Page 64 of Fragmented Illusions
“I was thinking maybe go see a movie? They have that one scary movie playing now?” She glances up at me as she asks, and I smile in return.
“A scary movie sounds great.”Not.That sounds absolutely fucking terrible after these last couple of months, but I can’t say anything about that. So scary movie it is.
“Do you want to meet at the apartment and go together or?” We turn right onto campus and our footsteps pick up the nearer we get to the Hale building—named after some famous guy, I guess. We don’t have any of the same classes, since her major is Business and mine is English, but we both have a class in this building.
Natalie pulls the glass door open and gestures for me to step in first, so I answer her as I do. “Meeting at the apartment sounds great. I can shower and change before we head out. Class ends at two thirty so whenever you want to go, I can be ready.”
“Sounds good! I’ll text you!” she shouts as she walks down the hall opposite of the one I’m walking down.
“Okay!” I shout back at her while simultaneously thinkingplease don’t.
I’m losing it.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as the professor drones on and on about1984by George Orwell. Granted, every single one of us here has already read it. I know I have—three times—but Professor Adams insisted we read it again.
She has each paragraph on page 207 of the mass market paperback broken into detailed segments down on the board and when I glance down at my page of the books she handed out to all of us, I see a bunch of tiny notes scrawled along the edges of the pages from other students.
Sighing, I turn the page and start reading on my own as she yammers on in the background. By the time she’s clapping her hands and saying, “See you all tomorrow!” I have already read all but the last ten pages.
Snapping my book shut, I toss it in my purse along with my pen and notebook and book it home.
Fresh out of the shower with my hair straightened to perfection, I finish applying my deep red lipstick and rub my lips together a couple of times before smacking them and smiling at myself.
Disgusting.
You’re not meant for this.
I stare down at my jean-clad legs and tight white T-shirt with my flawless winged liner and blood-red lips and can’t help but agree.
I think back to when it all began…
It really wasn’t hard to fool all of the doctors; the very ones who think they know the inner working of one’s mind.
It was pathetic, really.
Every single person on this planet loves the stability of perfection. We crave it, naturally. When I finally figured that out after many days of repetition in my schedule and the same questions being asked of me after I wasn’t giving the “right” answer, I forced myself to project the smallest pieces of what they wanted.
Every day, bit by bit, I changed myself.
They think someone like me couldneverbe anywhere close to what is deemed perfect, so, after a surprisingly short amount of time, they chalked it up to being a fluke. They kept me on the medication which helped keep the voices at bay—not that they knew they were there all along—and sent me on my way again.
Now that I think about it, I probably didn’t have the best doctors, but none of that matters anymore, anyway.
I’m sick. I know I am. And ever since those nights in the hospital, I’ve been trying to force myself into becoming someone else. Someone… healthy in every sense of the word.
That’s where Creepy and Silent—Sol—come in. I can’t deny the feelings they stir up in the deepest parts of myself—the parts I’ve kept suffocated for years. They gave them the first draw of oxygen after desiccation, and now they’re screaming for more. Scratching and clawing their way to the surface and every second of every day, it’s getting harder to shove them back down.
What has this persona of perfection given me? Sure, I have great friends—especially Nat—and I have a great life. Well, not great, but it’s better than before. But the problem with that is I’m not happy. Not truly because I spend all of my time worrying about my appearance and the way I act around every single person I encounter.
Is my makeup creasing? Is my hair pin-straight and lying perfectly down my back with no snarls? Are my clothes wrinkled? Do I smell aromatic?
Keep your smile in place, Fallon.
Never falter.
Keep your hands relaxed at your sides.
Never falter.
