Photo by Magdalena Nowakowska on Unsplash
I searched for the train line the elderly man in front of Charles de Gaulle mentioned would culminate in the city center. I sauntered through a path along the highway with a contradicting fusion of dalliance and determination. My denim travelling bag became unnecessary, finding a new home by the side of the road. I metamorphosed into a free spirit, an ethereal being unbound by physical needs. Relieved of the weight, I continued my journey taking only a metal Rosie the Riveter lunchbox—acquired at O'Hare airport with the phrase "We Can Do It!" stamped on it—containing the remaining of my belongings.
I approached a tunnel which forced me to cross the highway. My path hit a dead end. I stepped on the asphalt, determined to reach the other side indifferent to automobiles accelerating in my direction. My life has been predestined; I know this is not my time to die. Cars blew their horns and slammed on their breaks. A few threatened to slide off the road due to the abrupt change in speed.
Without grasping the self-imposed life threat and potential danger to unnamed coequals, I ambled as vehicles dodged my body waltzing to the opposite byway. Wandering on the grass pathway, I picked up my Discman from the lunchbox and inserted another Ani DiFranco CD. The soundtrack accompanied an imagined film with particular verses matching each step of my journey. As a result, I would discard any full-listened album, tossed over my shoulder.
The lunchbox contained only the essentials. I opened my wallet and stared at the empty bill compartment with a smirk. For the first time of my adult life, money had no significance. I broke a credit card, the last sign of capitalism, in half and threw aside. My scuba diving card received a special treatment getting buried in the earth. I pictured myself peregrinating through the world. I would swim au naturel into alien waters that wouldn't require wetsuit, air cylinder, diving mask, or flippers. I gaited out of my flip flops and curled my toes into the soil as I stepped away from my shoes. Jack Johnson reverberated through my headphones with a Hawaiian luau vibe. The clouds pranced as the breeze grazed my placid countenance. I was in the moment and out of it when tried to figure out how the plot would proceed.
I finally reached the aimed train line but was not in such a hurry to progress with the journey. Doubts abounded. Reconsidering my quest, I could keep traipsing freely eastward until the Land of the Rising Sun but only after my expected meeting with Jacques Chirac. I fantasized about that anonymous life of a wayfarer, foregathering people in envisaged villages along my Eurasia venture.
I perched at the summit of the valley containing the railway as a train cruised through it. I got into the process of digesting emotional baggage when I sighted a ladybug traversing a trunk. The self-identification was eminent hence in my mother tongue this red beetle is the diminutive of my given name. I had the impetus of writing and hunted for a pen in my lunchbox. Nothing else was available to scribble on but the empty pages of my passport. The travel document was needless in my newly devised life.
The flow of words didn't match the motion of my hand penning it down. I struggled to stream messages from my left brain to my right fingers. The story was constructed, written, and experienced. Two girls fall in love. They live happily ever after for seven years. Highlight seven, hand. They die. I sobbed over their death. They come back as cats. A smile surged over tears. The felines have nothing else to say to each other—their mutual understanding is through looks and meows. The two beings cherish each other for seven lives. They're back as ladybugs—no more cuddles, but company. These insects share their existence for seven days. And now it's time for them to be on their own. I grabbed the lunchbox as I knew I had to kill the ladybug to free myself. I hesitated. I didn't want to execute the creature, but in one thrust—bam—I smashed the minikin. The arthropod embodied either me or her. I wept at the death of this tiny organism and wiped my regretful tears with muddy hands as I witnessed a second ladybug taking off. One dies; the other survives. They split. Both become stars, shining light-years apart. It's OK, they're falling stars who can inspire other girls to strive. End of the story, in chicken scratchings on unstamped pages of my passport.
There was nothing else to do but to absorb the experience with the headphones now pumping "Little Plastic Castle" still camped on the hilltop. A police car pulling over on the other side of the railway shattered the contemplative moment. Two officers jumped out of the vehicle and swaggered in my direction. I considered running away but the cheery melody in my ear channels brought an ironic twist to the scene. The synchronicity of the lyrics was unprecedented. I remained still until the two cops got steps away, when I cordially stood up to greet them. The two whizzed questions at me. "When did you arrive in Paris?" shot one. "This morning," I retorted in poor French. "What are you doing here?" snapped the second cop. "I'm Joan of Arc's sister. I'm here to speak to your president," I said. It was to me an affront they didn't contain their chuckles. The officers looked at each other and nodded their heads in a silent agreement. One of them picked up my lunchbox, opened it, and leafed through my passport, examining it. Both escorted me to the police car which I assumed it'd be a ride to my intended destination.
