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 Life has Killed the Dream I Dreamed [1 Crane Terrace]

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Lindsey Kells

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Posts : 4
Points : 5
Join date : 2011-06-16
Age : 50

PostSubject: Life has Killed the Dream I Dreamed [1 Crane Terrace]   Fri Jun 17, 2011 7:56 am


There was a time, when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words were inviting
There was a time, when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time it all went wrong

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high and life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving

Then I was young and unafraid
When dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
As they turn your dream to shame
Fautine, Le Miserables I dreamed a dream


The acceptance from Thamesmead was a hollow victory. It wasn't proof of her newly regained sanity, she had never been mentally ill in the first place. It was not a dream job, it had the Brideston name attached to it and after spending so much time with “Dr. Nathaniel Brideston” that name gave her a deep twinge of contempt. It wasn't even a place she was particularly keen on living. Yes the United Kingdom was a lovely country, and London was an international city... but what was the point of being so close to places like Hyde park, the London eye, the river Thames, and the newly recreated Globe Theatre, if the odds of your actually seeing them were the same as when you were a 'patient' in New Orleans and New Haven? Hm, never thought of that before, New Orleans, New Haven... maybe with a little less new she would have a marginially better experience this time around in a wonderful position that only lasted for the rest of her natural life. From Taxi to Plane to Taxi again, Lindsey did her best to ignore her ever-present shadow, the overseer that would make sure this particular piece human chattel arrived without making it towards anything but the veneer of freedom so 'painstakingly' created for her. All the procedures and such were the same, so when she received her set of guides for Thamesmead on the plane, she only skimmed them to look as though she cared, knowing Nate and that time she 'accidentally' used something he gave her as a tissue, there would be another set waiting for her in that condo. Meaning this set sat so delicately in her lap was bound for her fireplace. and the new set would be read when she was no longer quietly fantasising so very, very vividly about strangling her escort. Throughout the transfer of property new facility orientation she listened, letting the words wash over her like water lapping against the shores of an otherwise languid lake. Later she would be able to recall what was said and make note, physical and mental, of what had been said. For now, and much to her own surprise, she was feeling jet-lagged. After thanking whomever gave her the tour—for all she knew it was one of the Brideston's but right now she couldn't muster enough energy to be either sarcastic, caustic, or even mildly snappish—Lindsey was given the keys to her 'new home'. No doubt there were at least two other copies of the keys to her 'personal' dwelling just to check up on her. Give a slave too much freedom and they start to think of themselves as people equal to any other.

The key went into the lock and she listened for each individual tumbler to turn, it had been a while since she had that feeling of opening an exterior door herself. 'Crazy people' had doors opened for them and shuttled through like cattle moving from the cattle car to the slaughterhouse. So intent on savouring the ritual of opening the front door, Lindsey didn't notice the boxes in her living room, although maybe that was on purpose, she was still half excepting Dr. Brideston to be standing on the middle of the room, grinning like the mad bastard he was, maybe munching on a green apple. Waiting to inform her this was all an elaborate hoax to see if she had 'made improvements' but sadly her acceptance of a job while still under the care of St. Matilda was proof positive she was mad as the hatter and if she would just follow him, there was a lovely new room and new friends waiting for her in Ward A... No, she didn't notice the half dozen tan boxes of varying sizes until she walked into one. Lindsey let out a low hiss as she rubbed her knee through her dark trousers but very quickly dropped her hand from the joint as she stared blankly. She knew these boxes, she'd packed these boxes over two years prior they were from her 'resignation' from that institute... she honestly hoped it had burned to the ground and every single one of the administration had either been burned alive or perhaps shot. But they were Her boxes her books, shoes, clothes, dishes, nicknacks, bookends, notebooks, pens, paper her lapdesk...maybe even her laptop, or perhaps her cellphone? Lindsey shook her head, giving a soft, hollow sound from her chest, it was either a laugh or some sort of huff that crinkled around the edges before turning to black ash like paper when it caught flame... like she was going to be given anything she could possibly use hat was more advanced than a bread-maker... but her curiosity was piqued. It was her handwriting, her way of packing and labelling everything so she knew exactly what was inside.
The real question was which one to open first?

