Allison's Archives

Nobody believes my friends love me so much they built an asylum for me. Put together their little engineering, law, economics, and biomedical brains to source the materials, secure the lease, lay the foundation, and stock it with the right specialized pills and treatments. A luxury rehabilitation center, they call it. Like the kind A-list celebrities go to when they ‘need a break from real life’. Just lounge around in imported silk robes by the infinity pool, why don’t you. Hashtag finding myself. Hashtag healing. Hashtag getaway. Except this asylum is nothing like that. No silk robes or infinity pools. Only false hopes and infinite pills.  

I was never crazy to begin with. Never needed help. Had a healthy, three-pronged coping mechanism that consisted of word-vomiting on the internet after bouts of non-confrontation, eating crinkle fries with an absurd amount of sweet chili, and crying in the shower until my fingers prune. All in that precise, pristine order. There was a method to my madness. But I have since been whisked away. Trapped in this asylum. Senses slowly siphoned. Hear me now: I am one scratched tally mark away from being emotionally devoid like a marionette that will dance only if you move its limbs.

They came for me in the dead of night. Said I was being sent somewhere where I could write all I wanted. Unlimited supplies of 100gsm ivory paper and 0.7mm black gel pens. If I so wished, wax seals with my initials on them too. I obliged. They flanked me by the arms. Walked me to a car. Handed me a cup of hot chocolate heated to fifty degrees Celsius topped with hazelnut milk and Maldon sea salt. I said thank you as my parents raised me to and dozed off against the leather as the warm sweetness circulated my body. What a joy to have friends who are supportive of my writing career! 

When I woke up next, it was daytime. I am in a chair. Every good writer knows the perfect writing chair is a chipped wooden crossback with a sleazy cushion. You begin to ache all over not one hour into writing. Provides the perfect excuse to stop and instead call your friends to tell them about your writing. Much preferable to actual writing of course. But I am not in a chipped wooden crossback. My hands are tied to the armrests of a rocking chair. A rocking chair? Panic sets. I do not recognize my surroundings. Where are the 100gsm ivory paper and 0.7mm black gel pens? I try to wiggle myself free but that only results in an intense swaying. No way out. Clever. I have friends who make up the right tail-end of every bell curve they have ever been graded against. I should have known.

“Don’t try. Just relax. We’re not here to hurt you.”A familiar voice rings from behind. They walk in front of me and place their hands on my shoulders. “I’m just going to ask you one simple question and you just have to answer honestly, okay?” 

“Then you’ll let me go and write?”

“Then I’ll let you go and write.” They echo back, like a parent assuring a worried child who takes everything at face value.

“Okay,” I say. They step aside, granting me a clear view.

A garden of the most magnificent sorts. Neatly tended-to bushes dotted with blossoms. Trees, so many trees—apples, pomegranates, and figs. My favorite fruits not to consume, but to employ in metaphors. I sigh in relief. A small stream filled with glittering fishes of all kinds under a stone bridge. A refuge where all chaos fades into insignificance. A curated paradise. What could go wrong? Yet, with my hands tied, I’m not too convinced.

Suddenly, my friend spins the chair around with great effort, facing me to what must be the front. A colossal building surely built from underworldly materials. Blocks of stone piled on top of each other through rhyme and reason to create the beholder of nightmares. Gray. Lifeless. A stark contrast to the garden. Rot ivy slithering around towers. Dilapidated curtains billowing out of unfortified windows. There is a staleness in the air that refuses to be deciphered. A pang rises in my chest, higher, higher, like the last breath of a yielding prey.

“The question is very simple.” Clears their throat. Building up to something. “What color do you see?”

Taken aback by the question. What do they mean? Takes me a second to recognize they are referring to the building before me. I let out a little laugh, what kind of joke is this?

“Gray! Now can I leave?”

There is a flicker in my friend’s eye. Like a flame of hope doused out by a pail of disappointment. They signal the orderly who has been around all this time. The kind of signal that says take her away. And the orderly does, in fact, take me away. Protest. Flail my arms. Kick my legs. Thrown over the orderly’s shoulder. I don’t understand.