I snuggled in the backseat and resumed listening to the previous album. My bare feet, covered with dried mud, propped on the floor surface. I watched the officers speaking to each other in the front, but couldn't hear them over the music. I was eerily calm, just watching the landscape turn into streets on my Parisian private tour. Sooner than I anticipated, we arrived at our destination, a different place than the predicted journey's end. The policemen invited me out of the car and accompanied me into a police station.
From a waiting room, I overheard the policemen discussing what they found—me—to a police chief. Through the half open door, I observed the officers spraying my purple perfume around the room, joking around it could bring a good omen, citing the Maid of Orleans. While the agents discussed my fate, I got distracted by trying to decipher what that limbo meant. A big glass window separated the waiting room from a small retention space where a young yogi with a reddish robe sat in meditative lotus position. I gaped at him, intrigued by the encounter. Perhaps we were in the same boat—a young representative of each continent about to join strengths; I was part of a bigger scheme. I made a circular sign with my index finger to him, meaning "Are we all together in this?" He gazed into my eyes, brought his two palms together, and leaned his head in a Namaste salutation.
A police officer asked me something in French I couldn't understand, but with a hand gesture invited me into the police chief's room. I repeated my mission to the lawman: I was there to speak to Jacques, already intimate with their commander in chief. Pinching his five fingers and bringing them to his mouth, he proposed, "Would you like a pill? All of this can go away with it!" I couldn't identify the relation between taking a tiny pressed synthetic substance with everything evaporating. What is he talking about? My mind shortcut the meaning of his proposal to a tablet that would end my life. "No!" I yelled back. Are they trying to kill me? For my understanding, it went from them arranging my transportation to Palais de l'Élysée to wishing me dead.
The officers conducted me back to the police car for another ride. I was finally back on track; they would take me where I should be. Hundreds of thoughts rushed in high speed from axons to dendrites whilst on tour number two. The sun began to set when we approached a gate. The car parked inside of an old building and the policemen accompanied me to an industrial elevator. My cells tingled as I tried to guess what could happen next. Is this the end? The cryptic lady from the plane from Chicago to Paris imprinted in me a new purpose. If everyone were to find their spiritual family and I'd find mine, would I disappear? Was the elevator bringing me to such an event?
The door opened to a hallway. The policemen escorted me into a room in the end of the corridor where a well-dressed agent awaited. He darted me another set of questions. "What are you doing in France? Why did you leave the U.S.? Why didn't you inform your university?" I reiterated I was there for a meeting with their leader, but my purpose kept shifting in my brain. The mysterious woman had a point and now I was following her lead. "We're here to find each other," I said, followed by my grand freshly conceived theory, "There is an invisible force uniting people, and this movement will bring the continents back to Pangea." The composed man ignored what I said and kept repeating questions I found irrelevant. Frustrated by my replies, he groaned before walking out.
I was led to a medical room in which a tall black man in a white coat was expecting me. Silently, he handed me a disposable emerald paper gown and pointed to a folding screen in the corner. French words filled the room as he gestured towards my lower body; I decoded I also had to take off my underwear when changing into the garment. I presumed they were studying me considering I was a special being. "Who are you?" I asked the coated man. He said his face was familiar because he resembled a Hollywood actor. I felt bamboozled. I repeated my question, but he didn't seem to notice the urgency in voice. Does he have a message for me? He kept switching between broken English and French while I did the opposite, mixing fluent English with basic French; after a while, I had no clue what the words coming out of his mouth meant. He continued examining me: heartbeats, blood pressure, reflexes.
