Memoirs From The Asylum

This Piece is an excerpt from a Novel By Ken Weene  

Memoirs From The Asylum 

Mitch is throwing stuff at the TV. There isn’t much to throw in this 

day room: a few books that have browned and greased with age, bits and pieces of board games that nobody ever played, decks of cards – mostly recreated from lots of other decks until the backs are as distinctive as the faces – and half-ripped magazines that the aides bring to read during their shifts and then leave scattered around. Mitch wanders around picking up this debris and heaving it at the television. Only a couple of the books hit their mark. The picture goes on rolling. Two aides and a nurse wrestle Mitch to the floor and pull down the back of his pants. The nurse inserts her Valium phallus into his butt. Soon he won’t remember why he was throwing anything. They wait until he’s nodding off and then half drag him to his bed where he’s safely lashed down. As they’re tying him in place, one of the aides will get his jollies with a quick punch to the gut. Nobody will object, not unless you count Mitch’s wordless grunt. Nobody counts grunts around here. Alzheimer’s has Mitch. Every now and then it gets him restless, and he blows like an old geyser that’s running out of steam. The rest of the time he wanders around talking to himself. They say that he was once a college professor. So, it isn’t really that different; he’s just talking to himself in a new place. Guess what? Nobody cares. Mitch never married. He has nobody to take care of him. One of his cousins, his closest living relative from among a collection of the uncaring, had him committed. Now he has the state – the state as parent – the great father – the great white father. 


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