its real bright too, but not in a good kinda way, not bright like my garden is. That’s soft. That’s natural, an’ warms you, makes everything seem alright. But the room is the bad kind. It’s the harsh, blinding, electrical kind. It illuminates every corner of the white, linear room. They make sure there aint nowhere for me to hide. But that just makes ‘em hypocrites. Cos’ they hide from me. They’s always all safe, behind a barrier of mirrored glass. I can’t get to ‘em, I know; I tried. An’ they never talk to me proper either. They always do it through some kinda speaker, it clicks when they turn it on.
“Hello Connor”, they’ll say “How are you today?” An’ I always think they must be stupid or summat, because I’m not exactly radiating joy in being here.
“Are you feeling any better since we last spoke Connor?” They sound so patronizing, like I’m some kind of naïve child, who needs everything spelled out.
“Connor, are you feeling any better since we last spoke?” This is bloody hilarious. Since we last spoke. It’s always them who does all the talking, I just sit an’ listen and wonder when It’ll be over. An’ they always get all wound up. This next bit is priceless.
“Connor, you can say something. We’re here to help.” They think they sound real nice as well. But they don’t, they sound all slimy and deceptive, like an earthworm, ‘cept that I like earthworms, and I don’t like them one bit. I wouldn’t mind if they asked me for a little chat. We could sit in my garden, maybe we could go to a beach somewhere, that would be nice. I could do with a friend. But I aint making friends with them. They do things behind my back, an’ they always bring me to this horrible place.
“Connor?” An’ what’s with always saying my name? I know who I am, I’ve been called this all me life. Sometimes I wonder who they’re trying to remind; me or them. Else they’re trying to pretend they are close to me. In my garden nobody uses my name. Plants don’t give each other names see, so they don’t give me one either. But they still know who I am. They aint never called me Connor, ever, but they know me way more better than these people.
I wonder what they’d say if they knew I could talk to me plants. They’d probably call me wacko, an’ put me in some kinda institution. Like what happened to that guy who went crazy an’ killed all his family. ‘Cept he was mad cos’ he took too many drugs. Apparently his whole skin was covered in sores where he’d stuck himself with needles. That’s what I think they’re doing to me here. Sticking me with things to make me insane. They always get these big syringes and don’t care nothing about whether they hurt me. An’ they say “There Connor, that’ll make you all better” but I don’t need anyone to make me better, there aint nothing wrong with me.
An’ then I wake up, an’ I’m back in me garden. I always used to wonder if it’d all been a dream, but then I’d look at my arm, and there would be a prick where they injected me. I don’t bother checking anymore. Me plants are always all concerned. An’ they always ask me if I’m alright. But it’s different from when those people ask; my plants genuinely care. An’ they would never hurt me. Plants are way better than humans. They don’t hurt nobody, they don’t lie, they don’t take drugs, or go insane or kill their family. Sometimes I wish I’d been born a plant. Then I’d be simple an’ happy. I don’t blame me mam or dad, it’s not their fault that their bodies only know how to make human babies. I do plan to ask about it when I die. I’ll say;
“Hey God. How come I had to be a human? Why couldn’t I have been a rhododendron?” that’ll make him laugh I bet. Everyone always laughs at me. Sometimes I wish they’d all go away, but then there’d be no one to look after me garden when I’m gone. An’ me plants would all die. I wouldn’t want that, me plants are never ever ill. At least they didn’t used to be. I aint so sure anymore. The other day I found one of me roses, an’ it had a nasty case of black fly. I aint never seen no black fly here before. An’ me strawberry plants started to go brown. I could hear them crying in pain. An’ I wanted to help ‘em so much, but nothing I tried worked. I never had to deal with casualties before. Not until they came along.