They confiscated everything I possessed: the clothes I wore, the lunchbox, and the few items within it. Once the checkup terminated, the coated man handed me an apple and a jar of water. Why the forbidden fruit? I hadn't eaten the whole day, but I wasn't actually hungry. Another man accompanied me to the end of the corridor, to one of the cells with heavy iron doors. There were two metal structured bed frames covered with thin mattresses. He commented something in French with another worker and they decided that that was not my lodge. We cruised to the opposite side of the hallway, reaching one more cell. A single mattress lied on the floor. I deduced that the edgy bed frames were the reason for their change of mind. He invited me in and receded, fastening the iron door behind me. It's a mistake! They locked me up. A colossal misunderstanding even after I had explained my intention word for word.
I sat down on the mattress and appreciated the apple, feeling pity for destroying its shape with my teeth. I was eating something that was as alive as I was. The apple looked immaculate, fulfilling its full potential. I thanked the fruit for letting me devour it. Feeling trapped and with much energy running through my veins, the story jumped from me being a messenger to having superpowers. I was not merely a human being in a mission any longer; I could command the world with my cognition.
Through a high thick glass window, I watched faded stars peer in the dark sky. Stamina inhabited each squared millimeter of my body. I kneeled on the floor, following my body's intention. A force from my guts created a tornado inside of me. All the air from my lungs arose through my throat in the loudest scream ever to exit my mouth.
"EVERYONE WHO DOESN'T BELONG TO THIS WORLD..."
The vociferous sound emerged from the bottom of my soul and, at the end of my roar, all the problems in the planet would unravel.
The workers backfired, shouting words in French that I knew meant "Shut up!" Two of them slammed their hands on the metal door, almost drowning out my cry.
I had to consummate the sentence; it couldn't be left unfinished. My fists closed while I kneeled down, like in a soccer player's goal celebration with my torso muscles contracted.
"...DIE RIGHT NOW!"
Six guys forayed into the room, knocking me down as I vocalized the last words. I could solely conclude they'd kill me. If they'd end my existence and hide my cadaver, no one would ever know. Battling for my life, I fought back. I tried to release myself from those twelve arms, but I was a prawn against an octopus.
In the middle of wrestling, they forced a straightjacket into my upper limbs. Squirming my arms into the straightjacket, they tied it behind my back, restraining my movements. I spotted with the corner of my eyes another guy entering the room holding an injection. There was an evident reason to combat with vehemence; it was indeed a question of life or death. I grappled back but not enough to avoid the needle to be waltzed into my ass. The unknown liquid flew into my body as the worker pulled the syringe's plunger. Oh my gosh, they killed me. I'm dead. They hushed outside, bolting the iron door. I was left facing the floor with my arms crossed behind my back, still wrapped by the straitjacket.
I surrendered. That was the end. Laying on my stomach, I tried to move. The straitjacket drifted with its tie loosed up. By moving my trunk and arms, I could release myself from it. It was exhilarating. They didn't kill me after all! I survived. I freed myself from the constraining garment and stood up with a mix of pride and delight. I was alive!
I erected my body and strode towards the squared glass window on the iron door. My face beamed while I waved to the workers on the corridor. Look at me! I'm alive! You didn't kill me! I won the battle. They goggled me with an inhospitable mien. One of them wagged his hand in a gesture for me to turn around and relinquish. I persisted with the salutation but retreated with the unfriendly response. In seconds I became lethargic, melting into the mattress.
The next memory I encoded was my arrival at Ville-Évrard.
I was guided to the main hall which contained a small reception, tables with benches for meals, and a corner space with a sofa and shelf with board games. A black short bald-headed male nurse chaperoned me. He instructed me in French complemented with mimic that I should leave my belongings in a locker, assuring all would be secured, shaking the key up in the air. I was back wearing my outfit from the previous day and not the confinement gown even though I had no recollection of how that had happened. I don't remember waking up in the cell and the whole procedure of being transported to Ville-Évrard. From a medical report, I know I had arrived by ambulance but under the influence of a potent sedative I was unable to record those next-day events in my brain.
I refused to leave the Discman in the locker claiming I needed my music. He insisted. I clung to it and the short man started losing his temper. He pulled the sound equipment from my hands adding I would also have to place the clothes inside the locker after bathing. Following a disputed negotiation, the infuriated man let me keep my recently acquired baby blue beret as an accessory to the two-piece patient uniform. A female nurse approached us with my new wear together with a towel and a bar of soap. They opened a door and instructed me to wash myself inside.
