Patchwork 49

Tapioca for lunch today; tapioca. Banana flavored, to be exact. Not exactly the dessert dreams are made of, but oddly comforting, in an Iwishmymomcaredenoughtocookforme-kinda way. In fact, it seemed almost cliché, the tapioca, the mini tapioca cup with a plastic spoon. She longed for the spork, but they wouldn’t give it to her. Something about being able to stab herself with it or jab it into another patient’s neck in some psychotic fit of rage…or something. So, she got a spoon, and had eaten the dessert in three large bites. She had used her tongue to clean it out, pissed at herself for having inhaled the shit in one foul swoop, as opposed to savoring it. How pathetic…the spoon, the tapioca, this fucking place…her own reflection.

She pulled the blanket up under her chin, the metal on the bench beneath her absorbing the cold, causing her ass and back to sting. There was a tiny hole near the blanket bottom, the thin, cheap fabric ripping apart before her vary eyes. This place was supposed to be fairly expensive, possibly even exclusive, almost a resort for the fucking insane, the outdoor courtyard full of meandering Xanax-poppers, suicidal trophy wives with an alcohol problem, and the sons and daughters of A and B-level stars, the pressures of fame and fortune too much to handle, their lives transformed into an episode of Behind the Music. Life in a seven bedroom home with access to three cars, an annual allowance, and sixteen credit cards was just too much to bare, the kitchen carving knife now looking much to inviting, as does the car running with the garage door shut.

The wind picked up and she shivered. Despite the cold weather, she might have anyways, shivered that is. Her body had begun acting strangely the last year; daily acts of mutiny hitting her full force. It was mainly her head. It hurt, deep inside, like the sensation of a forming headache that never quite makes it to the surface.

Pretending had been fun, but now it had worn off its novelty. She could poke fun at these basket-case wannabe’s, accusing them of attention seeking tactics, or direct access to mind altering pills, but it didn’t seem funny anymore.