A Concerning Manner

Avery’s sleight of hand was on par with the world’s best magicians. Such adept individuals
assumed that everyone could master the skill as easily as they.
“You’re holding it too tight,” he said in a calming voice. “Your grip should be light, as if clasping an egg.”
“That’s what I’m doing!” I respond, sighing. “It’s pointless. I won’t ever get it right.”
“Try grabbing without touching them. ”
“Grabbing without touching?” I furrow my brow. “Sorry, but that sounds…”
“Crazy?” His wink doesn’t have the reassurance he hoped it would. “Light and loose is what you want. Come on, try again.”
Loose, tight, graceful, light: it didn’t matter. Everytime I put my inept fingers on the keychain attached to the back of his pants, the ensuing rattling gave me away like a burglar stepping on clown horns.
In any case, if the hearing goes my way, I won’t have to resort to such hijinks.
Not if, but when; rejection is not an option. I could not fathom spending another week at the Institute. At 3:30, I’ll know my fate.
“2:30,” Avery says.
“What?”
“Your hearing is at 2:30. Or did you forget?”
So he can read minds now?
“Roanna…”
Enough with the larceny practice today. A simple wave of the hand is all I send his way before leaving. After all, orderlies don’t want too much mingling here in Paradise.
Paradise, my ass.
All morning I’m overcome with a trepidation that’s been eating away at my insides like a parasitic worm. Not even Brynlee’s mindless chant (Easy as pie, feel it gently, or your mind shall die) every time she walks by—swaying robotically about, her eyes unfocused and hardly blinking—can calm my jitters.
Focus on the task, Roanna. That is your ticket outta here.
The main clock strikes 1:30. One hour till showtime.
Aleena screams from the corner table. Her hands protect her face from an unseen threat, and the high-pitched echo resonates across the Institute like an alarm beyond repair. Orderlies swarm her like flies on human waste, but with an urgency of sighting a familiar meal they’ve grown tired of. Before long, she calms down, her previous blaring now mere muffles that quiet down with each passing breath.
There was hope for Aleena once, but she couldn’t charm the board. That’s where I must not fail.

Seconds drag like minutes, minutes crawl like hours. I wait, I fidget, I pace about. I’m overwhelmed with my thoughts to the point of anguish.
In my boredom I look for Avery. Not even the orderlies will tell me his whereabouts, although I hear whispers (He’s in solitary for teaching residents techniques detrimental to their well being.) Hope his punishment isn’t severe.

