Pseudologia Fantastica

The room was filled with whispers; almost everyone inside were engrossed in their own, little conversation with somebody. But all the conversations were serious, of course. I believe a single laugh or giggle would earn you a few glares from your neighbors.

I haven’t spoken since I entered the building; not one word left my mouth. I was trying to get in the mood – trying to internalize. I was imagining scenarios in my head; I was memorizing lines from a script I have read once in my dreams.

I am not a liar; that vulgar, ugly word should never be used to define me. I am graceful, beautiful, flawless, even. I am not a liar; I cannot remember myself lying.

I am an actress.

Are you confused? Shall I polish some details for you?

It is true that I am a model and not an actress per se. I have not portrayed anyone on the “big screen” or in soap opera; I have not acted in a theatre play recently (I have, though, when I was in high school). Still, despite those facts, I still consider myself an actress – a brilliant actress, at that.

What’s so brilliant about the way I act, you ask? Well, nobody knows I’m acting. Not my relatives, closest friends; no one knows about this occupation of mine. I, too, often get lost in my own lines, in the role I was to portray.

I act even though no cameras watch me; I am my own director and script writer; I act, though no one knows.

And, I believe no one here should know about this… or else the result of this soap opera would not turn out well. And who is the star of this soap opera? Why, it is I, of course.

The increased volume of the voices in the background cut my flow of thoughts. When I raised my head, my neighbors have already stood up, and they were staring at me. I gave a weak smile – intentionally, as my script stated I should do – and stood up slowly. The looks they gave me signified that they pitied me, and it was simply perfect.

The one on my left whispered something to me, but I couldn’t hear. I’m guessing it was words of comfort; I’ve received so many ever since the week started. Again, perfect.

And thus, the one we were all waiting for – the final actor – has arrived. I have been told that he was Judge Regala, and he was very intimidating. I stared at him as he walked to his podium. His eyes were dull brown, and he looked terribly, terribly bored. Aside from that, no, he did not look so intimidating to me.

He gave us permission to sit, and I could feel it officially start – the court drama, as others would refer it to. I did not pay attention at all to the words uttered by the speaker. It would result to boredom, and would be an utter waste of time. I would yawn right now but I cannot, for obvious reasons.

I let my eyes wander around the room ever-so-casually, occasionally stopping for a moment at unfamiliar faces or perhaps interesting ones.

I paused a few seconds far too long at a male brunette. His eyes were like emeralds, but large, dark shadows formed below them, making them not as beautiful as I remembered them to be. I can just visualize him desperately trying to sleep at cold night but failing always. I chuckled at that thought darkly in my head.

Tonight, he would be the villain, the bad person who everyone loathed. I would laugh in my room tonight, after all this. Then, I would look for an inspiration for another plot, write another script, and then act once more. I would continuously raise the number of my masterpieces. Everything was perfect – simply perfect.

I tried to recall what I charged against this man. Um, attempted homicide? I think that’s it. The bandage wrapped around my waist and the throbbing of the scar told me that I was correct.

I would like to add that I have nothing against this man. In fact, I can’t even remember the name of this person. He is merely a part of my masterpiece, and he should be thankful for being granted the role as the co-star. Nothing I have ever done, I think, was caused by personal hatred and others. Nothing I can recall, anyway.

“Shh, everything would be over in a few hours or so,” the person – my lawyer – whispered.

I grimaced in replaced of the smirk that was threatening to be form, “I know,” I said meekly.

Persons spoke, argued; time passed so slowly. I know it’s been only around twenty minutes, but it felt like an hour. I never did have the patience to wait for so long, especially if I should not or scarcely speak.

I then heard my name; I was asked to make my statement or something. I nodded, rose, and walked to that place I was assigned to go to. No matter how many times I’ve been in court, I never got used to its surroundings, as well as the terms they often uttered here.

My heart did not accelerate nor falter; it remained calm, like me behind this façade. My hands did not sweat. I did not feel nervous or scared at all.

“Do you swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

A nod, “I do.”

The person studied my face, searching for an indication of a lie or anything, before he retrieved the Bible. Of course he would find nothing; my face, my actions, my stature, my mussed hair screamed sincerity and truth.

“Miss Ericsen,” – it his lawyer – “please tell us what you are charging against my client.”

“Attempted rape and attempted murder,” I said with a silent voice. I… don’t think anyone heard me.

“I beg your pardon?”

I tried speaking louder this time, but my voice was so still hoarse, “He tried to rape me. He failed so he tried to kill me.” I noted that my voice was quivering.

“Are you sure it was this man?” she questioned.

“Yes. Very.”

The woman continued asking me questions. Some of her questions gave frightening, nightmare-like ones; the images were slightly blurring, but they were still frightening. I wasn’t aware that I was shaking or crying until someone told me so. Flushed, I muttered a “sorry” and quickly wiped these tears.

I could hear a laugh at the back of my mind, a dark laughter. I could hear my voice telling me that I was, once again, getting carried away, not that the voice minded. She said she liked seeing me really “getting into it”. I shivered and ignored her.

“May I ask what he used?”

“He threatened me with pointing his gun against my head. And… he had a knife with him on his… right hand.”

The lawyer paused, “But in your previous statement, you said nothing about the gun.”

For once in years, my heart accelerated seconds too fast; for once in years, I felt nervous while acting.

“I must have missed that detail. Forgive me,” my voice was meeker than previously. The voice in the background grew angry; she was fuming at me, cussing so loudly.

This voice in my head – my voice, I think – grew louder and louder. I could now barely hear the woman who was talking. I could barely even hear my other thoughts. I bit my lip hard as the noise in my head grew. Now, I couldn’t understand what she (or I) was saying.

It was all so annoying.

The lawyer probably noticed the difference in my stance. She asked me how if I felt sick or if my bruise was hurting. “Just shut up for a fucking sec,” I wanted to say to her, but I didn’t. Instead, I nodded and gave the best in-pain emotion that I could muster.

“May I be excused? It really hurts.” I started crying that time, something that I didn’t plan to do. Hm, my tears may actually get my out of this horrid situation.

As soon as I get excused from this hearing, I’ll get my mind and thoughts straight. And let’s not forget my facts. Sigh, I want this to be as flawless as possible. Is flawlessness still possible here? I do hope so. I suppose this soap will extend for a few more months, but I can deal with that.

The voice in my head grew silent; I was peaceful again, thankfully, but my head was throbbing. Aside from that, my bruise was seriously hurting now.

It was painfully long before the judge granted my request. I mumbled a sincere thank you to him before I was brought to the hospital to check my bruises. People followed me around, constantly worrying about me and that made me much calmer. The attention gave my soul serenity, oddly enough.

“Are you okay, Freja?” one of my friends asked me.

“Don’t worry; that ass is going to pay,” the other told me.

They continued worrying even though I had told them not to. They were all anxious about my condition; some were scared that the bruise was going to hurt my modeling career but I assured them not. They were all like a bunch of puppies following their owner or a something which interested them.

And soon – far too soon for my satisfaction – they were gone, leaving me alone inside a room. The doctor said that I was to be confined for a few weeks and was going to undergo therapy sessions, as well. I laughed quietly as she left; as if I would be need those therapy sessions.