Communication device

Summary: Alex Vause, who usually keeps to herself, is forced to talk a lot. She is out of prison and therapy is mandatory. She finds an ancient technology to talk to the person she needs the most.

Characters: Alex Vause, Piper Chapman, Diane Vause

Keywords: Post-Ohio, PTSD, depression, drama, death, dark humor, ghosts, therapy, communication, coming to terms.

They say prison time gives you lots of time to think (as in "reflect"), but this is a lie; you do think of how to survive and little more. The schedule is so tight you have to wake up from barely three hours of sleep while listening to those women snore like bears, or making sure no one stabs you while you're asleep; then at 5 am you hurry the fuck up to take a shower and in the shower you have to be aware no one stabs you there either and that shit doesn't come out from the clogged drain; then you have to go to breakfast and put in a lot of effort to pretend you're invisible because you figure that's the best survival technique, then you go to your job, which is so repetitive and maybe because of that you have a little time to think, but you get easily distracted by stupid comments from crazy bitches that work with you; then lunch, then some free time you want to use to make at least one friend in case the loneliness becomes unbearable, then some social activity like watching a TV show about dolphins in the ocean and finally you have to face the fact that your ex lives in this prison too, and it's almost unbearable because it doesn't make you think, it makes you remember and all that does to you is live again those agonizing days of pain and betrayal. So don't believe in those commonplaces that prison may do something positive for you. You're a slave outside of prison and you're a slave inside of prison, and there's only one way out of both situations, but I can't allow my mind to get dark. It has a tendency to go there and I have to recognize this pattern and stop it. When I do, I give myself a little medal. Behavioral cognitive thingy.

Now that I'm out of prison I find the belongings I brought with me are two books, my toothbrush, some letters and my fear, all in a plastic bag with a tag. All these experts have fancy names for fear now. PTSD; I think the person who treats me said I have this and other things I keep mistaking because I forget the right acronyms, but they gave me a copy of my diagnosis. It kind of makes sense but it's also sad to read how someone so cool ended up so emo. To be honest I thought they'd fill a couple of sheets, but it's just one and a half. I put it in an envelope and inside a drawer. I was told patients google this stuff all the time, but I couldn't care less. I have a work routine and a home routine, also a specific bus route and now I divide my wardrobe in colors and I put on black clothes on Mondays, grey clothes on Tuesdays, and so forth because those seem to be the only colors I have for now since the other colors distract me. I eat the same thing every day with little variation, mostly to restore my digestive system after years of semi-liquid food. I don't like deviations of any type. I don't take shortcuts on my way home. I'm an exhausted hamster on a wheel and I have to explain why. I have to explain so many things. It's like being back in high school. If I don't, they put a negative note and maybe that's all it would take for me to go back to prison. It's super easy to end up there. It's like there's a magnet in the center of the earth and a bigger one in prison. I am so wary of everything now.

Because I have to talk, and this person that I talk to has a masters degree on something and detects my lies easily, I have to think AND remember. And do both tasks as best as I can, then find the right words to express them. I used to have an acceptable vocabulary, but I've lost so many things. I asked, what if I'm just functional, wouldn't that be enough for society? I don't have to reinsert; I know how to be invisible and stay out of trouble. Really, I have no energy left to be a bad person. I've become a ghost, a passenger. And I'm kind of middle aged now. I just want to be left alone. But I wasn't convincing enough. So the session begins with generalities about practical life, that's where I discuss the clothing thing and the routines, and then one comment leads to a memory that won't reach my tongue, and sometimes the sessions feel eternal, but other times I say some phrases that somehow synthesize 40 years of life, and I guess that's a process of reflection that has its own rhythm. Sometimes I have nothing to give and other times it's like I'm a barfly that no one can manage to keep me quiet. I've done tons of remembering. It's not like going back 20 years to my younger self, but more like 20 centuries back to some demonic entity that was let out by mistake. I feel so old and worn out. My thinking is nervous some days, but mostly blurry and disconnected. One thing my therapist does is smile. I think they're not supposed to, but hey, maybe one thing I haven't ruined for good is my old charm. It's now combined with humility and resignation.

So, my thinking. I'm doing the stream of consciousness mostly, not that it was ever my style –I hated that shit with a passion–, but it's a side effect of the sad drugs. Blurry mind and blurry vision. I find the extra strong coffee from the seven eleven is as effective as repulsive. Also affordable, so I drink one before the session and it helps a lot. I'm more open now. A talkative ghost. Who am I? Can you believe that was one of the first questions I had to answer? I'm Alex Vause, an ex-con, a daughter, a wife, a ghost. Then the questions about the job and the plans for the future. But most of the talk is about the damn past, like a curse. Did you know that's why poor Tutankhamun can't sleep well, because everybody is messing with him instead of minding their own business? This is a fact proven by science. Let the dead rest. Are you dead, Alex? No, I'm just pale. But I'm tired. I drink through the straw and it flows like this:

Have all the mistakes I've made in life the result of my decisions or the result of my circumstances? Is there a middle ground? There's one thing that knows for sure one middle ground: the dagger I keep pushing in the center of my chest during my moments of recrimination sparkled with humor no one ever finds funny, as I shrug and move on. I say I move on, but I've barely made it out of bed this week. I've talked to a couple of friends, or is it really talking a recorded audio sent through an app, then maybe next day when they have time they'll revise it but by then I barely remember what I've said. I've written to other friends but hey, everybody's having a rough time, so I always downgrade the drama to jokes and the replies come in the form of emojis. I talk to her –yeah, her, my wife, wouldn't you like to read about her. She says hi, by the way– about other things because I don't want to cause extra problems and also it's not convenient to discuss therapy stuff outside the therapy room, that's what I've been advised. Last month my therapist scheduled a video meeting, but there was interference from the sun, like literally there's a thing called sun outage that interferes with all sorts of communications. I had to look it up because I thought it was a joke; it seems funny and right my problems are being put in their right dimension by a celestial body.

I do have one thing that helps. A ouija board. What can I say, sometimes I really need to talk to her because it's been so long. Remember how I have a thing for antiques and classic stuff? I'm such a nerd about it. I had this board in my storage space, brought from France as a joke. When I'm alone I concentrate and boom, there she is. The first time we talked I have to admit I cried a little, maybe more, like a baby, because she was saying things so typical of her. I said, how's the going, I'm so sorry I'm doing the Tutankhamun thing to you, but I really need you and I've never found a replacement. Nobody knows me like you. I guess you know where and how I've been, somehow, in some other plane of existence, a fifth dimension room or whatever. You said that I should do regular check ups because that brain malfunction is hereditary. Your father died of one at a young age. You got me worried. Maybe when I have time and money I will look into this.

Then you said sorry for leaving. I mean, yeah, what was that all about, we were just talking on the phone the previous day. And you had such a long list of things to do. What the fuck? It was quick, though. You said sorry for having to be buried, sorry that you had to see me like that. Hey, yeah, that was awful. I couldn't handle it. Why do humans do this? Why can't they just run away. You said sorry I interrupted the relationship advice, but no worries mom, it went to shit anyway. You said you did get lots of time to rest and that you needed to because you were so upset for dying. Those were the years I was so silent and peaceful, because I was trying to die with those needles in my arms. I didn't talk to you because my mind was mostly off, but I did buy a cemetery plot next to you when I still had money. I got to buy most of the emergency stuff on my list and then the feds got most of my assets. They couldn't touch many things that were under your name, and other stuff I kept secure, but they were like savages. The real worry, though, was my boss until last year when he died of some strange disease*. At least that gives me some peace of mind because I was sure he was coming to get me sooner or later.

You didn't notice so many horrible things when you were gone, mom. Fahri got shot in front of me and I thought they were going to kill me next. They took me to a warehouse and I thought they'd get rid of my body, maybe dissolve it in acid, that I wasn't going to be able to rest next to you. I had all sorts of incredibly dark ideas. I had to buy a bunch of loyalties when I sensed the feds were after me, and one of these loyals still has instructions on what to do with my body. I was more worried about not being buried next to you than dying, isn't that fucked up? I went to prison and guess who was there? Your favorite blonde, many years after she abandoned me, behaving like a bizarre, robotic Barbie. It was such a sad show. I put her in prison –I know, I know– and then she put me in prison and we hated and back-stabbed each other, but apart from that we mostly were the same old fools you used to love hanging around with. Then in prison I almost got killed but then I got help and killed the killer and became crazy for a while, and now I'm out of prison but I still do sad drugs. I'm not that sad anymore because they make me numb, but my vision is blurry. Sometimes I can't read. Now I'm an "audio-reader". I'm not making that up. Pipes bought me a device that reads out loud your books to you. You can choose from male or female voices. I chose the female voice because she sounds like a bitch. It's actually a robot and she answers back. Everything sucks now, you have no idea, it's like the past but more stupid. So many unnecessary things. When my probation is over, we're moving out of here and buying a house, maybe in Jersey, and the first thing we're restoring is your old vinyl record player, and the cassette player, and the old things that are vital to normal people. Can you believe cars now have monitors that show you where to go? People drive while handling their phones so they kill a lot of pedestrians, but the monitor shit, my god it looks idiotic, it's machines handling humans now. Pipes has a modern SUV that she bought while planning in advance, while I was still locked up, so that when I had my freedom back, we could go to her favorite camping sites, like she used to do when she was a teenager. She says it will help me heal. I agree with everything she says. She makes more sense than me 99% of the time, anyway.

