SSometimes my brain feels too crowded. Like a beach on a hot summer day. Too many fingers and toes fiddling and flipping, too much grainy sand grinding and itching. I shake my head, but it doesn't help much. Too heavy. Too much stuff inside, pushing on my brain so that I can't think.
   I went to the store to get something to eat. Something for me and something for Mandy. I know that when I go to the store, I should walk in quickly and only put what me and Mandy really need into the basket. Sometimes I forget the basket and I carry the stuff in my hands. That's okay, because then I only buy what I can carry and it's quicker that way.
   But today, I had a basket. I was walking by the fruits and vegetables, staring at the deep pretty colours. The apples were red, the store lights reflecting in their waxy skin. The bananas were yellow and green and brown. Then I saw it was going to be my lucky day. A huge batch of grapes had arrived. Red ones. Green ones. Black ones. The grapes are my favourite, and Mandy likes them too. All those little ovals stuck onto the branches like people crowding around an ambulance.
   Faces blank and waiting.
   I was waiting too. Watching the grapes, waiting to see if one would roll off then maybe I could taste it to see if they were sweet or sour this week. The store man gets mad if he sees you tasting, so I wait for one to fall on the floor, then I say it's garbage and was going to get thrown away anyway. I waited and waited but nothing was happening.
   I had to keep telling my hand to be patient, that soon one grape would roll off the bunch and fall to the floor and then I could taste it. I don't like buying grapes until I can taste them. If they are too sour, me and Mandy don't like them and then they sit in my fridge and get soft and mushy and then they start to stink. So I like to wait and taste them.
   None of the grapes were moving, so I stepped a little closer to them. Their smooth bald faces stared back at me. I saw a couple were cracked, as if they had too much stuff inside of them and had split open.
   "Come on, guys." I whispered to them. "One of you make a break for it."
   I leaned over further, watching them taunting me. Their silence, their refusal to move was getting on my nerves. I wanted to squash all of their shiny bald heads. Suddenly I felt a strong hand on my arm.
   "Outside." the man said to me. He pulled me along and I tried to follow, but my feet still wanted to stay with the grapes.
   "Move feet," I said to them, but they weren't listening. One was whispering to the other about a grape on the floor.
   In fact, it had been there all along and they thought it was a big joke that I had been waiting and waiting for a grape to taste and they had been hiding one right over there.
   "Goddamn feet," I yelled and tried to kick one against the other. They laughed at me again. The man pulled me out the door of the store. My feet were laughing so loud that I couldn't hear what he said. He looked kind of funny with his face all red and his black hair hanging all stringy in his face like shoelaces that had escaped from people's shoes in the store. He opened my hand and I heard a new burst of laughter. My hand had been hiding a grape from me too.
   The grape had burst, and its red pulpy juice stained my skin.
   I wiped the grape guts against my leg.
   The man left. I don't know what he said, the din of my feet and hand laughing at their oh, so funny jokes was too loud to hear.
   "Take me home, then," I told them. They stopped laughing and set to work, making their way along the sidewalk.
   My apartment is really close to Bloor Street, which is good because that means that I don't have to go too far to take the subway anywhere. Sometimes the subway is in a bad mood, so I don't go down there. I can tell by the way the ground is shaking when I walk if he's having a bad day.
   Today I didn't have to take the subway, because I didn't have to go very far. My building is only four blocks from the store. There are some nice trees and hedges on the way. I like the way the leaves whisper their secrets in the summer time. Today they weren't telling me much I didn't know already, so I was glad to get to my building. I walked up the stairs. Thirty-seven of them. I count them every day just to make sure no one steals any.
   When you live in a big city like Toronto, you can't be too careful who is going to take something when you go out. No-one else seems to bother to count them, so it is up to me. I sometimes call myself "Stairkeeper".
   The key leaps into my hand, which makes my mouth smile because sometimes the key likes to play hide-and-seek. Usually that happens when I have lots of bags or if I have to pee real bad. That key is a tricky one. You really gotta watch him. Even though I put chains on him and a big rock, he still can wriggle into the weirdest places.
   There's been a party at my house again, I guess, as all the party guests fly out when I come in. Their buzzing and fuzzing of wings as they leave hurts my ears.
   "Goodbye, flies. Hope you had a good time," I call after them. They don't even say thank you. Isn't that how they always are? Eat and run.
