Baloney (p. 45-49)

(Prompt 4 - pg. 45-49)

I’m tired.

Tired of living. Tired of insults. Tired of bein’ dead.

Born dead. I was born dead.

But I still hang around. Like a ghost, or some kinda cloth they forgot to took off the hanging line, after the wind an’ rain torn it to pieces.

Tired doesn’t cut it. I’m… f’there was a word for it, I’d say it. So much more than tired. ’S in my bones, my head, eyes… every part of me. Like they put a old ball-chain on all my cells.

Fifty-five years. The same every day.

Holes in my head. Like a train track got too hot an’ grew into itself so much it broke.

They keep dragging me out, put me on the railroad. Then they drag me out to some other room, people I can hardly remember, all yelling and screaming about terrible things. Every day a big insult. They go walking around, got it so damn easy, don’t even know how hard it is to stand up.

Wanna say so much, but I only get out one word: tired. I tell ‘em every day but they just have people pat me till I stop.

Don’t wanna take it anymore, but can’t even step a foot out the line. Can hardly think enough to talk, but I’ been trying to remind ‘em, let the staff know. They never listen. Said it so many times but they don’t care.

It’s so loud. Can’t hear anything. More tired now, tired of everything. Maybe if I talk loud, they’ll listen. Maybe not. But I have to say something.

I’m tired, I tell ‘em loud. My head starts shaking, moving sideways..

Then it all stops. Their heads turn on me, train lights on my face. Or was it always like that? Hard to remember.

Then I realize I’m standing, no more chair cushion to empty me out.

I think I should feel strong. I think I should be brave. But I still feel dead.

Actually, a lotta deadness, but I look again and… something new. Feels hot and bright, like the lights on the ceiling.

Big lady turns around, looks at me. Can’t tell if her face is good or bad, looks like she’s fighting something. She says something, and more people go on top of me. Hands on my shoulders. Every hand keeps me here, on my feet and in my shaking head. I say it again: tired. Tired.

FIfty-five years. Feels different, for once.

I keep pushing till a guy walks over pulling me on the arm. He says I gotta go back to the room.

It hurts. Arm shakes. Not my control but it gets his fingers down. Good. I’m tired. Don’t wanna move. Don’t wanna go back.

Tired, I tell him again. Don’t like his hand on me.

He pulls harder, talks again. The lights in me get brighter, the world gets brighter. My eyes go big, bigger than they ever did.

Everyone watching.

Feels like I was getting bigger, like I was less dead. Then I feel it, really feel it.

I hate him. I hate big lady. I hate being tired. They got it so easy. They’re all alive. I’m dead, always been dead. Takes everything I got to stay stood up. Not fair. I feel mad, but I feel… real.

My hand’s moving, going up like a birdy, like a bug in the air. Keeps going, through the sky and up and up, to the clouds and the blue.

I was gonna keep going but I hit his face.

The guy’s arm got off me and he hit the wall.

Big lady sends two more but I got my hands ready, feels like they’re gonna start flying up again any time. So mad I could burn ‘em up with my eyes if I wanted.

Then I start thinking. My brain starts to move. I can see clearly. Gotta make them see, what it’s like. What I gotta deal with, every day. Not fair, it’s all crazy, like…

You see, I say. It’s a lotta baloney.

Baloney, that’s it.

Big lady is saying something, telling me to calm down. I remember her name. Ratched.

The lights start flickering, going dark and turning on me again. Don’t have much time, gonna lose it all…

That’s all it is, nothin’ but a lotta baloney, I tell ‘em. I can’t help it, I say. I was born dead.

They look up at me. They don’t get it. I look at ‘em, lights going down. I lost it, can’t say anything. Tears on my face, but I gotta try.

Can’t help it, I say. Born a miscarriage, so many insults I died. Life was hard, I’m tired out talking and standing up. It’s no point.

Then it’s on me. Legs, arms, needle grabbing me, dragging me back. Try to hold on to the lights. First time I’ve felt something other than dead.

I’m dying.

The floor in front of my face, my head swinging again, my eyes on fire, but I’m cold.

I say it one more time. Tired, awful tired. They don’t get it.

Someone goes up to me, then…

Then…

Gone.

I’m gone.

I let go, let ‘em sit me back down.

No point anymore. None of them got it. Gave everything I had for nothing.

I’m dead.

They killed me, the insults the tongs the ward.

I died fifty-five years ago.

Stylistic Explanation

My story was written from the perspective of old Pete who, during a moment of clarity, stood up and fought the nurse’s aides, speaking to everyone before collapsing down again, a return to being “dead.” I felt that the character and his sections stood out from the plot with McMurphy and Bromden due to the emotions that flew out of his unassuming exterior. THe majority of the narration is an extension of Pete’s own words from his rant, paired with Bromden’s descriptions. For example, Bromden mentions that Pete, due to malpractice during his birth, is “simple to where it took all his straining effort and concentration and will power just to do the tasks that came easy to a kid of six” (46). Due to this, I chose to limit the vocabulary from his perspective, using contractions and incorrect grammar to make him appear to have a younger mind. I also used Pete’s work with the railroad as a basis for some of his analogies and descriptions. Finally, the story is broken up into many small paragraphs because of his mental limitations—I didn’t feel he would have the capacity to easily go on detailed tangents in his mind—and because I felt that they more clearly articulated the ideas he wanted to convey with his speech.