An Artistry of Madness

The nurse holds me suspended between earth and air. An old, dwarf man brings an empty syringe from the depths of his crimson cane and thrusts it into the nurse's calf. The syringe fills with the nurse's blood, and the blood inside the syringe begins to bubble. The bubbles insist on escaping, but the thorns inside the syringe puncture them one by one.

The old man removes the needle from the nurse's body. The nurse, angered by the needle's pain, presses my hand in frustration, wanting to transfer the needle's agony to me. I seize his hand. With claw-like nails, I scratch from the bottom of his short sleeve down to his ankle, and along with the purplish blood on his hand, tears also stream down my face. I don't want to be here. The nurse's heart is hairy with scratches on his hand. With a melodious "Ah!"

he curses me and sends me away. Seeing the purplish blood, I become thirsty. I lick the warm blood on his hand from top to bottom like sipping a cool drink. I become absorbed in the scent of purplish blood. My heart craves more blood, but the taste of the blood on the nurse's elevated toilet is not something I want to try again. The angry nurse lays me down on the bed. I get trapped in the whirlpool of the nurse's eyes. The old man embeds his crimson cane in the nurse's right side and spins it. He leans on the cane, waiting for the whirlpool in the nurse's eyes to subside. I lose my consciousness.

***

I lie stretched out on the bed, feeling like I've become thinner than before. Can the sun find pleasure in a gaunt soul? I exert pressure with my body onto the bed; I can't sit up with the help of my hands. I remember my hands are gone! My hands never let me go! I let out a loud scream. The dwarf man says, "Scream as much as your heart desires. This room is made for people like you. The sound repeats in the ears of the wrongdoer, so they may suffer from their own screams. Ha! Scream again. We don't stop anyone from screaming, and consider this an act of our kindness and generosity."

It means he had been standing in the corner of the room all this time! He approaches near the bed. I see the face of the old man distinctly.

With each scream, my mouth locks shut. My body convulses with each cry. It's true! The louder I shout, an equal force from the small barred window on the opposite wall hurls itself towards my ear. It tickles my ear and makes my body shudder. With all my strength, I burst into laughter. The old man raises his eyebrows in bewilderment. Lost in thought for a moment, he approaches me shortly after.

He brings the ballpoint pen from behind his back towards me, gently and meticulously drawing around the edges of my lips. As he finishes his work with the pen, he holds a mirror in his other hand, facing it towards me. A wide purple smile stretches across my face, reaching the corners behind my head, as if he intends to seal my mouth shut with each laugh. I throw myself into a fit of laughter. The old man continues the painted laughter down the back of my neck and sticks them together. He completely locks my mouth. He pulls out a syringe from his pocket and threatens, "One more time, just once... I'll make up for your misdeed." He laughs. Standing on the bedside, he releases his right foot from above onto my body. He laughs and says, "The color of your lips matches the color of my shoes; how beautiful! It has enhanced your face, my dear! We have many ways to entertain you here." He lifts his foot. His rabbit-like hair falls onto my face. He says, "I show interest in the hair of the girls I like. You also have a beautiful tall Wigs on your head. It can be useful for me."

"My entire buttocks are swollen. What did you do to me under anesthesia?"

"It's not my problem... I can only hear your words."

"I'm complaining against you! You've amputated my hands! Who will wipe my tears now? What should I do with the tickling in my nostrils with the feather? Huh? From now on, the liquid in my nose will form waves, drowning all the carefully nurtured hairs! And all because of you! You'redetestable!"

"You should be happy if they drown. No hair will remain for your tickling pleasure, except the bothersome presence of yourself. If they don't drown, we'll incinerate your body waste here. You can be happy about that too. Without pain, there won't be nose hair for your tickling. There won't be a place for Groulland."

"How can you speak so callously about a body I've labored for years, my sole capital, like this? You...! What are you trying to do to me! How can I give any answer to the sun when it sees me like this?"

"Each time, you destroy your body more than before, and now you claim ownership of it! It's interesting. You've attempted suicide countless times. You've harmed yourself thousands of times, and now, with your actions, you've given us permission for any act. There's no room for any argument. Did you think you could dirty the ground once again? The unfortunate sweeper has to carry the burden of your suicide once again?! If your suicide doesn't reach an end, how many times must the unfortunate sweeper become the savior of people like you? Have you ever thought about how many sweeper have been soaked in your filthy blood? Do you know how many sweeper there have been? Has the sun passed over your work? What do you think to yourself? Have they given you the earth to bring it to this state? You must clean up, and I'll clean your pocket, and the sun won't scold you. You don't have to worry."

Enough! The responsibility of cleaning my blood off the pavement lies with the sweeper now. What burden do you have left? What do you know about Undertakers? Since when did someone like you become a savior for sweepers? You've created chaos in your building, and now you want to feel like you're cleansing by setting others on fire? Who are you?

Haven't you heard? Blood attracts blood! Every time a sweeper cleans the self-destructive blood from the pavement or a person's home, the tainted blood of individuals like you rises from the sweeper's body, causing disarray in the sweeper's blood and resulting in another suicide with even greater consequences. The sweeper, like you, commits suicide. With their death, they become a savior for others. With each sweeper's suicide, their own impure blood goes to the grave with them. In that moment, where are you to protect the sweepers? Do you recover the souls of sweepers from destruction? Are you willing to, by replacing sweepers, bear the consequences of your mistakes? Can you cleanse the undesired sins of sweepers under the scrutiny of the Sun? And are you prepared to reclaim the souls of sweepers' parents from destruction? Certainly not. So don't speak of nonsense.

The debate of mom and dad, leave me out of it! Are you also willing to be the same traitor in the future as you are today? Someone rejected by both Undertakers and ordinary people! Someone who thinks they're showing kindness to ordinary people and, in their treatment facility, comes to account for sweepers. I dreamed that you couldn't die. I heard your song from my parents. You were and are a companion to the Sun; however, it's funny, you're a forgotten mouse now! Someone who can't reach the sun and someone who is incapable of suicide!

Choke... on it. I am fully aware of my own life. You are not worthy to criticize me. Here, we, the nurses and I, have taken on the responsibility of cleansing your minds. If the mind is cleansed, the mind of the nation becomes pure and clean! Although your impure mind is exempt from this part and still wallows in filth. Understand, the purification of the mind can be as painful and difficult as cleansing it from impurities.

I am a follower of the Sun. No, not a follower. I am in love with the Sun and am willing to sacrifice everything to reach it. Something that someone like you might call filthy and dirty! Do you understand what I mean? Suicide, I'm talking about!

The old man takes the mirror in front of my face. There is no sign of a smile on my face. My lips are stitched. Instead of the laughter that he drew on my face, now my skin is stitched with purple threads. The stitches continue to the back of my head, and two invisible threads are left behind. The nurse enters the room. He pushes me onto my stomach and wants to inject several ampoules into my head. I cry and say, "I promise, I'll listen to you. Please, please..." The old man says, "Right now, you won't understand the favor we're doing for you. You'll find solace!" He firmly holds the dangling threads behind my head in his hands. My mouth is closed, and he doesn't allow the threads to loosen until the ampoules are injected, and I'm forced into sleep.

to be continued...