Writing and Drawing

Martha let her hands dance over the white piece of paper. She liked blank pieces of paper, they made her happy. It wasn’t long, however, before the pen in her hand began leaving ugly trails all over it. Her hand was trying to capture the images in her head, the noise and the voices. None of them were hers, she knew that. The Doctors, of course, knew differently. They kept giving her different medication to make the voices go away. Martha had quickly discovered that the voices didn’t want to go away.

They weren’t always the same voices, sometimes they were different ones. They were never talking at her, they were far away, in different places, in different countries.

Martha looked down at the once-white page now covered in scrawling handwriting. It seemed to be some sort of prediction about the end of the world. That had been happening a lot recently. It was happening with irritating frequency. She liked it when what she wrote was different, entertaining. Sometimes she would see a story play out in her writings, sometimes she would just images of things. Of terribly, horrible things. Of people calling out in pain, in terror, in anguish, calling out with a note of terrified hope that there was someone coming to help them.

There never was. Well, in the beginning there wasn’t. Now, though, sometimes she would get visions where someone had been there to help them. Never the same person twice in a row, but some of the faces she saw time and time again, in different places. There was on of them she was quite fond of. He drove around in a black van, and he was trying to save the girl in the back of it. It was almost romantic. She hadn’t seen very much about him recently, and she blamed all these end of the world images. They weren’t very nice, and they scared her.

Martha didn’t like being sacred. She let the piece of paper float to the floor to join the other drawings and writings that she had scattered all over the gray-carpeted floor. She stretched her back, and felt the plastic chair beneath her creak a little. She lifted up her pink-slippered feet and waggled them for a bit. Distractedly, her free hand sought out her lunch. Half finished and long cold, she slowly eat a few of the chips, and regarded the new blank sheet of paper before her. There was the jangle of keys, and the door to her room opened. It was time for something. She knew that because the door was opened. She looked up at the large man expectantly. He had a kind face, and she knew that she liked him. She didn’t know his name though.

“Hello Martha” he said, softly.
“Hello” she replied, and swung her feet under her plastic chair. “Do I know you?”.
His smile broadened a little “Yes Martha, my name is Stewart”.
“Oh. I’m not really very good in the present. How can I help you?”
“It’s morning, Martha, you can go into the day room.”
“Morning?”
Martha looked around her. Her bed was unslept in, there were two trays of food on her desk, one of them was covered with paper. She brushed the paper off, and eat the food. When she had finished one plate, she moved onto the other. When she had finished that, she picked up her pen and idly regarded the paper infront of her.
“Marther?”
Martha looked up at the man in her room. He had a kind face, and she knew that she liked him. She didn’t know his name though.

“Hello, Martha”
“Hello” she replied. She let the pen drop from her hand and swung her legs under her plastic chair. “Do I know you?”
His smile was soft, and pleasant. “Yes Martha, my name is Stewart.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m not very good in the present. How can I help you?”
“It’s morning Martha, you can go into the day room”
“Morning?”
Martha looked around her. Her bed was unslept in and there was two empty food trays on her desk. She must have forgotten to sleep again. No matter, sleep would come when it was ready. Or it would come in a needle. Either option was acceptable. She picked up some paper, and a pen, and looked at the large man in her doorway. He gently reached out his hand, and she took it, and gently squeezed it. She liked this man, whoever he was. He smiled softly back at her, and led her into the day room. Stewart made shure she was comfortable, and that her paper was laid out just as she liked it. Just as he had done since the first time she had arrived. This was an exclusive facility, and for the money the Office was paying for the people here, every was well-cared for. Once He was sure she was settled, Stewart went back to her room to tidy it. He picked up all her writings and drawings, as well as her washing, and carried them out with him. The washing went into her hamper, and he would do it for her later. The writings were important, and he did as he had been trained to do. He photo-copied them all, and put them into an envelope with the day on them, and put them in the internal post, he then scanned each image into the computer, and saved that onto their central server.

His next task was a simple one. He put Martha’s clothes on to wash. She had many pretty clothes, some of them he had bought for her, and some of them she had arrived with. He then took her writings back to her room and put them into her file, kept on her shelf. That done, he turned his attention to her wardrobe, and picked out an outfit for her, and laid it on her spare chair. When he had first started working here, the attention to detail had disturbed him somewhat. The fact that he had been asked to buy closed for Martha, ones that he thought she would like when her old ones were getting threadbare, the way that he, along with the rest of Martha’s team, had worked out her schedule, always had the same conversations with her, watched, made sure she eat, slept and washed. It felt a bit strange being part of all-male team. Apparently Martha didn’t like women on her team, they scared her, but no one knew why. Martha couldn’t concentrate long enough on the present to tell anyone. It was odd, Stewart reflected. After 4 years with Martha, he was beginning to use the same phrases that she was. Stewart took a final check around the room, and rescued a pen from under her bed. He checked that it worked on a pad that he carried with him for just that purpose, and satisfied, placed it neatly into the pot on her desk. He looked at the plastic chair, and wished, not for the first time, that Martha would let them replace it with a more comfortable chair. He glanced once more around the room, then pulled the door closed behind him.

~BX