Station 22 | by Devin Hamilton

     I’m not proud to say that I am enmeshed within an internal Technicolor conflict. That is simply the way it is. A war that aligns taunting voices, angry shadows, and grim insistent strangers against me. What I do not understand is why doctors claiming to help continue looping back to the ridiculous question of whether any of it is real? Of course it is real. I am experiencing it, what other qualification could there be?

     A nurse in purple adjusts her shoulders while the pen in her hand scratches across a clipboard. My Doctor, although I don’t own him and if he’s offered I’d certainly decline buying, tells me that the question is important because I must start distinguishing. His voice imbued with medical professional patience, even as his wrinkled eyes slip to the doorframe behind me where a clock is stationed.

     Does he have a wife? The purple nurse, her clothes not her skin, I’m not that insane, stops the pen’s dancing. Well, yes, in fact he does. My Doctor’s palms of servitude close together atop of a glass desk and he patiently awaits my reply. Well, if he has a wife let’s assume that he loves her. Does it mean that because I am not experiencing the love for his wife that it does not exist? That it is not real? My Doctor calmly smiles after I finish explaining. This I do not appreciate, because a doctor’s smile has been known to signify too many inconsistent and often hidden motivations. A smile is an easy tactic to distract as guardians are in lobbies signing signatures. My Doctor concedes the point. Perhaps I’ll consider buying him after all. His throat coughs and he argues that his love doesn’t tell him that he caused power outs in the south by posting a tweet, or that his father is trying to possess him. The pen clicks and begins again. The session ends the same way it began: brainstorming tricks called strategies and methods for me to determine whether this voice or that voice is lying.

     When I am allowed to leave I notice that the movie playing in the common area is Kill Bill. Maybe when my sister comes tonight she’d like to watch. She could bring me a meatball sub with extra marinara sauce, because they won’t put enough on if you don’t ask for it. I think of texting her, but I forgot…my phone was taken away two weeks ago.



Devin is a writer obsessed with shadow and movement. She enjoys an overindulgence of coffee and wine. In her work she aims to capture The Edge.

Twitter: @devinhamilton1