Ketamine. We All Need a Story.

David rocked very rapidly in the small metal chair, his lips contorted in a crazily smug “I told you so smile.” He was sitting alone in the commons, a large room paved with blue-speckled azure linoleum, squinting at the diffuse white light that seemed to seep in through the ceiling and walls. It was Tuesday, and THEY were going to make him eat that stuff again. He knew that. Peas. Peas, hard and tasteless like green plastic beads you shove in your mouth and start chewing. He didn’t like THAT, no-ope, peas and baked chicken, every 15 days. You just had to count them, stay alert, keep your eyes open. The commons was always empty at that hour. By then every one who wasn’t still eating had been coaxed to their cells or into the TV room to watch the Olympics or some old film or censured talk show, whatever. It was all the same, you know. David didn’t LIKE watching TV. HE preferred the music room though he knew THAT wasn’t an option for awhile, not after that, that incident. No-ope, he knew...