“And do you now see that what you did was wrong?”

“No.” My arms are already crossed, so I roll my eyes.

“By trying to take your life, you brought a lot of pain to your family and your frie–”

“And how many times do I need to stress that I do not have friends?”

Of course I have– had–friends. They didn’t take too kindly to my absurd dreams, but that is alright. Not that I would ever let those brainwashing assholes know. 

I don’t know why I’m here. I mean, all I tried to do was kill myself. Is it my fault the impact of the water didn’t kill me? They should have just let me drown. But whenever I tell them, they give me this pitying look that says: ‘No, he still has not understood.’

With the exception of the new doctor. She’s quite nice. And fiercely intelligent. I like talking to her, she seems to understand me. But we’re never alone, and the older doctor always interrupts when she shows pity and understanding. I feel like I hate him.

“Your pills, Mr Jones.”

I look up from my book, and raise an eyebrow. She never brings me my pills.

 “There was a tumult in one of the other ce– rooms.” She shrugs. “And I know how you dislike your routine being disrupted.”

She’s right. I like to know when I have to see one of those stupid nurse’s faces, and when I’m rid of them for good. Ad least for the rest of the night.

She hands me the cup with the pills, slightly fidgety.

“I don’t bite,” I try to calm her, smiling.

She gives a short laugh. “I know that.” She gives the cup a glance. “Sleep well, Mr Jones.” She leaves, pulling the door closed behind her.

I sort out the sleeping pill, and wash the others down with water. They objected at first but soon learned that it was not worth the hassle. Should I see how I liked not sleeping, what was it to them.

The book on my bed begs my attention again, and I long to re-emerge into the fantastic world where space and time were not fixed but rather mellow and formeable for the trained mind.

Fleetingly, I wonder whether or not they have found out what my strange dreams mean. But then again, it matters not; dreams aren’t of any significance anyway.

Nothing is of significance, we are all but living husks of death, walking this earth in a ludicrous strive for sense and importance, our bodies decaying around a mind caught in illusions and fancies. The only thing we can hope to achieve is mutual love, but alas, with eight billion people on the planet, how is one supposed to find the one missing piece in time before cruelty snatches it away?

No, life holds nothing for me, so why not live out the pitiful time I have left in dreams and fantasies? 

I find it difficult to re-enter my world again. The session of psychotherapy has tired me. I close the book and put it aside. The moment I close my eyes, my mind drifts away.

I am woken in the middle of the night by someone shaking my arm.

“Mr Jones?” It is Doctor Nairi. I like her name. “Mr Jones, come with me.”

“What?” I sit up and blink at her. All is dark, but she is carrying a flashlight that she’s now directed towards the ground. “Why?”

“Please, trust me,” she urges, throwing my clothes to me. “We must go.”

“What do you want?” I slowly pull on the trousers, mildly interested. This surprises me.

“Your dreams. I dream them, too.”

I pull on the shirt with a bit more haste. This turn of events is unexpected, and I find it intrigues me.

“Are we escaping?”

“Call it what you want,” she whispers, but then flashes me a grin. “Yes.” She looks at the open door. “All or nothing, Mr Jones.”

I follow her to the door with a nod.

The ward is empty and dark as we hasten through the corridors. Sometimes, we can hear a patient yell or talk in his sleep. We make it down to the ground floor without being seen. But the moment we enter the staircase to the carpark, the door of the nurses’ room opens. The nurse that steps out is typical for nightshift: broad-shouldered and bulky. But luck is with me, for he’s rather short, and I have the element of surprise on my side. I take a quick jump back and smash my elbow in his face. He falls like struck by lightning.

I hear Doctor Nairi gasp and turn to her with a grin. “All,” I stage-whisper.

She stares at the crumpled body for a moment, then nods and moves on. I follow quickly, feeling alive as never before. 

We leave with her car. After ten minutes of silence, I ask: “Where are we going?”

“You know where,” she answers. She shoots a look into the rear-view mirror, probably expecting to see a police car, but the road remains empty save for two or three other cars.  

I smile.