"Annissa?" I had asked, "What do people call you for short?"
Her eyes glittered, that beautiful green, "Usually Niss - or Nissa."
I listened to her continue singing, and sucked on my cigarette, "Can I call you Ani? Like Ani Difranco."
She grinned and giggled, still dancing about the room, "Of course, Taylor..."
I stood and caught her in my arms, placing my cigarette between her lips, "Cause Ani, you've gotten tough."
She flexed her muscles, then took a long drag on the cigarette - and the thought fades with our laughter.
"You know," I told my doctor, "Ani - her name is Annissa... Ani was my name for her. I was the only one who called her that."
He tapped his pen on his clipboard, and I decided to continue. Damn therapist, always made me feel uninteresting... "Kind of like... you know, Ani Difranco." He didn't show any sign of- well, anything really, so I continued to ramble. "I like Ani Difranco. She's a bit militant feminist for my taste - but I do recall singing along to her songs."
"Can you still sing them?" He asked, sounding somewhat interested. Therapy with me must have been boring for him, I never said anything, and when I did it was almost like small talk - useless sound to fill a space.
"Perhaps," I said, "I don't know how much I'd remember... but I may have an album with me."
"You should listen to them," He told me, "I think these songs are important to your healing. Have you listened to that song she liked - the Bjork one... Hyper ballad?"
I had mentioned Hyper ballad before. Le sigh. "No." I hadn't told him about how it blared during her suicide.
"Why not? Why do you avoid that song so much...?"
"I hate to hear it." I said, "It brings back horrible things..."
"I thought she loved that song - why would it bring back horrible things?"
This conversation seemed to repeat itself often. I never knew how to respond, or whether I even should tell him all of my reasons. "It's in my head... all day, and all night - it doesn't leave. When I hear it in my head it tortures me with horrible memories..."
"But why? What are these memories?"
"The dreams." I said finally, "It's... it's in the dreams."
"Your nightmares?"
"Yes, the bloody fucking nightmares," I sighed, exasperated. "They're half the fucking reason I'm here!"
"What happens in these memories - and these nightmares. What do you see and remember?"
I became weak, "I can't tell... I don't know."
"You can't tell, or you don't know?"
"I can't tell..."
"Why?"
"It's too horrible... I can't think about it..."
"The key to your coping lies within those dreams, Taylor. What scares you so much? Why do you wake up screaming and singing the lyrics to that song? Why are you so afraid?"
I shook my head and grabbed my ears, "Nothing... nothing - I'm not scared!"
"Then why do you keep yourself awake at night!?"
I had no answer, and after a long time he said - "Taylor... you need to face your dreams within your subconscious to help you get over your fear - but the only way I can help you is if you talk."
I sat in silence for the remainder of therapy.
I scribbled lyrics in my notebook that night - humming melodies I hoped would stay in my head. I wanted my keys then. I wished Isaac was there, so I could relay my ideas to him. I wished I brought a tape recorder.
I was thinking about my lover.
Former... lover.
Kissing her skin.
Everywhere.
God, I longed for her so badly.
"Dear Ani," I sang, "I miss you."
But when I sang the words came out hoarse and emotionally tortured. They made me cry and my voice became nothing but a harsh whisper. What's a boy to do when his voice is burned?
I wished I could work during our free break time - but everyone was there. I didn't want them to see me cry. I didn't feel right writing songs and creating around foreign bodies - music to them wasn't the same as music to me. It was weird enough being known as Taylor Hanson, rock star - and getting requests from people and doctors in an asylum. I didn't mind so much - cranking out a Beatles hit was quite different than writing. Writing was a thing to be done with my brothers, secluded and private. It was as if - someone watching me write and create something was like someone walking on me having sex. It was a private process, and I felt... I couldn't... no, not in front of strangers.
I only sang my song to keep the memory of how it went in my head, and I only sang it around Mike (who I really couldn't avoid) or Angel. Angel showered alone most days at odd times when he knew no one else would be in there. Those odd times were the times I reserved for my singing.
Joey, the man who supervised the showers never spoke to anyone. He didn't bother anyone unless they were harming themselves or being otherwise destructive. He did speak to me once... he told me that he didn't speak to no one about my singin'. Said - It wuddint be his place to go blabbing about what was said an' done - so my secret was safe.
I didn't mind Angel's presence. Angel was a stranger to me, but yet, I felt like I could trust him. If he could trust me, standing naked and open a mere few feet from him, then I could trust his ears with my tortured voice. I wondered if this side of me was frightening. The shower floors were dirty and all I could think about was how filthy I felt all of the time. No one could cleanse me of what I had seen.
