The Vatican in Disguise

The walls of the psych ward are lined with posters, 

bright and blue with cartoon decals, trying their damndest 

to cover the blood 

but fooling no one at all. 

Hollow crosses sit vigil above the doorway, casting shame 

on those who succumbed to depression

when their God has loved them so well.

Styrofoam cups of decaf coffee sit cold 

on empty tables, chew marks on the rims 

from patients who want so badly to finally feel 

safe. Windows leach sunlight through fingerpaint 

murals, reminding each and everyone 

exactly where they are. 

The hall buzzes with secrets that no one dares speak of.

My patient tells me the nurses are nice 

only because it’s their job. 

I can see it in their eyes, he whispers to me. 

He does not see it in mine. 

The students have not yet nurtured apathy 

the way the veterans have.

Across the room, a patient struggles 

to rise from a rickety wheelchair, shattering 

silence and unearned tranquility when he calls 

for someone 

to help. The staff sit watching

from their desktop refuge, making no move to assist. 

Please, he cries, will anyone come? 

How can you stand to do nothing?

He flips a table and barrels away, hot tears 

streaking his cheeks. The nurses stay quiet, 

flat affect displayed, acting like 

nothing has happened.

Later, they will talk at lunch of the patient 

who lost his temper. 

He really should learn to control his emotions. 

We can’t help if he won’t help himself.

The crucifix falls from its spot on the doorway. 

They nail it back into place.

Caitlin Irish is a nursing student at South Dakota State University. In her limited free time, she can be found writing, volunteering for NAMI, and playing with her pet hedgehog. She is passionate about mental health, and often uses her writing to open a dialogue around stigma and mental health care. She is currently working on her first novel, and will be graduating with her BSN in 2022.