Page 87 of Fragmented Illusions
“We should have done more right then. We should have put her back in here right then and there. We shouldn’t have even let her go to college and be alone. She should have stayed home where I could keep an eye on her.
“What if this is my fault?”
Sobs sound through the room, cutting off the sound of their hushed voices. I lay immobile, staring up at the speckled ceiling. I can feel wetness trail from my eyes down the sides of my face, but I can’t do anything about it. My hands are bound to the bed, along with my ankles.
I’m numb. Hopelessly numb.
I can’t help but to think about Solomon and Spencer. About what we did that night at the cabin.
I have been replaying it over and over in my head now as I lay in this bed for hours, maybe even days. It’s hard to tell in here. The hours all blur together and I lose all sense of time.
I can only hope they don’t think I abandoned them. I couldn’t handle it if they think I did, but I don’t know why they would think any differently when I completely disappeared after what we did together.
My parents told the girls I came back home due to a family thing and that was that. They pulled me out of college and my life is officially over.
I’m trapped in the illusion they forced me in with no way out.
I think about my parents’ conversation. They’re both still in here, though they are mostly quiet now. My mother is softly crying, and my father is no doubt comforting her like he always does.
All I want is to be alone. I don’t understand why they are in here, pretending like they give a shit about me when they are quite literally talking about me right in front of me as if I’m not even here.
They probably think I’m asleep but I’m not. I only pretend to be whenever they come in so I don’t have to speak. So I don’t have to face them—or anything, really.
I haven’t spoken a word since I fought them. I have nothing to say. Parents are expected to love their children, not lock them up in hospitals and shove medications down their throat.
They’re not supposed to force them to be someone they aren’t. They are supposed to accept their child for who they are, flaws and all.
I was confused before. I was forced to believe I had to be perfect. Being perfect meant I was okay. I wasnormal.
They—the doctors and my parents—constrained me to a life they wanted me to live. A life where I was exactly who—and what—they wanted. The perfect, pretty daughter. My face was good for business, along with the boys they forced me to be seen with in public.
I always did whatever they asked of me because I was made to believe that was what was expected of me.
But now that I have tasted freedom, I now realize how imprisoned I have been. They used me. But no matter what happens now, I will never be used again.
Doctors and nurses come in sporadically to shove pills down my throat. I can’t choke them all back up, but I do manage to regurgitate enough up that I haven’t lost myself to the heavy fog of the medication.
It’s a feeling I know all too well, so I would easily be able to tell if the pills were becoming too much. I’m not sure what all the pills are they’re giving me, but I do know one of them is Trazodone. I recognize it easily enough from the white color and shape. The top and bottom are parallel, though the bottom is longer than the top, and the sides come out at an angle to form an isosceles trapezoid.
Another I recognize is Haldol. It’s a small, round white pill. And both of them together fuck me up in ways I never wish to feel again. They cloud my mind, my every thought. I was on them for years, living in a trance, following whatever I was told without question because I simply couldn’t care.
I was a zombie.
But now my brain is free, and I realize how lost I have been. How manipulated I was.
It will never happen again.
“Dahlia?” Mother sniffles, and I roll my eyes even though my eyelids are closed. Just the sound of her voice grates on my nerves, sending anger flooding through me.
I refuse to answer. I’m taking a page out of Sol’s book and remaining silent.
My throat closes up and my eyes burn at the thought of him. I swallow the lump, but it doesn’t move. It has been permanently lodged in my throat since I woke up.
I lost them. They will never find me in here—my father will make sure of that. He knows people in high places—a “perk” of his business, I suppose. And while it was great to hide my records, I realize now how much it fucking sucks.
They freed me and even though I know I can never have them again; all I want is to thank them for showing me who I truly was. They gave me sight. I see clearly now, and I can fight this. The doctors, the meds, my parents.
I’m strong.
