Noise goes away when there is too much of it. It is as though, alarmed by the cacophony of their making, sound decided to take flight and to head for safer ground. Perhaps they go to an airport or a shopping mall right before Christmas.

In the hospital ward, sounds fade rambunctiously into the sunset, a thunder of hoof-beats heading somewhere, and yet, nowhere; the tick-tock-beeps of machinery, the squeak of the gurney wheels, the tap-tap-tapping of the keyboards, nurses’ gossip, doctors’ commands, the pad-pad and clack-clack of their shoes. Moans and groans of patients tortured by the loud uncomforting whispers of their healthy relatives recede into the unconscious of those who’ve been in there for far too long.

lights bright lights

who’s shouting i don’t… understand stop…

i want to go home

how long …

home let me… go

The young woman sat quietly in the visitor’s chair, not noticing the words in the magazine she was pretending to read. She was trying to ignore the death rattle of the old man in the bed across from her father’s. Wheeze in wheeze out, rattle-rattle cough out loud. The old man died the next morning, surrounded by wailing relatives who tore their clothes and beat their chests, the modern sterility of the hospital environment shouting insults to their grief.

The woman, the Daughter, hated the faux stillness of the late afternoon ward. She felt it needed a shift in duty, a Ward Sister’s barking commands to turn on the bloody lights and the arrival of the troupe of wise men and women in white coats, ready with their stern, unyielding orders.

She hoped for oblivion from the fulminating scent of the hospital, with its middle notes of antiseptic and bleach masking the musky, sweetish, grossly yellowish base notes of hospital food at the end of its passage in this world. Nothing beats the emetic top notes that told of metallic blood and dirty, earthy pus; essential sacrifices to the caduceus-patterned chalice of medicine.

The Millennium Group.

they’re after me. they’re out to get me. they’re going to do tests. experiment on me!

kidnapped! cruel. evil. bad. bad. world ending.

let. me. go.

Turning a page in the useless magazine, she glanced at her peacefully sedated parent, grateful for the rare respite. Nurses came by, cupped mouths to ears, eyes simultaneously rolling to her direction and then, quickly, away. She knew they were sharing the latest ward news – her father.

Gossip, the Daughter thought. If only they paid that much attention to their patients. Some of the nurses could be so ridiculously dense. Not nurses, more like debbies hoping to land a rich, handsome doctor husband. Bet they practiced saying Dr. and Mrs. So-and-So all the time.

The Daughter started. That was the sort of thing her father had been saying, in his current situation. Then again, it shouldn’t be such a surprise that she echoed his thoughts. When he was healthier, there was always a central thesis to their constant arguments: he was insistent on moulding her in his image and she was equally resistant to the idea. Secretly, she knew that she fought him because they were already so alike. She squirmed in her chair, pushing the thought away.

The nurses probably had cause for spreading the news to their hapless colleagues, she rationalised. Her father, it seems, had declared guerrilla warfare on the medical staff. His primary weapon consisted initially of kicking and verbal abuse. But when they tied him to his bed, he got smart. He withheld cooperation. If they wanted his blood, by God, they’d have to work for it. He was surprisingly strong and organized, for a sick man.

Mustn’t be too obvious. They just hold me down. I should pretend good. No restraint in good patient. Then I find escape. If only wife did not believe. Why she believe stupid story? Sick? I’m not sick. They MADE me sick. So they bring me here. To test. I need. Get away.

Must. Pretend. Good.

Daughter here. She help me. She can read my notes.

Perhaps she should be nicer to the nurses like her mother was, she reflected. After all, the family couldn’t possibly sit at her father’s side constantly. What if the staff retaliated while they were away?

The Daughter was appalled at her father’s uncharacteristic behaviour. But yet … at times, she felt pride, as though happy that her father was standing up for his dignity, and perhaps, his sanity as well. He’s not himself and he’s living in a made-up world, but at least he’s reacting properly, she thought.

