LeliaThomas.Com

Blue Light by Lelia Thomas

Turns out being mentally well is like winning the lottery, except you don’t get to buy a ticket for this game. You’re either normal, or you’re not, and the definitions of such a concept change over time. Some people are crazy for a while. Some people are crazy forever. Some people who you think should be locked up are called productive citizens.

What is normal anymore? What was ever normal? How do you know you’re sane? Isn’t part of being insane the denial of insanity? Maybe we’re all a little crazy. Maybe it’s just a matter of to what degree.

Maybe I am crazy. Am I crazy?

The blue light is flashing amid the black. I don’t have to look at my watch. I know it’s around three in the morning. My eyes have closed only briefly. I’ve stared at the ceiling for hours.

I don’t have to check my mobile. I already know who it is. I know it’s her. I know the numbers that will be there, right by her name. I can see them. The slanted back of the seven, the curves of the threes, the endless knot that it is the eight. I see it all. She called. She wants to talk. I want to talk, but I know better.

I don’t need to get up and talk, because I know that light actually isn’t flashing. It’s just what I want to see. My doctor is calling these hallucinations part of the stress, part of the temporary insanity that my mind is putting me through after the accident. I just call it hell.

He says it’s weird that I see things, that people only usually report voices, that there are usually only flashbacks and nightmares. But what is normal? They don’t know everything yet.

And I am a guinea pig, a part of the great continuing studies.

I wish the light would stop flashing.

Sometimes I wonder. What is real? Is it just my mind willing me to see that blue in the night, or is it happening—somewhere? Not here, maybe. Not in this room where my body is lying—where I think my body is lying—maybe somewhere else. But where?

The pill bottle is on my nightstand, right beside the blinking-non-blinking phone. I let two rest in my palm until they melt. Wonder what’s in them. Names of things I can’t pronounce, probably. Tested on mice I’ll never meet. Trial studied on people who are never spoken to.

I’m supposed to trust this.

The blue light is not flashing. Telling myself this, does not make it stop. I bring the pills to my lips, reach for my glass of water.

But I want to believe it is blinking.

My hand drops to my lap.

What is normal?

What is real?

Details

Considering the comments I have initially received in several places, both on and off this website, I feel it should be clarified that this is a work of fiction.