Vivid Dreams of DC
Below is an original work of “flash fiction” by GBF 2013 author David Fitzpatrick.
Vivid Dreams of DC
I’ve been dreaming unusually vividly lately – the visions are of sanitariums, gargoyle tattoos and broken patients I remember from days past. They’re not what you might expect – no reliving of old experiences, no horrific, blood-smeared floors or endless, numbing, nights in rubberized Quiet Rooms reeking of bleach, urine and citrus-scented Lysol. Although in the these fugues, I’m still trapped inside old habits, at times banging my head against walls, and treading sludgy water in a backed-up, indoor pools.
The refurbished institutions are shimmering, gold-plated buildings with enormous soda fountains, filled with tiny, overwhelmed young ladies slurping gallons of chocolate Ensure on spinning, musical, cherry-red vinyl stools. The women are similar to the ones I bonded with so intensely in Kansas and Chicago two decades ago. As the dreams finish up each night, the finale always includes, three or four horned elephants backstroking through an enormous fresh-water pool in the background, with Ray Bans and multiple Cuban cigars dangling from their mouths.
Each of the girls are scarred or bruised, and dotted with intricate ink; maybe a wingless, fallen angel on a shoulder; frothing gargoyle on an upper thigh, or a pulpy, bleeding heart on a burnt forearm. They levitate beside me in groups, some with shaved heads, or scabbed abdomens, or emaciated bodies with ribs poking through. My visions are usually set in a lavish facility, and I’m the only male. Purplish-black twisters rage out the windows, and luminescent, tangerine frogs spill from the sky, exploding into flashes of fiery pink and blue light when they strike the cornfields.
It always seems to be mid-November, 1994, and we’re listening to Counting Crows, and each of the girls are singing “Sullivan Street” with a passion absent from every other corner of their lives. My eyes are shut tight, and their alluring voices make me want to weep, so I stand up and start walking in place to keep from doing that. The women have their eyes closed, as well, and heads swivel and groove to the yearning inside singer Adam Duritz’s cracked tenor.
The wind picks up, and eventually we throw on sweatshirts, scarves and coats, and stay out in the cold, screened-in porch. Then I’m reaching up to stroke several peonies that rest inside a colorless vase that’s Krazy-glued to a mahogany desk, but it’s hard to see. The smoke is thick and black, and everyone is enchanted by the music, but in reality, it’s more like we’re entrenched in the tunes, dug in deep and refusing to waiver, refusing to leave the aching deliciousness of melodic wounds. After a while, even the doctors and nurses are lighting up the cigarettes, moving their heads, mumbling about writing festivals. The music, and the pining inside our collective group is partially oppressive, but oh, so sweet, and when I open my eyes, the White House cruises right on by.
David Fitzpatrick’s first book, “Sharp: My Story of Madness, Cutting and How I Reclaimed My Life,” chronicles his 20-year struggle with mental illness. His works have been published by The Huffington Post, The New Haven Review, Barely South Review, and Fiction Weekly. David was born in Dearborn, Mich., grew up in Connecticut, graduated from Skidmore College, and earned his M.F.A. degree from Fairfield University in 2011.
