by Alex Harbort
The orange she is peeling looks odd.
The way her fingers squeeze the fruit before taking a part of the peel off just feels so wrong.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen an orange being peeled like this.
“Want some?”, she asks. I nod and take a bite of the fruit. The juice runs down my chin and onto my fingers and my hands feel dirty.
“I’m gonna go wash my hands.”
“Alright.”, she smiles.
I go to the bathroom and wash my hands. When I’m back she’s gone and the kitchen is cleaned. Only the smell of oranges ensures me that this actually happened.
The watch on my wrist says 3pm. That’s when Paulina usually goes to group therapy, and I am left alone here.
My throat feels full, even though I didn’t eat. I feel like sleeping and never waking up.
I start looking for staff to talk to, because that’s why I’m here, right? That’s the reason I peel oranges every day and the reason I talk to the nice lady that wants to play boardgames.
I knock on the door that reads “staff” and wait. A fat lady with fizzy hair opens the door and smiles like the laughing emoji. “What’s up?”, she asks me.
“Can I please talk to someone, I’m not feeling well.”, I stumble over my own words.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you when someone has time. In the meantime, go outside a little. The sun usually helps.”
She flashes another smile and then the door is shut.
I can’t see the handle of the door for the garden properly, because my vision is very blurry, and my cheeks are wet.
Nobody comes for me that day. The swing feels wrong, and the sky looks off. I type in my mother’s number on my phone while crouched in a corner.
“Mom?”, I whisper.
“Yes, honey?”
“Please take me home and never bring me back.”
“Why, what’s going on? If you’re feeling bad, talk to the staff. That’s what the mental hospital is for.”
And she picked me up that day and I cried. And I begged her to never take me there again.
And she didn’t.
And that’s where the story takes a twist.
I haven’t peeled an orange ever since.
© Alex Harbort 2023-06-26