“I don’t understand! I told you what I saw!”

“No, you told me what you believe you see but your beliefs are built on lies you tell yourself.” They exit the gate. My body slumps lifelessly against the giant carrying me. Not raised to argue. Not born to fight.  

They let me laze through the rest of the day. No explanation as they process my information. Freshly twenty-three. Self-proclaimed writer (read: does not get paid enough to turn her pain into art, does so of her own volition). Born in the tenth month, prone to freezing up in the face of decision-making. No official religion but prays at the altar of punctuality and spreadsheets. Known allergies are pollen and bad grammar. Known strengths are never having confused “your” and “you’re” and being able to identify Taylor Swift songs from two seconds of the intro. Known weaknesses are her right ankle and the color pink. Known vices are purchasing new books despite having a tall stack of to-be-read at home and overanalyzing lyrics. Known occupational diseases are saying “slay” and “it is what it is” in situations that are, in fact, not slay and not what it is. Currently prescribed no medication. Advised many times over to seek therapy, but instead chooses to send 28-minute podcasts to her friends. Poor acceptance and digestion of advice from others, even worse when it comes to rejections. Exclusively cries into Sainsbury tissues because they are, quote, very thick for a two-ply and only one pound per box, end quote. On average cries twice a week. Starts every sentence with ‘sorry’ and ends every sentence with ‘please’. Over-politeness turned self-destruction.

The halls so hollow I hear the clerk’s typewriter from downstairs. No technology. Can’t have me unnecessarily checking up on people. My room sits on the top floor. The one with billowing curtains that threaten to fling me into the air. The walls deep gray. Shock. I lie still like an off-duty marionette. No one to perform for. There is nothing save for a mattress on the ground, six pillows fluffed with swan feathers and strands of my childhood memories, a thin duvet, and a box in the corner. My box. I know exactly what is in that box. I stare at it against the background music of the typewriter until the ticking stops. Now admitted to the asylum. I don’t know what they want me to admit.

---

Two orderlies run the place: Agnes and Bartholomew. Bartholomew is the giant who threw me over his shoulders yesterday. Also in charge of bringing me to my every appointment. Handles me like a rag doll, worthless and replaceable. I call him Mew for short. He despises it but does not retort.

9AM. I have the pleasure of meeting Agnes at breakfast this morning—if you can call it that. She slides a tray in front of me. White ceramic bowl. Pink pills. Sneaky friends know I cannot resist anything pink. I ask Agnes what each pill is for. She hands me a prescription slip:

• Bubblegum pink pill: To aid in acceptance of their ending
• Barbie pink pill: To prevent delusions of him coming back
• Dusty pink pill: To build resilience against her going back if he ever does come back
• Ballet pink pill: To sedate her rage towards him moving on first
• Flamingo pink pill: To heighten alertness to red flags
• Baby pink pill: To amplify the belief that she will find love again

“I have to take them all huh? Not much of a choice?” Agnes nods. I pop all six. Swirl. Swallow.

“Can you get me some real food?” She nods again, smiles perfunctorily, and returns with a tray of crinkle fries. I ask for some sweet chili sauce. She heads to the faulty dispenser. Splatter of red on her uniform. I apologize profusely. Says nothing, hands me the sauce cup.

As per my daily schedule, I am allowed in the library between breakfast and my first appointment of the day. Prior to seeing the space, I thought, how thoughtful of my friends to install a haven amidst the gray rooms. Stand corrected. Terrible selection of books available. Every single one of them self-help. Nobody believes me when I say self-help books are cash grabs sans substance. You’re better off learning lessons the hard way. Then again, that’s how I ended up here. But I see right through what they are doing. There will be no fictionalizing or fantasizing while I am here. Instead of reading, I reorganize the shelf in alphabetical order until Mew comes to take me.

11AM. Lie detector test before allowed lunch. Age-old experiment. If I tell the truth, the machine remains calm. If I lie, the machine sputters. I sit in the plush red chair and the doctor straps me in, sets me up, stares at this curious subject through his tiny glasses. Condescending. Judgmental. Your average man.

