‹ Prequel: Shattering Crystals
Status: Active
Twisted Returns
became beauty, and beauty was me
It's too much. I can't take it anymore. But unlike last time, I can't escape.
The worst part is that now, I know I'm alive. I can feel my body again. I can feel the blood leaking from my chest. I can feel my arms straight by my side. But they feel like they're being stabbed by a thousand needles. And to my horror, I find out that they're stuck in place. I have no control over them.
Why am I not dead? As if in answer, a memory pulls me in.
----
"Think of your greatest fear."
I see Lynda and Lorraine frown as they think of their fear. But I can't seem to figure out mine. Unlike Teena, I don't fear any creature...
"Now think about being with it half of the time," Teena says, her voice growing softer. "And being threatened with the possibility of it the other half of the time."
I keep searching through my brain for what I fear most. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize what it is...
"That's how I feel."
----
Death. That was my thought.
So why do I want to be dead? I can't remember, even though I know that I know the answer. But the memories are jumbled together and I can't tell what happened where, or when.
With a lot of effort, I locate my eyelids and force them open. But I see it wasn't worth it; all I see is colors. I can't make them into pictures.
"I think she's awake." The deeper voice is back, and I can recognize it now that it's not muffled. I can't put a name to it, though I feel like it should be the most important thing in the world.
"Yes, I think you're right," the female voice says, and I notice that it's not as high pitched as I had originally though. At this point, my eyes automatically close to blink. Except they don't have the strength to open again.
"Should we tell her?" the first voice asks.
"It might not be the best idea. She's too weak right now, and she might not understand."
I think they're talking about me. I want to protest, to tell them that I will understand. When I try to speak, I find that I can't move my lips either.
"Yeah, I guess," the guy says. "Anyways, if you can hear me... happy birthday."
What? What is he saying to me? I rack my brain for the meaning of this. Then I find it clearer than everything else for some reason. And I realize that he's right.
It's February twenty-eighth.
----
I am locked inside myself.
The people come and go. They wish me well, tell me everything will be okay. The most I can do is blink at them.
Some people stand out. A small girl with a haunted look in her chocolate brown eyes. Something tells me I knew her. That I should know her. But I don't,
There's this guy, with the brown hair and the navy eyes. Sometimes I want him to stay, sometimes that desire to break free, to talk to him, is overwhelming. And sometimes, he just fades in with everyone else.
When he speaks, I recognize the voice. It's the same one I heard through the ice. Slowly, as the days go on, things start to make more sense. I try again to match a name to him. Charles? Something tells me that's not quite right.
Reality comes back to me. I know my own names again, though I can't figure out which it really is. Dana or Diana? I know it can't be both.
People in blue uniforms come and check on me. I can see they work here - just like someone I used to know. I wonder what could have happened if I was a better person.
Tidbits of memory come back to me. Some are odd, specific things like the taste of vanilla ice cream and strawberries on my tongue. Some are of people, and I recognize them when they come.
They tell me stories, though I can't speak back to them. They don't know what I think of them, which, most of the time, is nothing. However, there is one story that stands out to me.
"I did not want it to be this way," the girl says, sighing. Her face is covered by a bandage, which is stained yellow. "I wish things were different."
I can't help but agree with her, even though she doesn't know it. When she turns her head, I can still see the beauty in her face. I wonder what happened to her.
"When I was young, my mother always told me that beauty was everything. She told me that nobody would give you a second glance if you were ugly. I did not believe her."
I don't think her face has always been that way. She must have been beautiful, at one point. Why would she ever have the problem she's describing?
"I wanted to prove her wrong. The mirror told me I was beautiful, but I thought I was same as everyone else, not better like my mother told me." She frowns and touches the bandage on her face. "I was a child then, and so it did not matter. But when I grew older, I saw it happening. I was getting all the special treatment when I did nothing different than them. My friends turned against me, but I did not know what to do. It was not in my control. That was when I knew my mother was right."
I can't tell what's right in this story. Something seems off.
"I knew that I had it, the beauty. And it was all that mattered. I became beauty, and beauty was me. It was my identity, who I was. Then this happened to me. The injury. I can no longer be beauty. So who am I now? I am still someone."
I blink at her, and I hope that she knows what I mean.
She just sighs and shake her head. "Sometimes, I still think my mother was right."
----
A few days after she visits, I realize why her story stands out to me. It reminds me of myself. Though it hurts to know that, I know I must be healing if I can recognize that fact. I don't know if I want to, though.
Time passes and there are more visitors. Two keep coming back - a woman with a crystal necklace and the guy with navy eyes. I know they are the voices I heard before. Eventually, I muster up the strength to ask them that question.
