The Frayed Ends of Sanity

The days pass uneventfully. I speak to no one, and in return I am left alone, which suits me just fine.

Grace has yet to return and there is a tiny ache in my heart, a knot of worry that has lodged itself in my chest with seemingly no intentions of disappearing. I barely knew her and her welcome was, kindly put, harsh, but she was the first person to take me in at this place and so I couldn't help but miss her.

Often, I wander the grounds of this place, walking to the farthest edges of the area. I lose myself when I’m not confided to the walls of the building. Out here, HE cannot reach me.

In these moments of blissful solitude I imagine myself to be like a bird, free and uninhibited, until it's time to return to my cage.

The wounds on my face have yet to heal but day by day I see improvements. When nighttime falls, I retreat back to my room, but I do not sleep. How can I, when sleeping would be worse that pulling all-nighters?

I’d take the raging headache over the terror any day….

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After nearly a week, Grace reappeared. Or, more appropriately, the shadow of Grace. She is thin, almost skeletally so, and there are deep, violent purple shadows underneath her eyes. She has the look of a caged animal on her face, all skittish nerves and paranoia.

After a lonely lunch on the 2nd day she is back, I make a visit to her rooms. I stalled the visit until I could no longer stand it. There, I find the group she introduced me to my first day here.

I hadn’t interacted with them since then, but they welcomed me, making room for me to sit on the ground. Grace occupied her bed, a stick figure buried underneath a mound of blankets. She perked up slightly upon noticing me, going so far as to sit up on her elbows.

“Hey” I smile, and she returns it weakly.

There is an awkward silence after that, no one speaking or doing much. It’s almost as if everyone is waiting for the beginning of Grace and I’s conversation to continue.

“So, how’ve you been?” I ask, probing for answers.

She shrugs, and her gaze sinks downward. “All things considering, I guess I’ve been fine. I don’t…I don’t remember much” she says and her eyes meet mine.

There is a strange and sudden fierce light burning in their depths, as if she’s trying to send me a message.

Her eyes dart around the room nervously.

“You don’t?” I ask.

She nods. “I don’t.”

But the look in her eyes tells a different story than her words do. What is she hiding? What is she scared of?

I ponder this but continue to act as if everything is fine. I’m not sure why, but I feel as if I need to protect Grace.

If it’s a secret she’s trying to keep, it’s not my secret to share.

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Late that night, my insomnia fails me and I cannot help but let my eyes shut.

Immediately, I’m plunged into a black and white world bleached of any other color. The air against my skin has my flesh immediately erupting in goosebumps and I shiver and try not to let my teeth chatter.

I’m still in the hospital, but now I’m not alone.

I feel another presence here but I cannot locate it.

I begin to walk the lonely hallways and the farther I go, the louder a noise echoing all around me gets. It’s strange, animalistic, and it’s only until it is nearly shattering my eardrums that I realize it’s the sound of screams.

The violent kind that makes death seem like a sweet blessing compared to whatever torture causing such a sound to emerge from deep within someone could bring forth.

I break into a run, with no particular direction to follow.

The hallway narrows, tapered down to a fine point, and the walls closing in around me. At what I take to be the end of the hallway, I see a figure emerge. There is a light behind the person so all I catch is an outline.

“Lillia!” someone shrieks and I jolt.

“Lillia….” I hear again, but this time it is a whisper, not a scream. And the voice belongs to HIM.

I’d recognize it anywhere.

“Lillia….come to me…” the voice continues, caressing my ears.

“NO!” I shout. “Fuck off!”

Immediately, the atmosphere changes, becomes threatening. The black and white is replaced by a red so violent in it’s brightness it has me stopping dead in my tracks. Then I realize it’s blood. The screaming continues and I try to focus on it’s source.

Someone grabs my wrist and I look to see Grace, emerged from God knows where.

“You have to help” she pleads. “He’s taking them. He’s taking all of them.”

I follow her pointing finger to one of the many “therapy” rooms-

those rooms so cruelly yet accurately portrayed in the media with pillowed walls and chained beds.

There lies our group, all in various states of torture.

“What do I do?” I plead to Grace.

Her eyes lock onto mine.

“Go with him. Defeat him.” She says.

I begin to panic.

“I don’t know how!”

I can feel the dream slipping away from me but I try to retain it, horrifying as it is.

“I don’t know how!” I repeat.

And then I wake up. I’m drenched in sweat and shivering in violent spasms that rattle me to my very core.

It takes a while for my breathing to regulate and flashes of pain have me realizing I’ve torn the skin from my palms.