She had to choose wisely, it would be one box and then she would likely peruse the contents like reuniting with old friends, then it would be off to bed to repeat the process with less revelry in the morning. She decided on the box that has accosted her, it was marked Office-- Books & Nick-Nacks. Her nail slipped under the tape right where she folded over a piece of give herself access inside without resorting to a knife, the tape gave easily with that loud ripping noise as she pulled it over the seams and looked within. The Letter from her original transfer from human to liability was sitting on top. Lindsey knew she had not packed—this had been the box she was about to close when her packing was interrupted—but it held no power over her any more, just more fodder for the fireplace was was dropped on the floor with less regard then a child drops wrapping paper to reach the gift within. Inside she found all her psychology books and noticed they were a a tad musty, she would air them out on the desk or even the floor before lining them up on her bookshelf, then came her bookends; wolves, crystal globes, two of the red wall mice, quotes, giraffes. Some women had jewellery, she had fancy bookends. She treasured the act of unpacking this one box at her leisure, and found a book or something wrapped in her Rameses Ram Blanket. “I wonder--” the thought was stopped when she noticed her house-warming gift from that little...human. being. The letter was pure bullshit, she wondered if she should even bother acknowledging it...that was until she read the final line, past his warm wishes and signature.

P.S. I've reserved your lovely room on ward A. You know, in case you fuck this up. Have a lovely afternoon.

“You are an unrepentant, little son of a bitch...” she shook her head, there wasn't any anger or malice in that statement, it was like saying she liked chocolate. A simple fact in her mind. But, oh...she had to reply now, there was just no way she could let that go unanswered. She used the stationary and pen provided by Thamesmead to pen a response, stopping only to find her 'beautiful view' and stare at it until she could see past the cold industrial wall and and catch the glint of glass fragments, specks of black, tan, white and...periwinkle... suddenly she could reform the wall in her mind, not a prison but a glen, a meadow with a burbling stream, she could almost her the water lapping over polished river stones and smell that crisp clean air... With that in mind she finished her letter and almost let it stand with her signature, her title...eight long years of studying along with blood, sweat, and tears went into her Ph.D and be damned if she was going to let that little mental patient have the last word this time.

P.S. Fuck you, fuck your room reserved for me in ward A, fuck yourself--nono, you do that enough, I'm sure. But do fuck your corporation, fuck your entire generation, oh and fuck your stocks. and have a fan-fucking-tastic day. Because I know I will, despite the rain, wall and even being around more of your twisted little clan.

And it was true. Leslie was going to have a great day, all she needed to do was unwrap that last book and then she could take a nap, or likely sleep to some ungodly hour, her body wasn't quite used to being shuttered five hours ahead just yet. It was a photo album, her parent's fiftieth wedding anniversary, it has been her last year at Charlotte and she surprised them with a visit after telling them the week before she couldn't come because another therapist was ill. A therapist has been ill, she had contracted a stomach bug from one of the new boys, but nothing was going to stop her seeing her parent's golden anniversary.

Not once has she allowed herself to cry, not when she finally allowed herself to accept she was likely going to die in St. Matilda's not as she ticked off her last two birthdays with little revelry—though Nate has reminded her of both passing—Lindsey had been a picture of composure (Save for developing a very unfriendly demeanour for the Brideston's and anyone who cared fro them) throughout it all, sometimes going pans of days so deep in her imagination she barely acknowledged the passage of time. But this... this was the pebble dropped in a glass overfull allowing the contests to splash on to the surface where the cup was placed. Stubborn, unwanted tears stood in her eyes before being brushed away with the thin white and green striped sleeve of her blouse. The photo album held tightly to her chest as she sat cross legged on the floor. Two years... suddenly it all meant more than it had before...her sister, her brother, mother, father, nephews and nieces...what had they been told?
Had she had a nervous break down...? Was she dead...? Worse, had she simply vanished without a word to her family? Each question bought a fresh wave of quiet tears and stab of pain in her chest. She realised that this was so much worse then a lifetime of the silent agreement that she was 'a danger to herself' or what ever her St. Matilda's file said...she would be working, helping others hopefully leave this place, but she never would. Her family would live and grow without her and when they died she would never know, and when she died, she was to be completely forgotten. Her cage was made of glass now, she could throw stones but it would shatter the glass and those shards would cut her to ribbons... she could look, but she could never again touch. This was hell, in its purest form.

I had a dream my life would be
So different from the hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed
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