The lights in the wards came on suddenly and she had to blink to clear the tears forming in her eye. Finally, she thought. Something’s happening.

It was the beginning of the night shift, where the hospital wards rise anew. New trays of “nourishing food” (if it smells disgusting, it tastes disgusting), new faces on nurses in their freshly laundered uniforms, new sheets for soiled beds. And a new army of doctors, fresh from 12 hours of sleep after 36 hours of being on call, all made-up with their doctor masks – calm, firm and reassuring.

New clueless doctors. Fresh victims, the Daughter thought. They woke her father up (she knew he was faking sleep) and demanded for blood. He refused, of course.

"Sir, the sooner we treat you, the faster you can go home," the nurse said. She was aiming for soothing, but it came out as patronising.

"Go away! You're not taking my blood. I don't know what you're going to put in me. Go away," the patient screeched. The nurse tried to grab his arm, but the man pulled his hand away. He kept jiggling around so she couldn't draw his blood. It was as though he was dancing in his bed.

"I know people. Big people," he warned her ominously, shaking his finger at her nose. "And when they find out what you're doing to me, you're all going to be in trouble. All of you!"

The young doctor, barely older than the Daughter, watched the scene with her mouth slightly open, as if in awe. She turned to the Daughter, ignoring the patient.

"Is he...?” she said, following the statement by doing the cuckoo sign beside her head.

The Daughter sighed. She had gone through the same thing with the doctors in the morning. Are people dense? Even if her father had a mental condition (which, technically, he did at that moment), he wasn't blind or deaf. They were standing right in front of him.

"I'm not crazy!" her father yelled, as if on cue. "Let me go!"

"Dad, let me explain things to the doctor. I think she doesn't know what's going on," the Daughter said, her irritation at the doctor growing. Oddly, her father quietened and started stroking his beard pensively.

"Yes, you listen to my daughter. She's smart you know. I'm not crazy. She understands my notes," he said proudly.

His daughter faltered, battling various emotions within her. The notes he was talking about were the rough plans for his inventions, which she had helped to transcribe into digital form. He was an unconventional man and, she supposed, not used to people understanding his thoughts immediately. To hear him speak so proudly of her now, when he’s like this…

"My father has an infection on his neck,” the Daughter said. “He hid this from us because he knew we’d take him to the doctor, had we known.”

“He hates doctors,” she added archly, deciding to assume that this doctor wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box.

“And apparently, his distaste for doctors led to an undiagnosed diabetes condition, which exacerbated his infection. And then he went into a diabetic coma and had a stroke. Whichever came first, I don’t know.”

“The other doctors said that he had a clot in his brain, but it’s gone now. It’s all in his chart,” she said pointedly. If they're going to patronise us, we can do the same, the Daughter thought.

"Ah," the doctor said.

"He's not like this all the time, either,” the Daughter continued, not caring to elaborate. She knew that her father’s psychotic state was the only thing on the doctor’s mind right now.

“What are you going to do about it?” she asked, faking politeness. For some reason, the staff kept assuming that her father was already psychotic prior to him being hospitalized for his stroke/infection/diabetes.

Sure, he gets eccentric ideas and can be paranoid at times (the Daughter sometimes thinks that he puts too much stock in conspiracy-themed TV series). And yes, he's filled the house to the brim with newspaper stacks. True, he doesn’t go out much. But her father was functional – his ideas were strange but they fit in this reality.

The man that sat next to her on the bed was living in another world, in a Twilight Zone dimension, and the doctors did not seem to be able to wrap their collective brain around that fact.

"Well, uh, we're going to continue with the medication for his infection and, uh, other issues,” the doctor said uncertainly, flipping through the patient chart at top speed. “I'll, uh, speak to my colleagues about the other thing," the doctor said, practically running away from the scene.

The Daughter rolled her eyes. Later that night, her father lapsed into another psychotic fit, kicking three nurses, slapping two orderlies and shouting insults at one very young doctor.

I fight them now! Hahahahaha!