Angel was timid when he spoke to me.
"Taylor, what are you always singin' about in here?" He asked me, eventually.
I turned my face to him, always 3 showerheads away. I wiped my eyes, "Just a song I'm writing..." I said, "I'm trying to keep it in my head, yanno? Make sure I don't forget it... That's all."
"Why don't you just use the piano in the game room?"
I shrugged. "It's not meant for them to hear."
He didn't respond, really, his question answered, I guess. I wished I were home, so I could hide in my room and do some lines. God, how long had I been there? Six weeks? Seven? Those lying bastards - telling me this was a three-week thing. I leaned my head against the tile on the wall, which was probably dirty too.
"I want to go home." I sighed, "To my brother, and Alexis... but the doctor still thinks I'm not all right. Christ, I'm not exactly fat, but the weight I've been gaining is Jell-O." I poked my soft stomach, "I feel like its fat. I feel like a turkey and they're trying to fatten me up."
"So, why do you sing this song if it hurts so much?" Angel interrupted my rambling, again.
"Because." I said, "Because it's good for my therapy - so they say - to do my art. They want me to express myself... but self-expression is... I much prefer the numb state I had before. I... I suppose it beats panic attacks."
"Anything is better than panicking." Angel agreed, "And nightmares."
"You get those too?"
"I think mine are probably different than yours..." He said, and I could tell he was getting uncomfortable. He didn't want to talk about it as much as I didn't. He didn't want to be open, and neither did I. I began to feel a little bit more normal.
"I... well obviously, we're two different people, aren't we? Different demons."
"What do you see?" He asked, his questions were solid, to the point. The question neither of us wanted to answer.
"I hate to close my eyes." I replied. With my eyes open, I looked down and I saw her at my waist, lips circling my hardening penis. I shook my head and she wasn't there, but what would I have given to actually have her there, blowing me in a public shower. I turned my back to Angel, embarassed if he had noticed.
It had been almost three full days since I last slept. I had memorized the look of the ceiling at night, restless and sick. Annissa bled on my pillow. I was growing fatigued, but I couldn't get to sleep. I was scared, but I didn't know why.
I washed my hair, and it came out in clumps in my hands. It was almost to the point where you could see the missing spots on my head. I sighed and turned to Mike's side of the room that night, whom I knew always shaved with an electric razor.
We weren't allowed to have sharp things unless under strict supervision. I shaved once a week, if that. I was getting a bit shaggy. But Mike, even though he was in an asylum, went out of his way to primp and look beautiful, every day. Trimming his own hair with his buzzer, and taming his sideburns. He washed his face, and hardly ever nicked himself... I didn't really bother myself with it. No, I didn't have anyone I wanted to see when I woke up in the morning.
I plugged his razor into the wall when he was out of the room and knelt down in a corner, running it over my head. My hair fell to the floor all around me, and I gathered it up with my hands when I finished. I shoved his buzzer back in his bag, and stared at myself in the mirror. No hair.
I ran my fingers over my head, touching the softness of the stubbly hairs left behind. I shook my head back and forth - it was light, and no hair whipped in my face. So this is what it felt like. I held my locks in my hands and began to cry. I was so ashamed of myself. I dropped my hair on the nightstand beside my bed and walked down the hallway to the game room. I felt naked and vulnerable - so many years I hid behind my bangs.
The Stripe was playing pool with Mike and he noticed me immediately, "Hanson - what the hell happened?"
I blushed and wiped tears from my eyes, running my hands self-consciously over my head - there was no hair for my hands to get stuck in. "I shaved it off."
"Obviously. But why? Dear lord, your hair is like... your trademark."
I shrugged, I didn't want to say that every time I touched my head, it would all come out in my hands, so instead I said, "I decided I needed a change."
The Stripe smiled, "Well, I like it. You can really see your eyes when your bangs aren't in your face. Did you realize your's are the bluest I've ever seen?"
My eyes were watery. Annissa told me about my eyes, day and night. Taking photographs of my face close up - just to see how they glittered in the sunlight every day. My eyes were ocean-blue, while hers were forest-green. I felt like a coastline when I was with her - the beaches of her body. I hadn't looked anyone in the eye for months - so I watched his lips when he talked, wishing I could cover my eyes from his view. "I can't hide from them, I guess... they'll always be blue." I said, eventually.
The Stripe had already turned away and taken his next shot when I said it, and Mike noticed me. He raised his eyebrows at my comment - a puzzled expression. I turned and walked out of the room.