by Julie Webb Kelley
Truth be told, the windows and doors aren’t really barred here, rather they’re heavy metal with tiny panes of Plexiglas which are impossible to break or to see through clearly. It doesn’t matter; I like the fuzzy windows and thick doors because they are always locked. No one can get in without permission – I feel safe from the complicated, demanding world. All of the fear that had forced and flushed me toward this place, finally kept at bay.
One of the keepers of the madwomen brought the first letter as the last of the night’s emotional chaos slipped from my mind. The torment of guilt, the torrent of conviction, and the terror of punishment had dilated the darkness of the last eleven hours, and I was relieved to see the first marks of daylight sneaking into the room. Sitting up on the worn cot, I felt sore all over, like a rash had spread throughout every muscle in my body
“Here.” I heard three knuckle raps on the heavy metal door then the envelope appeared beneath it.
Dear Client,
Yesterday, within the confines of this institution, your guilt was determined. There is a penalty to be paid for your transgressions; therefore, you have been sentenced to death. In order to preserve the power and dignity of the law here, it is my responsibility to ensure that the demand for justice is met for every client. Your execution will be completed by sunset.
Dr. Clemens
My head still chock full of hysteria, I fold the letter, turning my face to the wall where my guilt and sickness are posted for all to see. Seven notes displayed as evidence of my illness; there in my own handwriting on each paper is the proof of my guilt:
I’m not worth wanting.
I’m not worth noticing.
I’m not worth liking.
I’m not worth pursuing.
I’m not worth fighting for.
I’m not worth keeping.
I’m not worth loving.
My head sunk in shame, my tears wilt the letter, my guilt fully realized, my destiny now certain. Dr. Clemens is a good man, he will do what is right. I hear the shuffling footfalls of the keepers again. Another three knocks and another envelope under the door.
Dear Client,
It has come to my immediate attention that an option of mercy is possible. Since the indulgence of pure compassion would put the law of this institution in peril, something must be done to meet the demand for justice in order for the integrity of this institution to remain intact. This difficult dilemma is removed by the Atonement of Christ. Although you are undeserving, pardon for your crimes of illness can be granted the moment you trust in mercy.
This mercy can only be exercised where there is true guilt and only as far as you deserve punishment. No apologies or excuses can be accepted and you will forfeit your right to justice. You must be submissive to all the measures of conviction. These measures are repentance, restitution and reform, and are the only conditions upon which mercy can be shown.
If you are willing to submit to the mercy of this institution, please reply.
Dr. Clemens
Although my voice and heart art strangled with grief, I am able to write back.
Dear Dr. Clemens,
I am willing to honor the measures of conviction. I am wrong. I accept the atonement. I am willing to embrace repentance, restitution, and reform. I am guilty. I choose mercy.
Client
Within minutes, the heavy metal door of my room flies open. “Let’s go,” one of the keepers steps into the room, shoving a small cardboard box at me. “Collect your things.”
I take the box, pulling down the notes and placing each one inside. My guilt and shame are all I had brought with me.
“Where are we going?” I ask. “Was mercy granted? Did it happen? Is it over yet?”
“It’s just begun. Follow me.”
I stumble behind the heels of the keeper down a stretching, gray hallway that never ends, my distress growing greater, not less. It seems days go by before we reach another heavy door. The keeper swings it wide with only a small punch of his hand, as if the whole thing were made of paper. I step outside the door, letting the blistering sun strike me across the face. This movement from my little world into this larger one is met with much dread and despair. My insides are bitter and bewildered. If mercy means leaving my place of safety, I’m not sure I want it.
“Is it too late to change my mind?” I ask the keeper. But he doesn’t hear; his lack of attention lands like another laceration on my skin.
“Here’s the address,” the keeper shoves a paper at me and I hear the metal door clang shut , and the lock ripple into place. I feel like the future is moving through the present and into the past faster than I can keep up. I have made my choice for mercy, so I stager ahead into life, tripping over my own terror, heading toward the address on the paper.
What will become of me? The question grows roots into the ground of my mental existence as I move forward, following the path toward the address on the paper. Eventually, fear sets in, as I worry that this place I am going will not be as beautiful as my private room was, not as secure. I inch forward, inwardly saying goodbye to my previous shelter. I am empty. I am hungry and tired. Maybe justice would have been the better choice. Suddenly the death sentence I passed up sounds inviting, something to anticipate, like awaiting the kiss of a prince to awaken me. I allow the vision to carry me forward.
By the time I reach the address, I am sure I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere. I check and recheck the number and the street name. The dwelling before me is expansive and exhausts me to look at. The reality of it is inconceivable at first. As I climb the steps to the front door, the extensive details overwhelm me, the complex elegance withers my senses. A fragrance of tenderness fills the air. There’s an envelope sticking out of the mailbox. I pull it out; it’s addressed to “Client”.
Dear Client,
Welcome to the Clemency Mansion. This will be your new home. Unpack your belongings and rest here. Your confession was adequate and full, deep and complete, thus, mercy has been granted once and for all. If you are marveling at the constitution of this residence, please remember that, just as your confession of guilt was all or nothing, mercy is all or nothing -- it cannot be offered in portions or pieces. There is no such thing as a little mercy.
Dr. Clemens
The door of the mansion widens and welcomes me. I swivel and twirl in awe from room to room for hours, the generosity, the favor, the relief marking my heart with peace. I choose a room to call my own and am eager to decorate it. I consider the notes I brought inside the cardboard box . . . it’s all I have. I finger the papers one at a time, finally pulling one out, distracted by the altered message, still in my own handwriting. In haste I yank each one from the box, reading:
I am worth wanting.
I am worth noticing.
I am worth liking.
I am worth pursuing.
I am worth fighting for.
I am worth keeping.
I am worth loving.
My body can no longer contain the sadness it had been carrying and misery melts in waves down my face, releasing the madness, the disorder, the moods. I lie down on the bed, exhausted and worn, permeated with joy, unsure how I missed the moment – the exact time -- when divine action and human response merged, the point where I became an object of mercy.