The Missing Pieces

The wardens were watching you from the courtyard entrance, though why they did so was unknown, seeing as the buildings blocked you in on all sides. You could see them talking to each other—one a large man, the other a petite girl no bigger than the post of a fence. Your hands trembled in your lap. From rage, from grief, from a hurt so deep that it caused the joints of your hands to burn.

The worst part was that when you tried to think of a reason why you felt this way, all that came up was a void. Like someone had removed vital pieces to a puzzle that you were desperately trying to put together.

The buildings surrounded you in a harsh, grey rectangle. Windows dotted the structures, most of the curtains closed, the white drapery blocking the view. The few open windows revealed nothing but the blank, lifeless rooms that you were familiar with. You stared at the ground, swollen ankles pushing against your faded loafers. The two wardens continued to whisper to themselves, their words lost in the faint breeze.

Every day, you come out to this courtyard. Every day, you sit on this iron bench that digs into your skin and watch the weeping willow in the middle of the grass sway back and forth. Every day, the wardens watch you until they deem your time to be up. And then they walk you back to your room and lock you away until it is time to be fed, or stuck with a needle, or to administer medicine that tastes like salt.

You go to sleep, you wake, and you repeat the process again and again.

In your room, there is nothing but a quiet, seething anger that builds with every unknown guard who comes into your room. It builds with each bland meal and giant pill that is shoved down your throat. It claws at your rattling chest as a tube pushes air into your lungs. It gets worse when they leave, because then you are left with nothing but scratchy blankets and a television that constantly plays Andy Griffith or week-old sermons.

There are pictures of people on your nightstand. Some days, you remember them. On those days, the anger is replaced by grief. Those are the days that you need the courtyard most. Those are the days you cry along with the willow.

There is movement in the corner of your eye. One of the wardens, the small lady with bright blue hair and a mole on her left cheek, walks closer with a pleasant smile that, for some reason, makes you want to claw at her face.

“Are you ready to go inside?” She has a nice voice. You think it’s supposed to be calming. The wardens are trained to be kind, except for the one who gives you baths. That one is harsh, her motions cruel, and she always leaves bruises from where she roughly scrubs you down.

You stare at the woman for a moment. You think you know her, but that missing puzzle piece is still gone, so no matter how much you try to remember her name, nothing comes back but a quiet buzz.

“Not yet, dear.” ‘Dear’ sounds right. It’s a safe name for when you can’t remember. Your words come out as a lisp. You are not sure when you last drank water. There is a small creek near the willow. If the wardens were not watching your every move (controlling them, your anger helpfully provides), you might try to bend over and scoop some of the water into your hands as you used to when you were small enough to explore the woods behind your home.

Was anyone at your home know? Was it being cleaned? You itched to grab your cane and go to your car—surely that was out in the parking lot?

The small woman touched your shoulder. Her palm was warm even through the small jacket they had wrestled you into that morning.

“It’s almost lunch time, ma’am.”

“I’ll stay out for a few more minutes.” You don’t like pushing the wardens, because they are strangers. You clearly did something wrong to end up here. Something so bad that you must be watched at all hours and barred from leaving. Thankfully, this is enough for the blue-haired woman to return to her partner. You curl your fingers into your sleep pants and look at the tree in front of you.

The courtyard is the only bit of green that you can walk to. Your body aches if you walk farther, and you hate the wheelchair more than your cane. You remember having a weeping willow near your home when you were younger. It was near a lake; your husband took your son fishing there, and they would bring back beautiful fish to cook for dinner. Your husband would walk into your house smelling like raw fish and mud, tracking dirty shoeprints on your freshly mopped floors. He would wrap you in a hug, spreading his filth to you, but you don’t remember being mad. Annoyed, yes, but not mad.

Your husband would be coming to get you soon, you thought. And your son would bring you fish. He was so small, barely reaching your hip. You didn’t like him going to the lake on his own, but if he were with his father, he would be just fine.

Another cool breeze made you shiver, reminding you that you were still in last night’s clothes. You didn’t think they would mind. Your son would giggle, and your husband would make some funny comment about every day being Mother’s Day, and that you deserved to be comfortable.

The willow rustled as the wind toyed with its branches. Your skin felt stretched and thin. The warden moved from her spot by the door, grabbing your hand. You could see your veins through your skin, pumping blood in a body that didn’t feel like it was yours.

“It’s time to go inside, ma’am.”

“Not yet, Dear. I’ll stay out for a few more minutes.” You look up at the warden, and you feel the anger simmering in your gut. You are not mad at her, you are nearly sure of it, but then, why do you feel like screaming? Why, when you hear the willow quietly sob near the creek, do you feel like joining it? “My husband should be here today. We are eating lunch with my son.”

When the warden smiles, it looks like pity, and the grief washes over you once more. You don’t know why, and you feel another puzzle piece disappear. She guides you up, and being a good prisoner, you do not scream or cry or hit. You simply grab your cane and lean on your warden, walking back to your room, leaving the willow until tomorrow.