   I wander through the house and see that Mandy is taking a nap. She slept through the party. Maybe she just drank too much beer and fell asleep. I look at all the dirty dishes and see some more flies are hanging around for the leftovers.
   "Party's over," I yell at them, waving a big wooden spoon. "Go home."
   They ignore me, like they do every day. Sometimes it seems like no one does what I say. I walk through the apartment, checking to make certain that no-one has played my tapes or read any of my books. I count the soap balls in the bathroom. They are round and smooth like the grapes, only all sorts of pretty pale colours like mauve and pink and yellow. There are still sixty-three in the jar and I put it back on the shelf.
   My nose starts to complain that there's a bad smell in the apartment, but I don't listen to him. He's always smelling something, and usually it's bad. There's nothing I can do about it anyway.
   I go into my bedroom and sit on my bed. The book is still there on my pillow. I got the book from the library a while ago because it had some interesting things in it. It was an old book because the pictures were black and white and the people in the photographs wore funny stiff hairdos and really ugly clothes. The words keep falling off the pages, but the pictures hold still quite well. There are old-fashioned drawings of people screaming with devils dancing around their heads, while other people hold them down. There are scary pictures of people in cages or in chains. Of people covered with long slimy bugs.
   The pictures that I keep looking at are where a guy has a hammer and a big huge nail and is pounding it into another guy's forehead. The guy getting the hole in his head seems happy, and there are drawings of all the nasty little demons that had been living in his head running away like cockroaches from the light. I look at that picture a lot. I like the smile on the guy's face in the last picture, when he has the hole and all the devils have run away. I touch his smile and try to make my lips do the same. I fall asleep hugging the book.
   There is a banging on the door. I don't want to answer it, but my feet and hands are already there, finding out who it is. Of course, it is nosy Mrs Clark, my social worker. The flies have been partying again and they all run away as Mrs Clark invites herself in.
   "My god, Kathy. What is that horrible smell?" she asks as she comes into the apartment.
   "I don't smell anything," I lie.
   "Look at this place. It's a disaster," she cries as she waves her hands around. She goes into the kitchen and looks at all the dirty dishes.
   "Jesus, no wonder. Don't you ever clean up?" She starts to scrape the food into the garbage can.
   My mouth starts to snicker and my hands try to slap it quiet. I can feel my blood bubbling, pulsing against my veins, trying to burst through my skin.
   "Kathy. Why are you hitting yourself?" Mrs Clark asks me as she takes my hand into hers. Mrs Clark is actually quite pretty, although she is nosy. Her nose is so huge that you can barely see her eyes sometimes and her skin is the colour of coffee with cream in it. Only shinier, like a penny. Today she is glowing and sweaty, shiny like a big new sweaty penny.
   Her hands are petting my hands. I hear them giggling like little children. Like
   Mandy used to.
   "Have you been taking your medicine?" Mrs Clark asks me.
   "No. My hands hid it from my eyes and then . . ."
   "It's okay. We'll find it." She stands up and goes to the kitchen cupboard. She opens it and wouldn't you know, there are those tricky pills. She opens the jar and I can hear their tiny bodies rattling against each other inside.
   "It was right where it was supposed to be, Kathy. Try not to forget where you keep it. You have to try to live on your own. The doctor said you were ready. Besides, there is no money for you to stay in the hospital."
   I remember the hospital a little bit. A shiny white place that stank. Not like my apartment does. A different, mediciny-kinda smell. Boy, people were really bossy there, too.
   Mrs Clark hands me some pills and a glass of water. As I take them, I can feel her beady eyes leering at me, searching for clues. I know what she is looking for, but I have tricked her. Oh, yes. I'm smarter now. Not like when I had to go into the hospital. You have to be so so careful and smart.
   Mrs Clark takes my hand and then pushes up the sleeve of my shirt. The faded white snakes dance intertwining with the pink ones along my flesh. Mrs Clark smiles as she inspects my other arm.
   "I'm glad to see you're not cutting yourself anymore. This is a very big improvement. Now, let me help you clean up this kitchen and then I'll be off."
   It seems like forever before Mrs Clark leaves, but finally the kitchen is up to her sky-high standards and she is gone. I lock the door behind her and look in on Mandy. She is so sweet when she is asleep. She must have been up while I was napping. She doesn't like Mrs Clark, so she probably hid in the closet or under the bed until she was gone. Now she is curled up in her tiny bed, like a little fairy princess or something. I kiss her cheek and go into my own room.
