“Talk to Dr. Rutledge about it tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow!” Mary looks away and I plead. “Please, Mary.”
For a second, I see a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. Only a second.
“You’ll sleep just fine,” she says before she walks to the door. It shuts with a firm click.
Mary thinks she’s keeping me safe by shutting the door, that exhaustion will take over and I’ll go to sleep. But she just locked me inside with the devil.
I’m in hell.
I’m in hell.
After Mary leaves, I turn into the headcase she thinks I am. I pound on the door. I kick. I shout. I go to my desk and pick up the chair and throw it at the door.
And the whole time he watches me in the corner with a knowing smile. He picks up on my fear. That’s what attracts him. I’m giving him everything he wants: control and power. Every time I whimper, or lurch back in fear, he feeds off of it. His body becomes stronger, his voice becomes louder and this mental hold he has on me becomes painful. Gut wrenching, drop to the ground in agony painful.
If I had more strength in me I would do the controlling. I would tell him to stay the hell away from me. I would tell him that he doesn’t scare me.
I know that will never happen.
My fingers curve around the edges of the desk. The door slams open. I look up and watch Mary’s reflection in the window. She turns on the light and my eyes squint, trying to adjust. My gaze moves to the figure still in the corner, still watching. Two nurses follow Mary into the room. They try to hold me down. Every muscle in my body strains against the hands holding me down on the bed. I bend and contort my body in every angle. I bite the male nurse’s forearm for holding my shoulders against the mattress. I kick at the female holding my legs down. I don’t want them touching me.
Then the on-call doctor comes in. I see the syringe in his hand and stop straining. There it is. My relief. My lungs expand and I suck up all the air I can. Soon, it’s all going to be okay. I’ll be able to rest without seeing him.
“Naomi, Naomi,” Lana’s dad tsks in the corner. “That’s only temporary safety. I’ll always be here waiting.”
I ignore him and focus on the syringe. My sleeve is shoved up all the way to my bicep. I feel the doctor search for a vein and try not to jerk away from him. He finds a vein and that sharp prick of pain is worth it. I’m on the road to relief. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be there.
Keep your eyes closed. He’s not there if you can’t see him, says the voice in my head.
“I’ll still be here watching you,” he says in a cold voice that borders on sadistic.
None of the people hovering around me react to his evil voice. Only I do. I’m starting to care less and less. The drug is doing its job. Very, very slowly. But I think it slowly pulls you under on purpose. So you and only you can remember the feeling.
I look at light on the ceiling. It morphs into a kaleidoscope of white fragments. They turn into orbs that separate and break open into a million pieces. I watch them multiply and it’s a beautiful sight. Somehow, I pull my eyes away from the display and look at the faces around me. The female nurse that held my legs is now standing by my side. Her face is blurring in and out. She strokes my hair and says in a gentle voice, “Just relax.”
I nod. Or try to.
Just relax, just relax, I repeat to myself.
After the doctor and nurses leave, there is nothing but the sound of my own breathing. I place a hand over my racing heart and roll over on my side. The drug is swimming through my veins, taking me over. My muscles relax. My bones start to feel weightless.
I’m light as a feather.
I let go and leave my body.
I’m an apparition.
My skin is translucent. I feel clean. My mind is at peace. I stand up from the bed and look around at the small room. I feel like I’m on a stage. I look down at my surroundings before I look down at the ugly truth—my broken self.
I can’t believe this is me. Dull hair. Pale skin. Legs tucked close to my chest. Arms wrapped around my knees.
I start to ache. It starts out slow, but it slowly spreads. I look at my translucent skin and a body starts to take shape. I start to feel heavy. I panic.
I step away from the bed. I keep moving until I’m off the stage. Until I’m on the opposite side of the room, hoping that I can stay in this escape a little while longer.
It’s too late though.
When I open my eyes, I’m staring at the white wall. I’m back in my body. This broken, weak body.
A feeling of security surrounds me. And then I smell the scent of pine. Seconds later, an arm wraps around my stomach. Lachlan.
“Shut your eyes,” he whispers against my neck. “You can control your mind.”
Heart beats in a staccato manner before it slows down. Lach-lan. Lach-lan, it beats.
His arm tightens against me like he can hear the tune.
“I’ll tell you a story.” His hand reaches up and moves my hair to the side. “You want me to tell you a story, kid?” he asks.
Not once do I turn around. I don’t want to look over my shoulder and see nothing but wrinkled sheets. I don’t want this to all be in my mind. So I nod and listen to the deep timbre of his voice. So sure. So calm. Every word feels like a caress—a gentle reassurance that I just might be okay.
Before the blackness pulls me under I hear Lachlan whisper, “Ten years ago you were brave. Ten years ago you took what you wanted. Ten years ago started the beginning of us…”
8—IDENTITY
10 years ago
Tonight my dad yelled about fireworks.
He slammed his hand on the table as we ate dinner and yelled, “That damn Halstead boy was shooting rockets, sparklers, fireworks, and God knows what else, till four in the fucking morning! I should’ve called the police.”
They were beautiful. But I would never say that out loud. I sat there quietly and watched my dad rage for an hour before I asked if I could be excused.
I went to my room, turned off my lights and stared out the window. I was trying to get a better view of my neighbor’s house. The neighbors I was taught to hate.
The Halsteads moved next door four years ago. And throughout the last four years, my dad would rant about them every chance he got. “Damn the Halstead family. I could have bought the land their house is on…” And on and on it went. It would always start out as a grumble, but his voice would become louder, stronger. His eyes became darker.
It scared me. I didn’t understand his hate. They seemed okay to me. I had only met Mr. Halstead, and that was with my body hiding behind my nanny as she talked to him and their gardener. Mr. Halstead was this large man that seemed to be as tall as the sky. He wore a hat that covered his head, but I could see his eyes. They were kind eyes. He smiled at me. Told me to call him Jeremiah. I was too nervous to answer.
That was also the first time I saw Lachlan. He was directly behind his dad, playing with his friends in a treehouse. They were being silly. Climbing and dangling on branches. I even watched Lachlan walk across a tree limb with a mixture of jealousy and awe.
I knew I was supposed to obey the rules. I knew I was supposed to dislike the Halsteads because my dad disliked them. But I couldn’t.
Last year, on the Fourth of July, they set off fireworks. They woke me up. Scared me. But when I ran to the window and saw all the pretty colors and lights, I couldn’t erase the smile on my face. Even with the large field between us, I swear I heard cheers and hollers from their house.
Later on the next day, I told my mom I saw the fireworks. She nodded and turned the page of her magazine. “That’s nice, Naomi.”