I was caught in a thought last night, unable to sleep. Awake and aware hours past I should have. Three thirty came bringing the police to the door. I came flying, askew, ina bundle to the door. Bill was sparked out of sleep. “Do you know Marshall White?” I nod and tell her to come around back, as our front door is broken.
By the time she wends her way past the brushpile, through the back, (lucky police carry flashlights), M’love and I have convened at the back door. “what is happening” “the police have marshall” “excuse the hour, but do you two know if marshall takes drugs?”
He had frightened the battlehardened store clerks at the 7-11 to calling the police. The bluesuited help arrived and called an ambulance. We were not informed what his behaviour had been. Enough, apparently, that they were concerned for his health. These, the clerks that told the man arguing with his prostitute to pay the woman and leave. With a stick.
We discussed some recent oddities, and agreed that people had been asking questions..
In the morning, a doctor called. Bill answered from in bed and I listened while curled to his chest. “No medication that I know of” I felt odd, wanting to drift into sleep, yet curious and wondering. “He asked us yesterday where to find ‘the good acid’ then asked us if that was where love and happiness came from”
Apparently he’d not said a word to them all night. He’s staying under observation in the Psychiatric Assesment Unit. I was sent upstairs and returned with a packet with his granna’s phone and contact information. She called later, with worries and doubt.
The doctors aren’t sure if it’s drugs or schizophrenia and the possibility of taking away all personal responsibilty has been mentioned.