Twisted Deviant

It’s the quiet of night which does her in; silence makes the night stretch out in unbearable strains of half remembered flashes of red and green – they chase around inside her head until she wants to scream. Often she does, making the nurses rush into the room with pounding feet and weary sighs. Post-Traumatic Stress , the nurses in sterling white whisper to one another as they push her against the mattress, pinning her to the bed with cruel, cold hands as they work the leather straps around her flailing limbs. Once she is bound, they stab at the translucent flesh of her arm as they try to inject the medication right into her veins. When that happens, she can’t stop the images, horrible and frightening as they push into her waiting brain. They call her Jane Doe to her face, in strange accents that sound odd to her ears. She wants to scream at them to talk correctly – to use the Queen’s English – anything, to stop the strange twang of words that come out in incomprehensible garbles. It