“Did you love him?”

“Yes.” Calm.

“Did you believe he loved you?”

“Yes.” Flicker.

“Did you ever see a future with him?”

“Yes.” Wave.

“Did he ever disrespect you?”

“No, of course not, he loved me.” Sputter!

“Do you think of yourself as unworthy of love after how he treated you?”

“No, I’m very secure in my self-worth.” Sputter! Sputter!

“Do you think you deserve someone better than him?”

“No, he’s the one.” Sputter! Sputter! Sputter!

“Are you guilty of constantly settling, burying the bar in the ground, and moving the goalpost?”

“No, I’m not doing any of that.” So much sputtering that it powers the entire asylum in a fit of lightning!

The doctor asks slightly different questions targeted at different him’s. The machine ends up breaking because of how frequently it was sputtering. They let me off early. I’m not quite sure what they accomplished from the entire ordeal except for losing a piece of machinery that they now have to replace.

I ask when my friends will be coming so I might gear up with utmost persuasiveness to convince them to let me go. This, Agnes answers. Before lunch. A little dance in my head. No doubt I will be out of here by the next hour. Disagree as my friends might with my usual logic, there has not yet been an instance where they don’t let me have my merry way with things.

12PM. A car pulls up. Mew has already strapped my arms down to the rocking chair in case I try to run. Futile practice! There isn’t a friend of mine that I can outrun thanks to my lack of athleticism. I watch as one of my friends—different from yesterday’s—rushes through the gates, acknowledging security as they ruffle their corporate suit.

“What are you doing here, aren’t you supposed to be at work? Say, why don’t you bring me with you to the car? We’ll drop you off at your office and me back home and I can get right back to my writing. We can meet up for dinner after work if you’d like—my treat,” I say with an ear-to-ear grin. Deep down, in the pits of my stomach, the acid is telling me that they’re not buying what I’m selling.

“Look, I don’t have much time—like you said, I’ve got to get back to work. Just answer one question for me, darling, and maybe you get to go home.”

Same question. Same answer. A head shake. A motion to Mew. I scream gutturally. They walk away without so much as a second word.

1PM. I’m spoiled for options at lunch. By that, I mean the plan was for me to tell Agnes my heart’s desire and she’d do her magic in the kitchen. The problem with this, and I’m sure it’s more trick than treat, is that I am paralyzed by the boundlessness. I end up asking for a plate of roasted pork belly over rice with a side of thinly sliced cucumbers. If they won’t let me go home, the least they can do is let me taste it. I ask for some teh tarik as well, careful to end every sentence with “please”.

3PM. Lobotomy. Less science operation and more theatrical performance. As much as I am all for a good show, I do not enjoy being the lone cast. At the strike of the clock, Mew strong-arms me down the sterile corridor into an old-fashioned learning operating room. Along the tiers, people sit prim and proper with clipboards and pens. Back straight. Ready to dive into all I, the subject, have to offer. Great turnout, I must say. Loving the attention, really.

A madwoman doctor in charge. Like they drained her out of the sewers and shoved her in a lab coat. Doesn’t smell, at least. Dim lighting gives the space an ominous glow. An unsettling background hum, like the sound of a distant, slow-turning drill. A quick prayer to god before remembering I don’t believe in him.

Mew tightens the straps on the reclining chair. Dr Madwoman places a ridiculously oversized helmet over my head. Inside the helmet is a screen that periodically blinks with dots. Completely blacks out my vision of the world outside. Better black than that ugly gray.

Dr Madwoman’s nasally voice. “Welcome one and all to my state-of-the-art experiment: the complete emotional extraction of any lingering romantic delusions. Please, sit back and observe with astuteness as I sanitize this here psyche of her irrational longings.”

I know not what to expect, only that it would not be a flattering experience. Dr Madwoman announces every step like guests arriving at a royal ball. Which was more excruciating to endure—her shrieks or the procedure—I could not say.

