/ˌCHekôfs ˈɡən,ˌCHekôvz ˈɡən/
noun
an apparently irrelevant object, character, or detail introduced early in a story, film, etc., whose significance only becomes clear later in the narrative.
On the first day, everything was surprisingly calm.
I sat neatly on the soft bed, mind focused despite the awful noise carefully curated by pale sterile lights. Around a few hours after my initial evaluation, a lady came into my room. She had brown hair and wrinkly skin and black-rimmed glasses perched atop her small eyes. Contributing to her diminutive stature were the oversized blouse and dress pants that adorned her figure.
“Hello,” her voice was gentle— like an unintentional flutter of peach trees blown aghast by soft wind. “I’ll be your psychiatrist for your stay. I know this must all be new and maybe even a little jarring for you, but I will try my best to make you feel comfortable.” Clumsily, she reached out for a handshake, which I had returned, with equal awkwardness and compassion.
I trusted her, and that had been my first mistake.
By the fourth day, the kind lady had stopped visiting.
The last meal I’d eaten consisted of a bland stew and some beans. The kind lady didn’t visit at all that day, and when I tried to recall what she looked like, I could only remember that she stood a little higher than the ward bed. When the meals had stopped, I fervently tried in vain to recall when I had last eaten. On top of that, the only way I could somewhat tell the time was through a small clock hung slightly above the bedframe, but even that had its limitations too.
I’d tried to force myself to sleep, but even that was hard and tiring. Every time I was awake, I would stare at the wall dulled by time for long periods. Even though I was hungry, my stomach never rumbled. The only thing I thought about was the promised warmth that had seemingly been stripped from me.
By the end of the first week, I wanted out.
The passage of time was weird in the white room—I’d occasionally hear voices and the sounds of footsteps outside, but no person ever greeted me aside from the routine meals dropped off by random workers. The eerie noise from the pale sterile lights had nearly driven me insane, and I’d wake up at random hours either sweating or out of breath.
The first time the door clicked open in three days, it wasn’t food from ward staff, but rather a dark silhouette of a sharp figure.
“You haven’t eaten yet, my dear,” the figure’s voice was unfamiliar and had a harsh edge to it. With a dull thump, I realized that it wasn’t the lady from the first day, but rather a male worker. I didn’t even bother to look up when he spoke; I filtered him out.
I had originally intended to ignore him until he stopped talking, but when it became apparent to me that he wouldn’t shut up, I responded imprudently, “Let me out. I did nothing wrong.”
From the corner of my eye, I watched his face morph into something akin to annoyance. “Do you know why the lady that tended to you this past week isn’t here right now?” When I didn’t respond, he continued, “It’s because she’s in the hospital being treated for a stab wound. You attacked her.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes you did. Had the ambulance here in less than 10 minutes— caused a big stir in faculty too, she’s a busy woman you know—”
“No, I didn’t. You’re lying. I haven’t even seen her for the past 3 days, shut up—”
“If you want to keep lying to yourself you can, but you should at least know that you robbed her out of her future life. How did you even sneak that knife past guards?”
In an instant, with strength I didn’t know I had, I jumped out of the bed and tackled the man to the ground. As I watched him struggle, face pale and grip loosening, I thought absentmindedly about how maybe he was right, and contemplated if I did attack the woman. Seeing him like this, I realized with a start that I certainly had the strength to and what conflicted me most was that I couldn’t decide if that was scary or comforting.
Suddenly, the lights flickered. I blinked—once, then twice. I was still on the floor, but the spot where I had pinned the man was now a cold air of nothingness.
I looked up, breath heavy and eyes wild. In the door frame stood the same old lady who had greeted me on the first day. Her eyes lacked the warmth I’d seen on the first day, and she seemed a bit taller than I remembered, but it was her. Her eyes occasionally flickered up and down almost robotically, and she scribbled notes down on her clipboard with uncanny grace. When she finished writing, she finally looked at me again.
(To be continued)