The bathroom was nothing like any other I had been in my life. It was an ample aseptic space with an iron bathtub in the center. I had no idea where I was and for what reason. I played with the faucets to figure out how they worked; even objects spoke a foreign language. The door was unlocked, and someone could walk in at any given second, adding an extra layer of tension. I didn't quite comprehend why I had to follow a such awkward sequence of rules. Cool air crammed the room. I stepped into the unwelcoming bathtub with my dirty feet. Brown water drained down as I reconciled with my nude silhouette. With cold goosebumps, I dried myself in a flash and wore my unfashionable azure outfit.
The short-tempered nurse awaited me right outside the bathroom, ready to seize my remaining belongings: grey social pants, black shirt with white vertical lines, and underwear. Something went wrong; I wasn't where I was supposed to be. I had urgency in speaking to an authority to elucidate the whole situation. A collapsing domino-falling structure of misunderstanding transpired: policemen, police chief, agent, nurses. My hope lied on the next domino piece. I told one of the nurses I needed to talk to whomever was in charge. The answer escaped from the tip of her tongue, "Doctor's appointment tomorrow." Rethinking my situation, that would be my lodge for one night as I'd reach the last domino tile in the following day. Game over. Freedom.
The nurses showed me my bed in a spacious room, shared with a woman with severe intellectual disability who rambled through it. Something was in fact going wrong. I'm not like her. The well-seasoned vegetable soup served with baguette and brie temporarily nullified my apprehension, my first meal at Ville-Évrard.
I hopped out of bed at the crack of dawn and strolled through the hallway, trying to recognize that outlandish environment. I wasn't aware of where I was, but I knew I shouldn't be reposing; I must find a way out. Infuriated by my transgression, an employee hauled me back to my sleeping base. In the following morning, determined to uncover my next act, I strode to the shelf accommodating board games, searching for signs. In one of the boxes, there was a board with names of cities and countries in a path. I rushed to my bedroom foraging for a pen and scrounged a landscape photography from my roommate's nightstand, the only writable piece of material I could find. I penned down the list of places I'd cover as my new given goal.
In the appointment, the middle-aged male doctor spoke French only as a young female assistant acted as a translator. I was prompt to patter. "All began with my first ecstasy. I experienced a reality greater than reality itself as my five senses boosted to a hypertensive mode; my consciousness arose." With her warm ears, she nodded with a semi-smile, turned to the doctor, and translated into French. He took notes. "But not until the mushrooms I could really be enlightened." The pattern repeated throughout. Me-her-him-notes. "I was designated as a messenger, a messenger of the Truth." For my disappointment, at the end of the session my status remained the same. Another frustrated domino tile. The doctor and assistant vanished as I asked another nurse when I'd be set free. She informed me I'd have a next appointment with the same doctor in a couple of days. My fate got postponed while they offered me a tray with a cup of water and tablets. I didn't know what those pellets were but complied believing they'd be nothing more than placebo to me.
The familiarity of an international hostel surged at meal times. A Spaniard introduced himself with a quivering handshake, which its tremor reverberated from the rest of his body. The young man revealed having witnessed his father gun shooting his own temples when he was only five. Never overcoming the bloody scene, his body kept the score. There was this old French man who played swapping berets with me. He filched my hat and donned his old-fashioned lid on top of my head. Nibbling baguette and brie with my fellows, I met Laura, a French youngster who spoke rare words of English. Laura admired my beret and I offered it for her to try. She didn't understand what I was doing there. I also couldn't make sense of it. I tried to get the reason for her confinement, but her sentences evaporated in the air. I just managed to capture the word "boyfriend" which stood out.
Eureka! I still had an air ticket to the U.S. in my email. Luckily, I had bought a return instead of the intended, but pricy, one-way ticket. I had no intention of going back to Uncle Sam's country but now that my plans weren't working my way, I could retrieve the electronic ticket and fly back as nothing had ever happened. But what day is today? I knew my ticket was for a week after my arrival, but I had no idea how many days had passed. No calendar, no mirror, no notion of time, space, or self. Confident it had been less than seven days, I tramped through the corridor aiming at a computer and printer, intruded an office where two ladies typed away at their work desks. They balked my advance with hostile gazes. "Can I use the computer for five minutes? I just need to access my email and print an air ticket!" They shouted me out, arguing that that was not an area for patients, completed by a shutting door.