The hour’s arrival is a mixed blessing. Consternation and stimulation are jousting within my skull. The room I’m brought in is stuffy, chilly, impersonal. Its white walls are like clouds stretching into infinity. The two men and a woman at the table stare at me and occasionally glance at my file.
No surprise that my chair is as cold as ice. In perfect harmony with the trio deciding my fate.
“Ms. Reece, we won’t take up too much of your time,” the gray haired Doctor says.
“Take as much as you want,” I say. “I’ve got it to spare.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret uttering them.
Stupid.
“Do you feel you’re ready to re-enter society, Ms. Reece?” The woman lowers her glasses, watching me as a hawk readying to strike a helpless prey.
Not wanting to embarrass myself further, I limit my response to a simple nod.
“How would you rate your stay here?” The youngest physician is confident and resolved. He should run for local government.
“The doctors are kind, the staff considerate, and the orderlies helpful,” I say. “I couldn’t have asked for a better Institute.”
“Institution, Ms. Reece,” the elder Doctor replies. “Paradise is an institution, not an institute.”
Institute, a torn diving parachute. Institution, an unsought mental convolution.
“Ms. Reece,” the woman interrupts. “Why do you refer to this hospital as an Institute?”
How do they know that?
“Your manner of talking to yourself is concerning,” says the young Doctor.
Someone told them!
“Very concerning,” the woman agrees.
Who told them?!?
“No one told us. We can hear you. Or have you forgotten?”
Fuck.
“Ms. Reece, the orderlies tell us that you and another resident… Avery…”
“No, we were just playing,” I say. “To pass the time, you know. Harmless fun.”
“Avery is a convicted felon, Ms. Reece. Burglary, felony, several heists. He’s done it all.”
“But,” I begin. Am I thinking or speaking?? “He’s… he’s my friend!”
“Nevertheless,” begins the elderly Doctor. “I hope you find better friends in the future.” The three gather together, murmuring amongst themselves. A rejection stamp on my file lands as a thunderous thud, tossing aside any hope of freedom. Now I’m stuck here forevermore, never to embrace the sought-after freedom the outsiders so carelessly take for granted.
My thoughts, my words, my emotions: they’re as inconsequential as the cockroaches that roam at night in the Institute.
Institution, I mean. Institution.
Barney, the gentle giant of an orderly, escorts me to the general population area. The set of keys shakes from his belt like a collection of metallic rattlesnakes. I whisper into his ear (You’ve always been my favorite, Barney.) His blush overcomes his genuine smile.
Meanwhile, my left hand—finally free of the previous hearing’s built-up pressure—now moves like a virtuoso limb. It does the unthinkable.
It grabs.
Without touching.
I gently unclip the keyring from behind him as he continues to bask in the afterglow of my compliment. Before he suspects anything, I stash the keys into my jacket pocket.
I watch as the orderlies disperse, leaving the main door attended by an individual too preoccupied with a book.
Just a little longer, and the coast will be clear. All I have to do is not verbalize the vitalest of thoughts. Should be easy...
…as pie … feel it gently… or your mind shall…
Fly? Cry? No, it’s…
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
But it matters little.
With an effortless turn of the knob, I’m outside. The breeze flutters my hair and chills my exposed arms. Who knew the icy freedom would feel so good? Looking behind, I see no one coming after me, despite all the cameras and the windows. The thought of being such a negligible resident to the institution fills me with a somber melancholy, but the sensation passes faster than a desert rainstorm.
Barely a block outside the front door, I encounter several passersby. A woman stares at her hand device, never looking upwards, walking as if by intuition. No one told me the outsiders had evolved so much to disregard their sight completely.
“Hello,” I say. But she ignores me. Like an elusive phantom, she’s vanished, and soon her presence is replaced by a group of teenagers as silent as a medieval ruin.
All four are enamored with their tiny black mirrors, the screens reflecting their faces, absent of any emotion. I smile at them, and eventually wave, but my gesture goes unnoticed. They stroll by me as if I’m a non-existent entity. Maybe they’re told not to acknowledge runaways from the institution, or maybe their devices are a far superior replacement for the all-too-dull reality.
I turn the corner, crossing the street, and the incoming cacophony of horns, sirens and speakers escalates above what I’m used to. Countless screens tower on the side of buildings and structures, and citizens not possessing a hand device are staring at the gigantic monitors that stretch endlessly on.
On every bus, truck, vehicle, and bench, running high definition video displays colors and textures that the real world can barely duplicate, enamoring every person with its undeniable charm. For a while, I’m the only one roaming about on my own, my eyes moving every which way, maneuvering my footsteps, ensuring I don’t trip as I ascend upwards on a new sidewalk’s ledge.
But once my face is exhibited on the present monitors large and small, but especially those of medium length and width, I can’t help but look up.
Alarm! A thinker from Paradise Institution is among you. Beware!
It’s been years since I’ve seen myself on a screen that tall, and the passersby stare at it with equal devotion. If they could only look away from the image, they’d see me moving among them, practically rubbing shoulders, my breath mingling with theirs. But the screens and monitors are too enticing for the present populace, so I continue meandering about: unperturbed, nonchalant, not bothered in the least.
Before turning the corner, I glance upwards once more, infatuated with the image to the point of enchantment. I really should ignore it, and keep moving, but that’s easier said than done.
If only I could look away.