Morphine Ghost

Sometimes, after another injection and another paper cup full of pills, I would close my eyes and drift somewhere far from the white walls and fluorescent lights. In my dreams, I was stretched across embroidered cushions in an ancient Chinese opium den, the air thick with sweet smoke curling toward red lanterns that swayed without wind. Soft voices spoke in languages I could not understand, but they never demanded answers, never asked if I knew where I was or what day it had become. Then I would open my eyes to the antiseptic smell of the psychiatric ward, the buzz of the nurses' station, and the weight of another hospital blanket. It amused me that the doctors believed they were treating me with modern medicine, while my dreams insisted they had merely rebuilt an opium den with brighter lights, locked doors, and clipboards instead of silk robes. In the end, the haze was the same, and I welcomed it just as eagerly.