Michaeline waits alone, slumped in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a small holding room on the Psychiatric Ward of River Oaks Hospital.
This is a barren place.
There is no feigned familiarity of your typical hospital waiting room, no coffee table filled with mindless magazines to read while lounging on a semi-comfy couch. Here there’s just a few metal chairs and a tubed television set, mounted high in a corner, tuned to the local news with the volume pushed all the way up.
“The 10 year old Lincolnshire boy said he was approached by 2 men in a blue windowless van,” proclaims an unseen female newscaster.
A triptych of small windows, also placed high on one wall, send long shafts of morning sunlight slicing through the room. Still wearing her ripped, wrinkled costume and stage makeup from the night before, Michaeline studies the dust particles as they float in and out of the beams of light; visible, invisible and visible again. They seem to travel in a figure 8 pattern, as though each particle was being pulled by an unseen force into a vortex of eternity right in front of her.
She shudders from the wave of energy coursing through her body.
“Illinois State Police have released a sketch of one of the men, both of whom are believed to be caucasian and in their mid-thirties. If you recognize this person, police are asking viewers to call the number on your screen immediately.”
The door opens and Michaeline’s best friend and band member Yasmin Hartly aka DJ Yazi strides in, also wearing last night’s costume.
She holds a clipboard with a pen dangling from it.
“Why is that so loud? Here fill these out,” Yazi commands, handing the clipboard to Micheline who reaches for it weakly. Her left wrist is bandaged and the right one bears the badge of a locked ward patient, the purple and white wrist band.
Suddenly, the theme music from a BCA breaking news bulletin blares from the screen and the urgent voice of Delores Del Torres fills the room.
“Good morning America, I’m Delores Del Torres and this is a BCA Network News special report. We are interrupting your regular program to bring you breaking news in the ongoing trial of Music Executive and Capital P Chairman, Gwendolynn Pox.”
Yazi scans the empty room for a remote control. Seeing nothing, she marches over to the television to search for the power button as Delores drones on.
“Disgraced record producer and alleged rapist Pox, who is facing a string of related allegations, appeared in court today to plead not guilty to sexual assault charges after being accused of attacking Capital P’s top earning recording artist Michaeline Medissi. Reporter Monica Bell is standing by live at City Hall in lower Manhattan with the latest– Monica?”
Frustrated, Yazi finally finds the power cord and yanks it from the wall. The television sparks and goes blank.
“I knew that was going to happen.” Michaeline sighs heavily and picks up the pen. She tries to squint at the paperwork on her lap through the tears forming behind her eyelids.
Yazi can’t see her cry.
“Hey, no one knows we’re here, alright?” Yazi sits and taps the clip board with her fingernail.
Michealine stares at the paperwork blankly, mumbling “What’s my name, again?”
Yazi puts on her rockstar smile, her face suddenly radiating like the sun. “You Michaeline Medissi, motherfucker. And you know this.”
Michaeline attempts her rockstar smile in return but something stops her from fully committing.
She begins filling out the blank page to distract from the response forming in her mind.
What Yazi said may be true, they may not know she’s here yet.
But they will.
And they’re coming.
