Pedro, Prince of Darkness

Prince of Darkness. That was how he signed the note he handed me at the psych ward. The psych ward at Vancouver General was our temporary home. I guess that made us roommates. His real name (or at least the name he gave me) was Pedro. I don't know where he was from or why he was there. In fact, I don't even remember what the note read. All I know is he thought he was the Prince of Darkness. I was a witch. And his mother was a witch. Wait, maybe that's what the note said: "I know what you are". Yes, it's all coming back to me now.

He approached me one day, with all the caution of a cat approaching its prey. Maybe because I was a witch? I don't know. But apparently his mother was also a witch, which gave him some kind of reference point, I guess. On the note he handed me, he not only signed his name Prince of Darkness, but beneath that he had scrawled a pentagram. Or at least he had tried to scrawl a pentagram. I pointed out to him that a pentagram has five points, not six. He agreed with me, "Yes, I know." He denied that he had made a six-pointed star, and when I pointed to the evidence, he simple changed the subject. Typical.

For some reason, Pedro intrigued me. Probably because I felt I had some kind of power over him. And that was entirely due to the fact that he felt I had some kind of power over him, and so he treated me with the utmost reverence and respect. I wasn't merely a witch. I was a sorceress. A dark queen of the underworld. Whatever I was to him, I played his game. And gladly. After all, I was a narcissist with delusions of grandeur. What could please me more than having my very own minion? It's every lunatic's dream. Isn't it?

One day we were having a make-out session in the common room when we were busted by a nurse. After that, we were no longer permitted to be alone together, and the nurses kept close guard. I don't see why. What's so terrible about a little touchy-feely in the psychiatric ward? I mean, Jesus, even in prison they're getting some! Maybe they just don't want crazy people procreating. And who could blame them.

Pedro often wore sunglasses. And walked at an unusually quick pace (unusual for someone in a hospital, that is). I mean, where was he going in such a rush? The bathroom? There was nowhere else to go! But he also walked very smoothly. Almost as if he was gliding across the floor, like a character from Dark City. Then again, this could have been my Loxapine kicking in. 

Once we had a haphazard encounter in the elevator. I was coming, he was going. Or was it the other way around? I don't know. We brushed up against one another, but he quickly stepped off on the ground floor once the elevator doors reopened. He was like that. Scared of my powers (or the powers he believed me to have).

Not much of a story, I know. But there's really nothing more to tell. I could have made some shit up, but that's not why I started this blog. Or perhaps I could have woven these bits and pieces into an intricate tale of Thorazine romance. But I didn't. Despite my fond memories of Pedro, Prince of Darkness, our encounters were brief and erratic. And so shall this story be.