Chapter Five: Hugs, Drugs & Mafia Thugs

There’s not a whole lot to do here aside from wander around the 2 floors. I spend most of my time in bed, in the garden with Lisa or in the elevator.

The aforementioned Nigel of the Psych Ward is absolutely beaming. The nurses apparently do not care that an involuntary inpatient is chewing his gums off.

“Rubes, love, can I bum a cigarette off you?” He asks me.

I don’t get a chance to respond (or tell him how much I hate being called Rubes) before I’m met with an onslaught of jibberish. That he’ll pay me back, that he’ll look after me in here if anybody should choose to fuck with me, that he owns 6 houses and I can live in one for free when I get out. I thank him (I’m used to people like this – not my first time in a psych ward, remember?) and offer him my pouch, purely to get him to shut the hell up. He calls me babe approximately 30 times and waddles off with his cigarette containing approximately 3 litres of saliva. I am honoured to not be sharing with him.

I get two cups of juice with my dinner and feel like I am at a Four Seasons buffet. Surprisingly, the hospital food in Melbourne can be absolutely amazing. Tabouleh salad, vegan options, delicious, hearty stews….save for the vegetables.

Julienned vegetables piss me off enough as it is, but this sepia salad is so pale it seems as though someone had lifted their hues and nutrients and deposited them into the nearest available bin. I consider making a complaint, and instead think of a headline whilst a flaccid “carrot” dangled on my fork in front of me. I frown.

“Protest á la Pigment! Corrupt, colourless carrots spark outrage in Ruby Dellas’s brain!”

After my 8 o’clock meds, I walk upstairs to turn in for the night. I tried to avoid Nigel, but being the only young woman in a ward full of men makes me the opposite of inconspicuous. I am invited to join the mafia. I thank Nigel and retreat.

Michael, a sweaty man in his 40s, consistently in flannelettes is laying on the ground with his pants half down.

“Michael…what are you doing?” I ask, exasperated.

“I’m protesting. Will you write ‘Hugs not Drugs’ on my face?” He excitedly responds, pulling a plump permanent marker out of his pocket.