The only option I had was to flee. Due to the swallowed pills, my body wouldn't obey the guidance of my aroused mind. I traced my strategy by staring out of the window, capturing the horizon. A road in front of the ancient château cut across a green meadow. I couldn't discern the subsequent course of the path but envisioned a front gate. I jump over it and voilà!
After my sophomore soccer season, my coaches noticed the drop in my ambition, remarking they'd take my full scholarship away if I didn't meet their expectations of embodying a leader who is not only technically exemplary but also physically fit.
Encouraged by fear, I took up running with Amber. She led me to a trail in the woods in the small town in "Almost heaven, West Virginia" we both lived. The path became less recognizable as we debouched in a field surrounded by graves. My conception of a cemetery consisted of high imposing walls separating common citizens from deceased ones; a barrier natives rarely overpass in my home town, the major urban conglomerate in South America. Now we jogged in a splendid scenario—that of a graveyard! My heart pounded. Straight ahead a heard of deer grazed peacefully where the path shaped again, carving its way into the woods. About twenty animals faced us. Hesitant, I asked Amber, "Should we go right or left?" She bunted back, hastening, "We keep running straight. They are the ones afraid of us."
Amber sprinted towards the does and bucks whilst I tried to keep up. The deer split, opening an avenue in the middle of the herd. I felt my confidence surge and spurred my pace; my fear ebbed away, instead I was filled with joy and a new sense of freedom.
The entrance door yawned outward with free access to the exterior world. Inspecting my chances through the window, I visualized myself dashing outside. No one would be able to catch me. While my fleeing plan took shape, my body remained inert, lifeless, disconnected from my motor cortex. I was not only physically confined but imprisoned by chemicals. The cocktail of psychotropics rendered my body a heap of dormant organic material. Each step endured the heaviness of walking on quicksand. How can I escape in such condition? Other thoughts cropped up. Where have my freedom of choice gone? How could they remove me from society and impose pharmacological treatment without my consent?
I wouldn't give up. Dragging my lower limbs, I managed to reach the corner of the deserted reception area, trying to remain unnoticed. There must be people who know I've been incarcerated by mistake. Not able to sprint, I stomped out of the entrance door.
An ambulance rested in the front of the building. That was my chance. Open wide, the vehicle door invited me. I crawled inside. That was a sign—someone was there ready to rescue me. The driver was my comrade; he was in the position to step on gas. I yelled, "Drive!" No response. I moved my hands imitating a steering motion while shouting, "C'mon. Let's go!" His gaze penetrated my skin, organs, and skeleton; trespassed my ghost-body, shadowy existence.
The sounds of hurried steps and frantic French shouting plundered my means of transportation. Desperate, I squawked once more yet the driver ignored my commands. Within milliseconds nurses forced their body weight on mine, trying to retain my movements. I put my mind on making my body respond, fight back, but it wouldn't comply. They lugged me back inside. I failed to escape.
The old French patient carried a radio with him. I couldn't understand why he had the privilege of accessing music while my Discman slept secured within the locker. Laura forged a plan, inviting me to be her partner in crime. She distracted the old man whilst I hooked his portable tuning device. We slinked into Laura's room, cozier than mine—a small chamber with two parallel single beds separated by a nightstand below a window. Silently, we eased the door closed, maintaining our concession and relishing the little adventure. Negotiating in body language, we agreed each could pick three songs in a row, taking turns. Laura tuned dramatic French songs drifting from station to station. When she'd capture a ballad near the end, she'd appeal for an extra, leading to disagreements dissolved with hand sign exchanges. In my turn, I strived for English sung songs which I aimed to capture the hidden messages within the lyrics. Peace reigned in our den. We didn't need a verbal exchange to attain conjoined solace. Warmth filled my core in a moment I forgot about fleeing, succumbing to the contentment of existing.
Joana Galvão is a former researcher in experimental psychology and neuroscience currently based in São Paulo, Brazil. In her creative writing, she explores the unexpected places where our minds can take us.