“So, what interesting thing did Dad do today?” the Daughter asked her mother, as they changed shifts in caring for the man.

Her mother snorted.

“I caught him with his I.V. drip wrapped around his fingers. He was blocking the flow of the solution to his body,” her mother said. She sighed and continued, “At least he didn’t kick anyone today.”

“You know, for a sick man, your father still has his wits around him,” her mother said, pensively.

Then she brightened up. “You have to admit what he did was quite funny,” she laughed suddenly, until tears came to her eyes. She dabbed her eyes with a well-used piece of tissue. Her daughter knew that they weren’t tears of happiness.

“Does he still blame you?” the Daughter asked, tentatively. Her father, in his state of agitation, often blamed her mother for putting him in the “control of the Millennium Group”. It was a terrible accusation, one of betrayal and dishonesty. And the Daughter would sometimes get upset hearing her father speak about her mother that way, in front of strangers.

“He didn’t mention it. Not once today,” her mother said, averting her eyes. She started rummaging in her handbag for an imaginary product.

The Daughter knew that her father did not say anything out loud, but he probably said as much in his body language. He’s a sick man, she reminded herself. If only he knew how loyal mum really was, she thought to herself. Her mother was constantly at her father’s side, even when he was being his nastiest. She kept making excuses for his behaviour, that he was ill, that he couldn’t help himself…

And I had the nerve to suggest that he be institutionalised, the Daughter thought, disgusted at herself. She felt a growing worm of guilt gnaw at her insides. It was a logical decision. Her mother would want to look after her father, but if he stayed this way, she would suffer nothing but abuse. And Dad thinks that I’m the perfect offspring who would help him get home, the Daughter thought, sadly.

Mother and daughter spoke for a moment longer, sharing pain and comfort. Before long, the Daughter was alone again, in a semi-dark hospital ward, rich with its distinct perfume.

She went to her father’s bed, where he was truly asleep, for once. She held on to a dim hope that it meant his condition was improving. There was a sign over the bed that said, “Fasting. No food and water overnight". Apparently they needed him to fast for some tests.

She settled down in the visitor's chair and dozed off. An orderly came by, and, ignoring the sign, left behind a jug of water and some mugs.

"Water," her father croaked at her.

"Dad, you can't drink any water. You're supposed to be fasting," the Daughter said, uncertainly.

"Water," he croaked even louder.

"You're supposed to be fasting, Dad. I'm not sure why they gave you water, but you're not supposed to drink it. I'll take it away."

"Water!"

The Daughter stood there, not sure what she should do. She was afraid that giving her father a drink would void the tests they wanted to perform on him. She could tell that he was getting increasingly agitated that she was ignoring his demands.

Suddenly, she realised how exhausted she was, practically living in the hospital for the past few days. And she was tired of being the responsible one, of being the “parent” in the relationship. She wanted to be the kid again. She wanted to take the easy way out.

An idea popped into her head, almost as though it was put there by somebody else. (No time to get paranoid now, girly, she said to herself.)

She took a deep breath.

"Dad," she whispered loudly in a suitably conspiratorial tone.

"Yes," he said, loudly.

“Shhhh,” she whispered, just as loudly, putting her finger to her mouth.

“Okay,” he whispered.

"You don't want to drink that water,” she said, kicking herself mentally.

“Water!”

“Shhhh. Dad, listen,” she said. She took another deep breath.

“I think… I think they poisoned the water,” she whispered harshly. “You were right about the conspiracy.”

She completed the fraud by looking around nervously. She wasn’t worried about spies hidden in the vase. She was worried about his reaction to this piece of fake news. What if she made his condition worse?

Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, her father was calm. He stroked his beard knowingly, nodding his head.

"Poisoned water. Yes… That makes sense. Best not to drink it, then."

He lay back and settled himself for a nap.

His daughter watched him as he fell asleep once more, tucking the blanket properly around him. She stared at the water jug on the side-table wondering if she could stash it. But since her father was in an open ward, there were not many places to hide things away. She left the jug on the table. Her father was not likely to touch it now.

