Charles details the chilling reality of having severe psychotic episodes in prison, offering a raw take on the mental health struggles many face behind bars.
I wake on the floor, lying in a massive puddle of urine. In front of me, a sad face drawn cartoonishly on the wall greets me; its frown is an ominous harbinger of what is to come. My body is stiff and unmoving. My limbs feel broken, the joints of my elbows, knees, and knuckles swollen and aching. The absolute worst smell I can ever recall encountering permeates the air so heavily that I believe I can taste it with every labored breath. It’s the pungent stink of human waste. My own waste, I presume.
Above me, light from recessed bulbs falls down like flames from a gas lantern. The heat is so intense that I am certain each and every hair protruding from my flesh must be singed, though I know this can’t be true. Still, I ponder this absurdity, chasing the idea down the many rabbit holes of my imagination—the thought of my body burning and rising closer to the flames—until finally, I hit a wall in my conscious mind. At this point, the only thing I can see or feel is a white, searing pain, like being at the epicenter of an explosion. Then everything goes black, and I fall asleep, my body motionless on the concrete.
Dreams, madness, and reality collide, and somewhere in my slumber, I begin to hear voices.
“What’s he in here for again?” says a woman’s voice.
Not long afterward, a male speaks. “Petty larceny. He was trying to steal toothpaste from Walmart. The officer said he was mumbling to himself when security seized him. He was still obviously pretty out of it when we received him. I don’t think he even knows where he is. Hell, he could barely tell us his name.”
When I come to, I am in a chair, an undulating howl echoing through the room and hurting my ears. After a moment, I realize it is the sound of my own voice, and when I close my mouth, the noise stops.
I look down at my hands, the leather straps holding them in place along the arms of the chair. I try with every ounce of strength in my body to break free, but the sinews of my forearms weaken more and more beneath the restraints with every attempt, and eventually, I give up. The same style of straps pulls my ankles to the legs of the chair. My head is also bound in place, likely by yet another strap.
Then I hear it: clack, clack, clack—the unmistakable sound of a cell door opening behind me.
The woman I see is red-haired and pasty, with dark circles under her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is high-pitched and whiny, and I want her to stop talking, but she won’t.
“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Davis?” she asks.
“Go away,” I say.
“Not until you answer some questions. Are you supposed to be taking any medications? Do you have a doctor that you see?”
“I don’t know. Maybe… I think so, anyway. It seems like the VA prescribed me something, but I don’t take it. Something about it makes me feel funny. I don’t like it,” I respond.
“You’re a veteran?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
The red-headed woman scowls at me, her eyes narrowed in disgust or disbelief—though which one, I don’t know. Her brow furrows are as deep as canyons, and for a sliver of time, I think she resembles a human Shar Pei.
Then, a moment later, I speak again. “A marine. Why do you have me in this chair?” I ask, gaining more clarity on my situation with every word I speak.
“You were drawing on the wall with your own feces and bashing your head against the cell door, so we had to restrain you. It was for your own safety.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“No, human shit. Your own, as a matter of fact.”
“Whatever.”
“Fine, whatever,” she says and turns to walk off, leaving me alone for what feels like an eternity.
“Let me out of this chair!” I scream just as she is out of eyesight.
“Not until you can behave,” she responds coarsely.
Then she is gone, and I am alone.
Sometime later, I fall back asleep.
Eventually, I woke again, lying back on the floor and wondering if it was all a dream. But when I look around, I’m in the same room, lying on the same concrete with the same ungodly stench filling the air, and I know it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a nightmare—a real one—and it won’t go away.
Charles has been released from prison!
