When Summer Blew Up

the sprawling old pink building is a tall veteran giant, hugging the brownish colour lake warmly. Its walls swallowed by a thousand mosses and vines. On the green grassy fields, men and women play a game of volleyball with disinterest, while some sit on benches, smiling at the atmosphere. Inside is no oasis, lurking with the sharp scent of chlorine, pungent medicine, and death. I cover my mouth of the smell while they lead me to where he is. A nerve-wrecking journey up three flights of stairs and a long dark hallway with a small skylight that could use a good scrubbing. I spot patients peeping out at me through the small glass at the top of the heavy doors, some of them growling and screaming out insanities. Monkeys are the way they're acting. And I feel like I'm walking through the place where they're being put down. A dirty blond with an IV attached to her, stands outside the hallway barefooted, trying to rip away her blouse. Her hair is in two pigtails, and green circles paint their way around her eyes. In the room she is standing by are other patients, clad in depressing pale grey pajamas, some pacing about the grimy sooth covered floors, and others wearing straitjackets. I glance at another lady sitting on the floor in the corner, grabbing at her splintered feet and rocking from side to side. Now it feels like I'm paying a visit to the house of Frankenstein. And within minutes I'll soon see the electrified dummy appear. They escort me up another flight of stairs. A shorter one. The large glass we walk up to reveals a gray insulated room. I remember while swimming in the brown lake, us telling each other that we'd never come here. Laughing as we said it. Like it was a joke. The nurses tell me that he not only went crazy, but had some kind of virus they weren't sure about. And he may die in the next six weeks. AIDs they call it. I peer at him through the glass. He lies on that thin mattress like a dead eagle washed up on a lonely beach. His hands and feet are strapped down by iron cuffs, which he struggles to get out of every minute. The room is dark and gloomy, and the only source of light is the one coming from a kerosene lamp resting on a near-by night stand. It appears that no one has come to visit him. The night stand has no flowers. Not a single yellow one. Either are there numerous fruit baskets. Thinking of all the fans he had before, it's shocking. He's like all the other people here. The forgotten ones. A doctor stands over him, taking a sample of blood. He looks so scary dressed in that tasteless blue scrub. And the light makes him elongated, unreal. He wears a glass shield over his face, his mouth all tied up by a tight face mask. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Are my eyes playing tricks on me, teasing the vulnerable traces of my imagination? This seems like a dream---a night terror that I'm longing to wake up from. I try to drown out that song those children were singing outside: “ring around the roses. A pocket full of poses…” They also tell me that he had a heroin over dose and after that he couldn't stop. The skinny nurse wearing loud pink scrubs keeps telling me that he's going to be alright. She's seen a good many past through here doing just fine. I keep telling her to shut up! I don't want to hear anything! Still, I hope she's right.