No one ever walks in the happy place. Most of us skip. Some of us can actually float. The skies in the happy place are always wonderful; brilliant strips of turquoise and sunset with cotton candy clouds smiling down at us. The breeze smells like chocolate and roses— blueberry on Saturdays. It ruffles the trees that never loose their leaves, and tugs the floaters higher into the glorious skies. Underfoot, there is nothing but violets and daisies, with little paths meandering in between them so that none of the delicate petals will be crushed. Here and there is a cluster of gold throated lilies that brim with the most wondrous, refreshing water one will ever drink. The water never runs dry or goes sour— it practically begs you to drink it. And you do of course. If you drink enough, you’ll become a floater.
Nothing ever goes wrong here, either. There are no buzzing insects that sting; only brightly colored birds that chirp lovely melodies and perch on your shoulder, and butterflies that dance around one’s head like angels. No one is ever hurt or sad or lonely— such emotions are only faint memories here, smothered by the vague, sweet happiness that bubbles forth from the water and rides on the breeze like an airborne virus. No one fights the happiness— it’s impossible for more than a few seconds, and why would we want to? We’re too happy.
But then something does go wrong. First one, then another, then everyone begins to notice as the brilliant sky begins to fade; the bright swaths of color shrink and sprout hard edges, then become square patches; ceiling tile. The blinding sun loses its glow and dulls into a single bulb, hanging from a wire threading through a fixture in the ceiling. The gentle breeze slows, and the whirring of a portable fan rises above the chirping of the birds. Then, the unthinkable happens; the happiness begins to evaporate. Muddled, swampy emotions surface— fear, discontentment, depression—and one by one, the smiles begin to fade.
There is something wrong with the birds. Their once cheery eyes have become beady, like rodents. Their bodies begin to bloat, towering over us. Their feathers fade into nothing. Fat, bulbous lips are all that remain of their beaks, stuck carelessly onto flat faces with the consistency of pudding. We are frozen, hazy minds still muddled from the drugs that rule our bodies, failing to comprehend the sudden change. Several sink to their knees, others begin to shake. No one is floating anymore.
“The drugs are wearing off,” one of the shapeless, beady eyed creatures says. Her voice is thick and wet, as if her throat is lined with mucus. The one nearest to her shrugs. Then she claps loudly and shouts, “Line up, people! Pill time.”
Our legs move automatically, as if on strings. We form two lines, according to our med type. One by one, each zombie faced patient exposes their wrist and receives various shots, then mechanically swallows the little white capsules the nurses hands them. Then it was my turn.
The needle pricks my wrist. I feel nothing. The pills are pushed into my hand, and I watch without feeling as the hand approaches my mouth. Somewhere far away, someone screams at me to stop, to refuse, to run far, far, far away. The hand keeps coming. I feel the pills on my tongue. The far away person howled at me to spit them out. The pills slip down my throat.
The plain, sterile hospital room begins to get fuzzy. The ceiling turns blue, then red, then a beautiful turquoise. The breeze is warm and smelled like blueberries. There is a bright green bird in front of me. I smile blissfully and pick it up.
“Hello their,” I say dreamily, “How are you today?”
I am back in the happy place.