Morphine Ghost

Each time they put me in the hospital, they fill me with chemicals. Syringe after syringe is stabbed into me until they cannot squeeze any more in. I wander in a haze. The doctors call it treatment. Mother calls it progress. They smile when I stop arguing with things they cannot see, as though silence is proof of recovery. They never ask why I become frightened when the medication begins to wear off. They never ask what I hear returning.

The voices don't disappear. They only retreat, waiting behind a wall of cotton until the drugs thin out in my blood. When they come back, they are furious. They accuse me of betraying them. They say I let strangers poison the only part of me that still understands the truth. Last night one of them whispered that Mother knows exactly what they're saying. She pretends not to hear because she promised them she would keep bringing me back. Sometimes I catch her staring into my room after she thinks I've fallen asleep. She isn't looking at me. She's watching the corner behind my bed, nodding ever so slightly, as if someone there has just finished giving her instructions.