   I look out the window at the street below. The sky is dark with night-time. How quickly my day has gone again.
   I watch the yellow eyes of the cars race up and down the streets for a while, and listen to the voices of the people walking by. The noise is starting to build up and it is pumping through me.
   Soon my feet are arguing with my legs, and my arms are bitching about my hands and my blood is boiling with angry revelations of its own.
   "Let us out. It's too crowded in here," the blood screams from behind the fleshy wall. It pushes against me, I can see its anger as my arms and legs swell like an ocean. There is no choice but to have a bit of release. Like a pressure-cooker or the air-hose things on those big huge trucks.
   I look in the mirror and see that my clothes are gone. My hands have torn them off while they were fighting and now my feet are kicking them across the floor.
   "Stop it," I say to them. They do.
   I look at myself in the mirror again, staring at the maze of scar tissue that adorns my body. Lines of release weave their way from my face to my feet in a tapestry of red and white. I trace my fingers along the lines, remembering the pain and the pleasure that came from the burn of the razor blade.
   My fingers already hold the shining flash of steel. I kiss the blade, feeling the cool nick of its teeth on my lips. I sigh, a delicious shiver rippling up my spine as the blade finds its mark on my hip. So little unmarked flesh. The blade hungrily bites into the weave of pale and vibrant marks, adding its own comments to the rack of pain. Blood drips down, bright shining garnets, laughing as they escape to the floor. I watch the beads spread themselves into each other, building strength in numbers.
   I feel better and listen to the blood droplets argue with each other on their way to their next home.
   The release never lasts long. Again, my brain is too crowded. Too many voices talking at once, telling me what to do, where to go. My head aches with the noise and I lay down on the bed.
   I look at the picture in the book and remember Mandy telling me about the guys with holes in their heads.
   She called it tree-panning or something. I knew about some of the other things they could do to you at the hospital. About the electroshock, and I even met a really weird man who said they had cut his brain in half when he was young.
   Electroshock wouldn't work to relieve the pressure of all the voices and beings living inside. It would just jiggle them around, like when you stick something in an electric socket that you aren't supposed to. And cutting your brain in half is no good, because everyone is still inside. But having a hole so that everyone can come and go, that would be great. Like a doorway to a house.
   I wonder if there really are little devils like the ones in the book living inside my head. It would explain a few things, wouldn't it?
   I remember Mandy wishing she had a hole in her head. The voices were getting on her nerves. It's enough to drive you crazy, everyone shouting and complaining all the time. I go into her room and poke around in her drawers. She sleeps so soundly, you could set off a keg of dynamite and she wouldn't budge.
   At last I find what I am looking for. Right in front of me, on the floor. I pick up the hammer and the heavy iron-nail thing. The chisel.
   "Hey, Mandy." I shake her. "Did it really work for you?" I ask her. She lays dreaming dreams of peace, her hair spread across the pillow. She isn't going to answer me. I go into the bathroom and stare at my face.
   Large brown eyes stare back. Who would think there was so much chaos behind this face?
   I lean closer, wondering why I hear snickering and giggling yet I can't see anything.
   Yep. An escape hatch is definitely what is needed here.
   I go into my bedroom to get the book. I come back to the mirror, holding up the picture to compare it to my head.
   I touch the spot on my forehead that looks the same as the picture. A doorway.
    That is all I need. A bit of pressure release.
    I feel like a balloon that's stretched to the point of breaking.
    I place the chisel against my forehead so that the pointy cold part is pressed in. I raise the hammer and hit it. The chisel slips down, ripping a line from my forehead down my nose. I watch as the blood runs to the surface, giggling at being released. I sigh.
   It is going to be hard to get momentum with the hammer. I wonder if I laid down if it would be easier.
   But then I think about that hammer smashing down on me. Maybe popping one of my eyes like a grape. I don't want that to happen.
   So I look at the hammer and chisel and try to think. I look back at the book. In the pictures, one man is doing it to another.
   I guess that I should have asked Mandy to help, but I'm afraid she will screw it up. I remember doing it to her. How carefully I had placed the chisel while she had her nightmares. How I had tapped the hammer nine or ten times. I really had to press hard to get enough weight, but at last the chisel burst through her bones. I remember the screams of joy as she realised she was being released from the bad little devils that had lived in there. I know that she has been grateful to me ever since. But I don't need her to do it for me. I want to do it for myself.
