​​​​​​Dina Greenberg

Here in the hospital they tell me I am dead. The only thing that separates this statement from the real truth is a technicality: I don’t believe them. When they come, it is hard to know what is real and what is not. There are so many things happening all at once; the voices each fight for my attention. Some are scolding me and some are pleading for my mercy.

In the room with blue, padded walls and a lock that scrapes quickly into place, there is plenty of time to sort this out. When they quiet down a bit, I can send them all away and then when the man with sad eyes comes back for me I have stopped screaming.