“We are now disconnecting her brain from that ill-advised 2AM phone call she made last winter. She knows which one.” A soft zap through the helmet. Not too bad. Alright then.

“Next, we sever her brain’s affection for that song she can’t help but replay as she cries herself to sleep. The one she considers ‘our song’. Consider it snipped!”

A shrill whir clicks on behind the helmet. Slicing through my thoughts as though they’re strands of thread. A prickling that gnaws at the edges of my memories.

“Observe closely, esteemed audience!” She chirps, pressing some unseen button that fires a jagged jolt through my mind. “We are now disconnecting any association of warmth she has ever felt from wearing that oversized shirt of his. Notice how the fabric of her nostalgia unravels!”

The hum intensifies, followed by the faint scent of burning circuits. As if memories themselves are fizzling away, vaporizing.

Dr Madwoman pauses. Tone takes a solemn turn. “Ah, here we are. A particularly stubborn relic, an insidious sentiment: Hope. A misplaced hope that things will get better if only she waits! Prepare yourselves, students. This will require precision.”

With exaggerated flourish, she flips a switch, and a harsh snap-crackle courses through the helmet. I feel my mental grip loosening, slipping, as if my mind is being pried open by rusted pliers. The screen flashes, brighter, blinding. Avalanche of static drowns my mind. My head swims with the loss. Empty where I once stored my softest memories.

“A job well done; wouldn’t you say? Nearly flawless.” A chorus of agreement. “I’m afraid, however, we missed one. Ah, yes. Regret.”

“Let’s watch as this regret seeps away, stripped of any hidden power. From the smallest twinge of nostalgia to that sharp pang of what-could-have-been, let it be reduced to dust.” Raises her arms like a conductor before the final crescendo. The helmet’s lights pulse faster, and I feel my mind buckle under a tidal wave of forced forgetfulness. Everything collapses.

“Observe, my faithful students,” she whispers, leaning close to my ear now, “how her mind surrenders. And how sweet it is to be emptied of feeling, of foolish attachments.” Heavy on the ‘foolish’.

She removes my helmet and steps back. Audience claps roaringly. I am left hollowed in the chair. An ordeal proved more embarrassing than cathartic. In the end, it wasn’t about erasing sentiments, was it? It was about pretending I had control over them. And for a few absurd, comical, theatrical moments, maybe that sufficed.

6PM. Exposure therapy before dinner. Begins in small doses then builds up. First, with words. Later, with videos. Last, with images. Words aren’t too difficult to get past. They are names and nicknames and sentences I’ve said and promises made to me. I squirm. No outward reaction. Can’t give the satisfaction. Videos aren’t as bad as I had anticipated. I hear my own voice in them. Hear the flittering laughter that was once supposed to be my birthright but now sounds so foreign. I think about how fortunate it is for me that nobody else in this world laughs like he does. With every play of a video, I am transported back to the moment it was captured. High on the euphoria. Keep lying to myself. They notice this and turn off the videos. I stifle a cry. No, bring the video back! Get him back! It’s no use. The first tear runs down my left cheek. The one he kissed more. Then the images. A cafe. A bookstore. A gym. A park. A bar. A Japanese restaurant. A museum. A grocery store. My rooms scattered through the years and cities. Cars of different makes and models. A bike. The tube. The train. The bus. A carbon-neutral coffee cup. An empty soju bottle. A frying pan. An oversized shirt. A figurine. A ring. A bouquet. His face. His face and mine. His face and hers!

I become hysterical. I lose it. I find the closest fragile item to me and fling it against the screen. I curse at god. All the gods. I snatch a pen from the orderly and stab my thigh with it to feel a physical manifestation of the pain, but it doesn’t pierce through. It’s a fucking 1.0mm ballpoint pen. Useless! I don’t cry. I wail. I shriek. There is pain in me that cannot be put into words or songs. I cannot write for someone who refuses to read; I cannot sing for someone who refuses to listen. I somehow find the energy to break free of the restraints and I run. Out of the room. Through the hall. Out of the asylum. Into the garden. Over the bridge. Into the trees. I don’t stop until I run into the fence of electric barbed wire. Zap! Everything hurts. Nothing is broken. The last time I screamed like this was when I came kicking out of my mother’s womb.