Last night I woke up and heard voices. “Give him a good dose of ethchlorvynol, we don’t want him waking up.” I couldn’t hear what they were saying, not all of it anyway, just a few snippets while I floated in an’ out of consciousness. “…showing improvement. His awareness of reality seems to be…” I didn’t have no idea what they were talking about. “…definite reaction to sound and light…” Maybe I am going insane “…increase his dosage…” I guess I’m all scared by this. Maybe it was just a dream, but I used to have nice dreams, ‘bout stars an’ rivers an’ the rainforest. An’ they’d always be about natural things, not ethchiwotsit. Summat is happening to me, to my garden, to everything I know. Like my imagination is taking over my reality. Like I’m going crazy. An’ then maybe I’ll end up killing my family. An’ they’ll put me in a nuthouse for the specially disturbed. Maybe.
I’m gonna ask the old oak ‘bout it. He’s the wisest, cleverest, most ancient thing in my garden. An’ he’ll know what to. That’s where I’m headed now. It’s quite hard to find if you don’t know where to look. You have to go, across the stream an’ down into the orchard. He’s right at the edge, surveying the land, watching over everything. He’s been there for hundreds of years, an’ I don’t suppose he is going to move anytime soon.
I’m gonna sit underneath him, close my eyes an’ tell him everything. Everything that passes through me mind. I’m nearly there now. He can see me coming, an ant on his massive landscape. It’s funny though, if you fix yer eyes on summat while you’re walking, it don’t look like you’re getting any closer, even if you are. I must be getting closer, he’s not gonna move anytime soon. Is he? I feel weary, my limbs like lead. But I push on, I have to get there soon.
“How much did you give him?” Pain ripping through my body. A flash of red. “HOW MUCH?” A house, blood splattered against the wall. A punch in the ribs. A white room, lights pressing down on my scull, suffocating me. I scream. An echo. “Connor what are you doing?” a knife in my hand, “Connor please!” Blinding strip lighting, whizzing past. A drip. “Tell me how much!” Flesh, white unblemished, butchered. “Connor it’s me!” A shock, pain, electricity fizzing through my body. “His heart’s stopped, we’re losing him.” My garden, dying plants. The oak moving further and further away. The will to reach it. Heavy limbs. An open door, sleeping people. White, a man rocking, insane. Cut and bleeding in a bathroom. Screams. Heavy breathing. Pain, escalating, pushing behind my eyes. Animal instinct, survive. “Not the baby Connor!” Screams. Syringes piling up, burying me. A man, haggard, unwashed “This’ll give you a real buzz” Orange, my skin is on fire, I’m burning. Wilting flowers, curling dying, trees dropping their leaves. Red on white snow. Meat parting under pressure. A fountain of blood. Choking. Convulsions, eyes rolling backwards in my head. “What do you mean you don’t have the money?” A kick in the head “If I tell you to pay, I expect results!” A hospital. A laugh. “It’s our baby Connor.” A screaming, crying infant. “Lets call her Joy.” A cradle, dripping red. “She’s our little ray of joy.” Darkness. An arm, my arm. A throbbing vein. Burning liquid, injected. Spreading. Racing through my brain intoxicating my mind. Shouting. “She’s our little ray of Joy, Connor!” Screaming names “Connor stop!” Lashing out cutting, slicing, freeing myself. “He’s crying out for them, he doesn’t know what he has done.” Glass, mirror. Trying to reach my captors. “How are you since we last spoke?” Pain searing through my chest. “Get me the goddamn money!” My garden, the oak tree, old, strong, alive. “We’re losing him!” Solid, rough bark. “How much did you give him?” Calm, collected, safe. “Let’s call her Joy.” Stable, protective, everlasting. “I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”
I sink back against the trunk. My breathing returns to me. I look out over my garden an’ it’s the same as ever. It’s not dead. It’s healthy an’ alive. Smiling I press myself into the bark. I dunno what’s real anymore an’ I don’t care. The wood takes me in, as I melt into the tree. I don’t suppose I’m gonna move anytime soon.
++ HELEN ++

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what a spectacle
 
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