"Excuse me," a faint voice behind you said, "Sir?" The voice grew increasingly louder and clearer. "It's time for your medication." You turn around to find yourself in a plain white room, devoid of any decoration or indication of personality. Memories come flooding back to you.
This is your room. Your room in the mental institution. You were sent here six years ago when you suffered a major psychotic break due to your wife drowning on your honeymoon. As much as you had tried to get past the grief, it was too much and you couldn't pull yourself out of the pit of depression and despair.
"It's time for your medication," the nurse repeated. You took the pills from her without response and swallowed them dry. They were slightly painful going down, but it was nothing compared to the pain you had felt since the day of the accident.
"How have your hallucinations been today?" the nurse inquired. You shrug, but you don't say anything. The hallucinations are the same as they were yesterday, and every day since your wife drowned. Seeing that she wouldn't get a response, the nurse turned to leave. "Have a nice day," she called on her way out. You knew your day would be anything but nice, and she probably did too, but you didn't bother correcting her.
After she was gone, you turned back around to stare out your window, picking up the picture of your wife that had been resting on the sill. You hold the frame in your lap, comforted by the familiar weight, yet still wishing it could be your wife in your arms instead. You know you won't be seeing her again today- the medicine will make sure of that.
As you stare aimlessly out your window, you resign yourself once more to the fact that you will have to spend the rest of today in the harsh prison of reality. A reality in which your beautiful bride is dead. A reality in which she drowned, and you couldn't do anything to stop it, couldn't do anything to save her. A reality in which you are a lost soul, forever hopelessly searching for closure. A reality in which you are all alone.