You asked if despite all of that, the shit that was my life for the past fifteen years, I'm happy. Holy shit, mom, am I happy? I'm still alive, that's the most honest answer I can give you. Not to be an ungrateful bitch. She makes me happy, but if I were alone, I wouldn't be. I'm trying to put myself back together, mostly because she's my provider now and it embarrasses me. Not to be very graphic or oversharing here, but she's the one who holds me in my sleep, as if I were a baby. Sometimes I have nightmares and chills. And our sex life? Here's where I insert a sad emoji. It's not going great. I need this therapy thing to really work. Emotionally I'm in shreds, so I can't perform very well. But she gets it. She's so zen, it scares me. I think she's the one who did most of the soul searching and mainly the job search, because she completely changed her ways and read this: she moved to Ohio after me, can you believe that? Who does that? It's like the cheesiest love test ever. I thought she was on drugs when she followed me. I tried to destroy us when I found out we were going to be separated, but she didn't fall for it this time. She's grown in such a way, you'd love to see her. She has a career, she picks me up, we go on "dates" because it makes us mellow. It's such a role reversal. YOU would be so happy.

Oh, by the way, we got married. Legally. Because it's now legal in the whole country. It was her idea. I think she got really freaked out the second time I almost got killed in prison. I thought she was joking and lonely, but went along with it. People get "married" in jail all the time. It's a way of coping. But I had already made my post-prison plans: either leaving in a body bag, or alone as a dog. But she truly meant it. The chick was so pushy with the marriage thing; not that I can complain, I mean you always knew what was up with Piper. After the symbolic marriage we had in prison, I tried to undo it when we were having couple problems and I got sent to a different state prison. So I didn't want to be a drag or an obstacle. I was ready to give her up and go back to my previous plan. But she went ballistic and got an official marriage request through a civil rights law firm, and it just happened. Mom, I'm married. What the fuck? I never thought this type of thing was for me. I think if I die now, she's legally responsible for whatever happens to my body, so I need to write down that I want to be buried next to you. I don't think I can verbally discuss this with her, but she needs to know this is my wish.

I have to ask you something that's troubling me. Am I an orphan? Is that word a technicality? Is an orphan someone whose parents died when they were very young and then they had to be raised by the State or wolves or whatever? Or is an orphan someone whose parents have died, period? I don't know anything about Lee, but you know he doesn't count. It's just something that makes me cry so much. When the therapist asked me who I am, I said "a daughter", but is that so? Isn't the correct phrasing "I was a daughter, now I'm an orphan." My god, it's unreal. I think you were lucky you didn't love your mother, because my love for you makes your absence unbearable. Your death. Sometimes I find myself saying out loud "your death", and it's a way for me to die. I can't deal with it. Can you help me? With everything, not just undying. Can you come back? Can we go back in time, can you get pregnant and give birth to a good version of me? I wouldn't change a thing in our life as I was growing up, as hard as we had it sometimes, because you filled me with love and trust and acceptance and fries. No one touches that. But can you punch me in the face when I'm stubborn? Can you order me to stay away from the cartel, to keep Piper for good, to stop putting the three of us in danger, to stop fucking up? Can you tell me every single thing that's going to happen to me in the next 15 years so I get freaked out and calm down, and can you glue yourself to me? I can't stop trying to find a way to talk to you. I had to try with the ouija mom, I know you're laughing, but it's not like I'm going to start a spiritual life now. I don't think I should tell this to the therapist. She may put me in the psych ward. You know how it is for people in extreme pain. We make society uncomfortable, maybe even more than criminals. Pipes knows how much I'm suffering, and of course she knows about the ouija; she's the one who brought most of my stuff from the storage place back in NY. But she probably sees it as a symbolic thing or the joke I once told her about. I don't want her to freak out by telling her about our conversations. What would people think? Only the broken truly understand. But I can't be near the broken. We'll have to stay quiet about these conversations; they could put me away. They won't understand us. They never did, but you could flip the finger when you were alive. Right now you're buried but I'm talking to you. Holy shit.

I have to go now. She's coming home soon and I don't want her to find me like this, with my puffy eyes and going all Hamlet on her. Mom, I'm so sick of feeling like I'm 80 and married to a woman in her mid 30s. I want to go back to being sexy and funny, I want her to fall in love with me again, and I need to get a proper job and make money so we can have a normal life together. I want her to feel proud of me. Please help me accomplish this. I know she comes home tired but pretends otherwise, tries to cheer me up. We'll probably go out to have dinner or to the movies. I wish I could tell her about you. How good this is, how safe I feel now that you're back. We'll keep talking, right? I promise I'll make it my job to be happy if you promise you'll keep talking to me. Go back to rest, she's here for me right now.

Notes

* The real Kubra died of COVID in 2020. I didn't mention the actual disease because this fic is supposed to take place right after Alex leaves prison, probably 2017 or 2018.

This little text is dedicated to a friend of mine whose mother died of COVID this year.