Passionflower

Passionflower

    She paces down the passageway in her frayed slippers wondering why she is there. She is singing one of Verdi’s arias to herself. The hall is dark and the doors on either side of her are locked. Diane finds her way to her room and unlocks the door. She enters and takes off her flimsy hospital robe.
     She could never have imagined ten years ago that she would ever have worn bedclothes all day. She lies in the bed in a swoon remembering bygone days and staring at the dripping water coming from the dark spot in the ceiling. Diane wonders how anyone could be so insensitive as to warehouse human beings like so much obsolete merchandise. She looks over at her picture in the Newport Opera festival of 1989 and can’t recognize the person lying in the bed in the picture.
     Soon a nurse knocks on the door and Diane mumbles “Come in.”
     The nurse stands at the doorway for a moment and a passing nurse says to her, “Time for her vitamin H.”
     Diane’s nurse says, “Yea, but I really feel sorry for her. You know she was a really great singer. It’s amazing what can happen to people. Really sad.”
     The passing nurse stops at the doorway to Diane’s room and says, “Catherine, you really need to maintain a more professional distance. You’re getting too emotionally involved with this woman. I see you bring her magazines and food every day. Maybe you’ll have to be reassigned.”
     Catherine says, “No please don’t tell anyone. You know I’m a professional.”
     The other nurse says, “I am afraid I have to report what I see. That’s my job.” Then she walks on with her orthopedic shoes clogging on the hard tiled floor.
     Catherine walks into the dark room. “Hi Diane, I have something very important to tell you today.”
     Diane looks up from her drugged state and says, “What, am I going to be singing at Carnegie Hall soon?”
     Catherine says, “They may try to take me away from you, but I won’t let that happen.”
     Diane pulls her close and says, “So what are we going to split this joint?”
     Catherine caresses Diane’s forehead and says,
“Yes exactly. But there’s something we have to do first.”
     Diane asks, “How am I going to make it without my medicine? Have they discovered a cure for schizophrenia?”
     “Diagnosing is like playing backgammon. It is subject to the laws of probability. However, the pieces fall on any given day determines the outcome. But it is still just a game.”
     Diane says, “So they are playing a Mahjong of symptomology with the DSM as the rule book?”
     “For them drawing a winning tile is like a lady finding her size in a dress at the thrift store. But finding the right size is only the first step in getting a good fit for a person. Then the gown has to be altered for your unique shape. Fortunately, I found a good tailor who realized that nothing in the catalog would fit me with any amount of altering. He told me that my deviance was perfectly healthy for a person with my type of id,” Catherine replies.
     “Are you saying my diagnosis is an encumbrance like an old jacket which no longer fits and needs to be replaced?”
     Catherine says, “Precisely, it is just like when a body gets worn out and the spirit must fly free.”
     “But where do you put an old lady who steals her man’s Viagra in the hopes that though it is made for a locomotive it might get my little engine that could over the rise of menopause?”
     “Who is to say it wouldn’t work? Medicines often do things the creators never had in mind. Yours is a mini version of his, after all.”      
     “Girl those erectile pills got me pumped. But that may have been only in my mind.”
     “It really doesn’t matter. If it worked that is all that counts.”
     “Sometimes I think that if I get my ducks in a row I’ll get out of this place.”
     “Rows are meant for mathematicians. You aren’t a linear equation. You are a living breathing woman whose asymmetry is a wonder to behold.”
     “God didn’t short me on the imagination that is for sure. Here’s to testers of the unisex properties of sexual dysfunction pills everywhere. Should I report my findings to the medical journals?”
     “Please no! You’ve done enough time here. But I have a cure for not only your illness but life’s greatest problem.” Catherine uncovers Diane’s naked body and lies down beside her.
     Diane laughs and runs her fingers through Catherine’s scalp. She says, “Good sex can cure just about anyone’s blues.”
     Catherine wraps her legs around Diane’s thigh and says, “What I have in mind will really blow
your mind.”
     Diane kisses Catherine on the lips and said, “My mind’s already blown. But I am ready my dark mistress of the night.”
     Catherine strokes Diane’s most intimate areas with the deftness of a virtuoso violinist. Soon Diane is in the throes of ecstasy. Their sweat mingles and the smell of female musk fills the air. Then Catherine strikes Diane’s neck like a rattlesnake, biting deep into her jugular. Diane feels a sudden release of energy like a nuclear explosion. All of her suffering and pent up pain implodes and explodes in a dazzling burst of light and heat. Diane feels Catherine’s thoughts enter her mind and hears her soft voice whisper, “I love you.”
     Diane feels a clarity of thought she hasn’t felt in years. Her mind comes into focus. The doctors can’t understand how she has been cured. Catherine and Diane live together in Catherine’s apartment and passerby frequently hear heavenly music mixed with moans of passion emanate from the upstairs room.