After hours of Thorazine-influenced interviews with mind doctors and after anxious anticipation of release, I'm put in a wheelchair and taken to a place called AP3. The song playing from a hidden cubicle is "The First Cut is the Deepest". I thought of blue swans* and the moment froze. My defenses opened for a second to allow in a ray of reality. Apparently, I used the word "box cutter" in the wrong context (admittedly so, but in a theatrical sense - not literal.) That earned me a spot on the non-voluntary wing of the hospital - the place where mother nature's mistakes are banished for a someday to get better. I howled at how I did not belong there and called K one last time. I poured coins into a pay phone as U2's "The Sweetest Thing" played pervertedly in the background on a cheap clock radio. My time was ticking down. My last nickel hit the bottom of the slot as I heard her say "Hang in there....." A needle hit my ass and I was dead.
*Diner in Eatontown, NJ
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