NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 25, 2026
The day when every screen went dark
The day when every screen went dark
For someone who loves words, it is wondrous how often they fail me. The fluorescent lights are bright-too bright-as they glare angrily, reflecting off the surface of the lab’s linoleum tiles. The sterile stench of disinfectant follows me as I enter the observation room. A large sheet of glass separates me from another room, where a waif-like girl is strapped to a wall.
“Release her,” I command. The buckles snap and she stumbles across the room, her ghost-like face blank. Then she begins to cackle.
“What are you seeing, Maysilee?”
No reply.
This has been the case for years. My schizophrenic daughter chortles and hoots with reckless abandonment; her miseries lost in the oblivion of nothingness. And I, her poor mother, am forced to watch as she flails around, seeing everything but the cold callouses of reality. There are some moments-few, and far in between-when she regains some semblance of consciousness, and I live for those bouts of jubilance.
She presses her hand against the screen, and I place mine in the same position.
“You’re real. Sometimes I think the only real thing is you,” she whispers, blinking profusely. My throat dries up- her eyes are alight with innocence; her words effused with pain. I want to tell her that it will all be over soon; soon she will live in reality and not amongst worlds of her own making. Soon she will not be a lab experiment, but my daughter.
A doctor enters the room and signals me to leave. I step out slowly, watching two assistants shepherd my daughter back to her confines.
“Maysilee’s condition is improving. She has begun to question the difference between
her delusions and the truth. We think a stronger dosage would do the trick. But there’s a catch- it could turn her heart erratic and make her unpredictable for a while.”
I walk back into the room and stare at my child. My child, who doesn’t even know my name. My child, who doesn’t know I am her mother. My child, who doesn’t even love me.
My child, who I will cure.
A subtle nod is enough. In a matter of seconds, Maysilee is injected. Her body slumps; her head rolling around like a puppet whose strings have been cut off.
Then, barely perceptible, her lips move. Each letter takes her immense effort to form, as if she was a toddler learning a new language.
“You love me. Real or not real?”
***
People often talk about the tremendous agony of leaving words unsaid. My anguish is different.
There are seven deadly sins. Mine is greed. I was greedy for my daughter’s love. What my mind convinced itself was best for her, was actually my need to have more- more of her love, more of her laughs, more of HER.
And now I have nothing. Nothing at all.
***
“Real.”
The single word is a trigger. Maysilee erupts with madness, straining against her ties. The ECG display beeps frantically as her heart-rate skyrockets. Her face turns red like a beet
with the effort, and she screeches like a hyena. Assistants rush inside to calm her as my heart thuds as if there is a bird in my ribcage, flustered to get out.
I watch my Maysilee transform into a monster, slashing and biting the assistants. She pants and groans, until her eyes roll and her grip relaxes. The ECG monitor flatlines and silence cloaks the room as the lights of her thinly veiled prison switch off.
It’s all dark. So dark.
My beautiful, beautiful girl looks peaceful, as if she is soundly sleeping. Gently, I wipe the slight foam from her mouth. Perhaps death will give her respite from those ghastly visions.
This is the heartbreak of tragedies like ours and King Lear’s: you believe the ending can still be salvaged, until the last moment.
But then the curtains close, and every screen goes dark.