She went out to the corridor for a walk, feeling horrible. She wondered uneasily if feeding her father's fantasies would make him worse and drive him further into his elaborate made-up world.  

Enabler, that’s what you are, she said derisively to herself. And then, there's that other disturbing thought, the fact that it was so easy for her to fall in step with her father’s psychotic brain…

When she returned to her station at her father’s bedside, there was a doctor waiting to speak to her. He pulled her aside and asked all the usual questions that the other doctors had asked before. But Dr. Bashir was different, in that he was polite and sounded genuinely interested in what she had to say.

The Daughter felt gratified. Her overwhelming sense of relief at finally being listened to made her slightly too talkative. Anxiously, she poured out all her worries and fears about her father. How just a few days before they were wondering if they should take him to the hospital for his fever, and how his stroke dramatically made that decision for them.

She joked inappropriately, in the way some people do when they’re at the end of their rope. She mentioned that at one point, they only worried whether her father lived or died through the night, having been told to “be prepared” by the ER doctor. And now, less than a week later, they were planning for the long-term care of her mentally ill parent. At this point, she became silent.

Dr. Bashir rode out the pause with her. And then he carefully asked, “Has he always been this way, before he came to the hospital?”

The Daughter jerked in response, surprised. “No, he wasn’t,” she said, carefully.

She considered the doctor for a moment. He seemed genuine; his tall, authoritative figure and gentle questioning a comfort and a welcome change from the fakery surrounding her father’s hospital visit. People kept pretending that they knew what they were doing, but when faced with a differential diagnosis, they ran away.

She launched into her theory, about how her father had already displayed some symptoms of paranoia and delusions of grandeur. She mentioned his newspaper stack collection. She was adamant that he was always grounded in reality, despite his sometimes odd behaviour.

“I think your father’s condition may have been affected by the clot in his brain,” said Dr. Bashir. “But it is hard to tell,” he added.

“I will speak to him first and after that, I will call the psychiatry department to request for a consult.”

The Daughter nodded, not sure if this was good news or bad. She felt a sense of hope however, that something was being done.

She hovered at the other side of the curtains, while Dr. Bashir examined her father.

"Sir, how do you feel today?"

"Oh, much better thank you. Can I go home now?"

"I'm sorry we'd have to keep you for just a bit longer. We need to stabilise you further and hold you under observation."

"Oh. Alright."

Huh? Her father was being suspiciously pliable. She started to worry.

"Sir, we need to do some tests, check your blood pressure and redo the bandages. Will you let us do that?”

Silence. She was going to pull the curtains open, afraid of another kicking frenzy, when her father said, "Ok."

Huh?! No screaming. No accusations. What was going on? She peeked through the curtains.

"I’ll let you do the tests on me, but I have one condition," her father said, pointing seriously at the doctor. Here it comes, she thought.

"Of course. May I know what this condition is, sir?" Dr. Bashir replied, without missing a beat.

"I want you to drink the water in that jug."

Dr. Bashir paused for an imperceptible moment. He pointed at the jug of water on the side-table and picked up a mug.

“Is this the water you want me to drink?” Dr. Bashir asked, already pouring out a mug without waiting for the answer.

“Yes, that’s it,” the Father said. He had an aura of someone who wanted to rub his hands together in glee.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all."

The Daughter pulled the curtain aside and stepped beside her father's bed. Dr. Bashir drank the water from the jug and then proceeded to draw some blood and check the vitals of the meekest, most compliant patient ever.

And the patient sat there, stroking his beard, a smug smile on his face.


Shortly thereafter, the Father was discharged. He no longer attacked medical staff or his wife with deranged accusations and physical assault. As for hospital conspiracies, he only spoke about them once or twice after he was treated with anti-psychotics. Once back at home, neither he, nor his family ever discussed the incidents that happened during his stay in the hospital.

The Daughter though, finds that she could never forget the time that her father tried to poison the good Dr. Bashir.