Mew must have brought my limp body back into the asylum and discarded me onto my mattress then. My ebbing consciousness. In and out. I try to sleep but the room is not silent. I sleep in waves of agony as the surround sound system in my room plays. On repeat. Familiar voices. The baritone. The sighs. The laughter. The you don’t want to see me when I’m proper angry. The explaining. The logic. The why are you like this, why can’t you just communicate. The no, actually… The hitch in his voice when he speaks a different language. The swallow when he’s lying. The softness in talking to his father. The harshness in talking to his mother. Sometimes the other way around. The lack of enthusiasm when he talks about me, if at all. The hurry in his words right before he hangs up the phone. Always love you never I love you. Removes himself from the narrative. I plug my ears with my fingers to no avail. Scream to drown out his voice. Does not work. You cannot out-scream the beast from inside its belly.

---

Days pass. My friends take turns to visit like clockwork. Stupid rocking chair. Force me to look at the asylum. Ask the same question, “What color do you see?”

“Gray,” Same answer. Promise I don’t have a lying bone in me. Cut me open why don’t you and see for yourself. 

Always ends the same. I scream like clawing nails on a chalkboard. Go through the same procedures every day. Same kind of numbing. Memorized answers. Tired. Just want to leave. Get up on my own two feet and move on from here. Who locked the cage. Who tied my feet down. Who took the words out of my mouth. 

But something peculiar happens in the sixth month. Car pulls up. I sit in my patient zero room and observe. Picking at my fingers. Dangerously close to the unfortified window. New patients. Plural, yes. All girls. Names with shorter syllables than mine. All kinds of designer bags. All kinds of hair. All kinds of beauty. But the same naivety and innocence. Perpetual state of bliss. File through the gates. Don’t try to fight the orderlies. Here willingly. Sit in the garden in some air of familiarity. Do not get the same treatment I do. Like they caught some kind of disease and refused to take the medication for it. In fact, they think they are healthier than ever. Eventually—oh!

Oh, you fool. Isn’t it funny how every girl in this asylum, aside from me, knows each other? They braid each other’s hair sitting criss-cross applesauce in some kind of cultish circle while trading advice about you but none of them heed any of the advice that gets thrown up in the air. I could shout “Stay away” from my window and they would look up with blank stares and laugh at my face, “You didn’t know what you had and now we get to have it”. It’s not like that I promise. You are so young, so young, don’t make the mistakes I did. They each believe they will be the chosen one to leave this asylum and change you. Not in the way one believes the grass is green. In the way one chooses to believe in deities—there is no evidence, but their devotion is as strong as the braids they weave. Your mothers birthed you for bigger things than this. 

I see it now. I understand. In my room, I reach for my box. Big exhale before removing the lid. See the letters now. They’re only written words, they cannot hurt me. Ask Agnes for a lighter now. She presents it with haste. One more time fingers touching where the name is signed. Bring it to the flame now. Every last one of it. Gone as easily as it was written.

The next day, they come to take me again. Tie me down in the rocking chair as I hum a little tune. I wait for the question.

A prolonged sigh. Friends are exhausted by my stubbornness. Won’t have to be for much longer. “Now, tell me—what color do you see?”

Burial process begins in my mind. Do not call the coroner, do not sound the bells. Do not alert the morgue, do not dial the police. This here is a case-closed homicide of who I used to be, and the rebirth of who I will be.

“Red.”

The gates of the asylum squeak open. The same car that had sent me here awaits. Inside, on the soft leather seats, are a stack of 100gsm ivory paper and a tub of 0.7mm black gel pens.

---

Note: I began writing this in early April as an almost hyperbolic take on my occasional inability to see things for what they are and my tendency to make excuses, not for the self but for the else, only to sink further into detrimental conditions. Though partly inspired by my personality, this piece remains a work of fiction.

*Cover image obtained from Taylor Swift’s Fortnight music video.