   The doctor and Mrs Clark were counting on me to be independent, and that is exactly what I plan to do.
   I stare at the scrape on my head, watching the blood oozing out from the parting flesh like raspberry jam. Then I know what to do.
   I wash my face, dabbing at it with a towel. I get most of the blood off. I pull a few strands of my long brown hair over my eyes, just in case. Then I go downstairs to the landlord's place and knock on the door.
   I am smart. I have a clever plan.
   The landlord is huge and pale and white like one of those big ugly walrus things that begin with an "m". He never looks at my face when I talk to him. He gets me what I want and slams the door.
   The drill is really heavy in my hand. I just have to plug it in. I practice on the wall a few times to get the hang of it. I like the whining buzzing noise, the way the machine vibrates when I squeeze on the trigger. Finally, I'm ready.
   I hold the drill point against my forehead, staring in the mirror. Can it be much harder then the wall?
   I press the trigger and my whole head starts to vibrate as I hear the drill singing against my bone.
   I stare in the mirror, concentrating as best I can while blood splatters my reflection and drips down my fingers. It is slippery hard work, but at last I feel the bone give and the drill push through to my brain. It burns for a second as the bit is stuck. I take my fingers off the trigger and tug the drill back out. I take a deep breath as I lean into the mirror to examine my work. I wait for the people to come marching out, or for the little devils to fly away, but no-one comes.
   I poke at the hole, trying to see inside, and decide that the hole isn't big enough.
   I put the drill back to my forehead and start to make another hole.
   I hear knocking at the door.
   I ignore it and continue to drill. The blood is splattering against the mirror, laughing as it is flung free from my body. Over the laughter and the drill, I hear other voices.
   Outside voices.
   "After I gave her the drill, I started wondering what a crazy person would want with one. And the drilling noises I heard, well, I just thought I'd better call you."
   "I'm glad you did. Better to be safe than . . ." her words roll into a scream as I catch a glimpse of Mrs Clark in the cluttered mirror.
   "Kathy, what are you doing?" she grabs my hands, trying to pull the drill away, but the second hole isn't done yet. I try to hang on, but she is very strong and my fingers are rebelling again. The drill slips to the floor, tearing a long slash in Mrs Clark's leg on the way down.
   "The people," I gasp. "I have to let the people out." I point to the book, and the walrus grabs my hands. Mrs Clark stares with eyes way bigger then her nose at the book.
   "You thought if you drilled holes in your head the voices would run away?" she asks, splashing her face with cold water.
   "It worked for Mandy. She hasn't had any problems at all since she did it."
   "Mandy? Who's Mandy?" Mrs Clark asks.
   "Her roommate. Just as fruity as she is," Walrus says.
   "I was never told she had a roommate," Mrs Clark says. "Jesus Christ, where is she?"
   "Sleeping," I say. "I didn't want to bother her."
   Walrus hangs on to me with his wobbly flippers while Mrs Clark runs into Mandy's bedroom. She starts screaming again. The sound really rattles through my head, like a wind whistling through the holes, making my teeth sing.
   "Oh, my God, Kathy. What did you do to her?"
   After that, things are pretty much a blur. They tie up my hands and lead me into one of those fast white cars that screech really loud. Ambulance. Yeah, an ambulance. A crowd has gathered, their faces blank and staring, their mouths gaping open and shut like fish out of water as they watch me go by.
   Mandy gets to ride in the bed on wheels, all covered up from the prying eyes with a big white sheet. I try to talk to her, but she isn't listening.
   "So, it's back to the hospital for us," I say. "At least maybe the voices will finally stop."
   But they don't.
   As a matter of fact, I think even more creatures have crawled inside the holes.
   The arguing is almost constant. I can hardly wait until I get out of here and finish the second hole.
   But in the meantime, I must be smart and clever. I have to pretend I'm sorry that I put the holes in so that I can get out sooner.
   At night, I touch the holes, pushing my fingers in, stroking the soft wet moistness inside. It is soothing, and sometimes the voices stop and I can get a good night's sleep. During the day, I have to pretend I hate the holes.
   And then I can get out. And so I wait.
   And smile.
   And wait . . .