"What happened?"
The worst part is that now, I know I'm alive. I can feel my body again. I can feel the blood leaking from my chest. I can feel my arms straight by my side. But they feel like they're being stabbed by a thousand needles. And to my horror, I find out that they're stuck in place. I have no control over them.
Why am I not dead? As if in answer, a memory pulls me in.
----
"Think of your greatest fear."
I see Lynda and Lorraine frown as they think of their fear. But I can't seem to figure out mine. Unlike Teena, I don't fear any creature...
"Now think about being with it half of the time," Teena says, her voice growing softer. "And being threatened with the possibility of it the other half of the time."
I keep searching through my brain for what I fear most. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize what it is...
"That's how I feel."
----
Death. That was my thought.
So why do I want to be dead? I can't remember, even though I know that I know the answer. But the memories are jumbled together and I can't tell what happened where, or when.
With a lot of effort, I locate my eyelids and force them open. But I see it wasn't worth it; all I see is colors. I can't make them into pictures.
"I think she's awake." The deeper voice is back, and I can recognize it now that it's not muffled. I can't put a name to it, though I feel like it should be the most important thing in the world.
"Yes, I think you're right," the female voice says, and I notice that it's not as high pitched as I had originally though. At this point, my eyes automatically close to blink. Except they don't have the strength to open again.
"Should we tell her?" the first voice asks.
"It might not be the best idea. She's too weak right now, and she might not understand."
I think they're talking about me. I want to protest, to tell them that I will understand. When I try to speak, I find that I can't move my lips either.
"Yeah, I guess," the guy says. "Anyways, if you can hear me... happy birthday."
What? What is he saying to me? I rack my brain for the meaning of this. Then I find it clearer than everything else for some reason. And I realize that he's right.
It's February twenty-eighth.
----
I am locked inside myself.
The people come and go. They wish me well, tell me everything will be okay. The most I can do is blink at them.
Some people stand out. A small girl with a haunted look in her chocolate brown eyes. Something tells me I knew her. That I should know her. But I don't,
There's this guy, with the brown hair and the navy eyes. Sometimes I want him to stay, sometimes that desire to break free, to talk to him, is overwhelming. And sometimes, he just fades in with everyone else.
When he speaks, I recognize the voice. It's the same one I heard through the ice. Slowly, as the days go on, things start to make more sense. I try again to match a name to him. Charles? Something tells me that's not quite right.
Reality comes back to me. I know my own names again, though I can't figure out which it really is. Dana or Diana? I know it can't be both.
People in blue uniforms come and check on me. I can see they work here - just like someone I used to know. I wonder what could have happened if I was a better person.
Tidbits of memory come back to me. Some are odd, specific things like the taste of vanilla ice cream and strawberries on my tongue. Some are of people, and I recognize them when they come.
They tell me stories, though I can't speak back to them. They don't know what I think of them, which, most of the time, is nothing. However, there is one story that stands out to me.
"I did not want it to be this way," the girl says, sighing. Her face is covered by a bandage, which is stained yellow. "I wish things were different."
I can't help but agree with her, even though she doesn't know it. When she turns her head, I can still see the beauty in her face. I wonder what happened to her.
"When I was young, my mother always told me that beauty was everything. She told me that nobody would give you a second glance if you were ugly. I did not believe her."
I don't think her face has always been that way. She must have been beautiful, at one point. Why would she ever have the problem she's describing?
"I wanted to prove her wrong. The mirror told me I was beautiful, but I thought I was same as everyone else, not better like my mother told me." She frowns and touches the bandage on her face. "I was a child then, and so it did not matter. But when I grew older, I saw it happening. I was getting all the special treatment when I did nothing different than them. My friends turned against me, but I did not know what to do. It was not in my control. That was when I knew my mother was right."
I can't tell what's right in this story. Something seems off.
"I knew that I had it, the beauty. And it was all that mattered. I became beauty, and beauty was me. It was my identity, who I was. Then this happened to me. The injury. I can no longer be beauty. So who am I now? I am still someone."
I blink at her, and I hope that she knows what I mean.
She just sighs and shake her head. "Sometimes, I still think my mother was right."
----
A few days after she visits, I realize why her story stands out to me. It reminds me of myself. Though it hurts to know that, I know I must be healing if I can recognize that fact. I don't know if I want to, though.
Time passes and there are more visitors. Two keep coming back - a woman with a crystal necklace and the guy with navy eyes. I know they are the voices I heard before. Eventually, I muster up the strength to ask them that question.
"What happened?"