Day 1
There are two things that make me certain I am losing my mind: I feel as though I left something incredibly important unfinished and I feel as though I am constantly dreaming. If that weren't enough, I am plagued by visions. Not anything akin to hallucinations, rather powerful thoughts and images. I have wondered if they are, perhaps, memories.
When I sleep, I hear strange sounds. There are conversations and what seems to be a beast breathing. This beast only exhales, violent and raspy, rhythmic in nature. I can never move nor do I see anything. I always wake up drenched in sweat, with that anxious feeling that I have forgotten something.
The doctors say I should relax. I am not certain I have a choice. I am confined to my room and they ensure a steady supply of drugs. No, I know what you're thinking. My problems are not a result of these mysterious medications. What little coherency is allowed to me tells that my daily inoculations and confinement are a result of my issues.
I cannot remember life before this place. The last thing I do remember is lights, lots of lights. They were all colors; red, yellow, blue and so on. They were impossibly bright. And there were loud, terrifying noises, like metal scraping on metal and a dull thumping roar. Next I know, I am sitting in this chair. The doctors say I was brought here to rest and what I just described is not a memory at all. I don't believe them. I never do. I don't trust them. I think they're crazy.
Sometimes this room gets to me, with its four walls and blank white stare. I draw pictures with crayons, because that's all I am permitted. I tape them to the walls for a little color. The bed is pushed in the back corner next to the little lone window my chair faces. My desk is opposite my bed with all of my crayons and notebook paper. Then there's the door. The door is perpetually locked, except for when the doctors or the lady comes through.
The lady visits sometimes. She brings fresh gowns for me and takes away my dirty ones. All I wear are white (like the walls) night gowns. I suppose I am not trying to impress anyone. But we sit and talk. She likes to ask about my visions and dreams. We like to believe they are of my life before this place. She's the only one I have ever divulged the privileged information of the blue haired girl. But that is neither here nor there and I am getting ahead of myself. We avoid the fact that none of the people in my visions have ever come to visit. Maybe, they don't know I am here. But, the lady is a wonderful diversion to break up the monotony.
Right now, I am looking out of my window as I write. It is awfully beautiful. It always is. The sky is so blue and the sun shimmers brilliantly off the sea as the tide comes and goes. The sound of seagulls permeates the air, always calling to one another. The sandy shore looks so creamy, like the sand would be soft as silk. I imagine sometimes that I am picking up a handful of it, warm from the sun and it tickles my hand as I let it fall through my fingers. As lovely as it is though, I never see anyone on the beach.
One of my visions is of a different coast. There are trees, not entirely unlike palm trees, in contrast to the shoreline here. This shoreline is just sand and water forever. People swim and sunbathe in my vision. Everyone is so happy. The scent of warm salt lingers in the air as I am accompanied by people I believe may be my friends. These people have been present in other visions as well. This is why I think these must be memories. The doctors say it is my mind "filling in". I don't know what that means.
The most common theme in my visions is of the girl afore mentioned; the blue haired girl. She is always there, smiling and laughing. But her lovely blue eyes bear a burdened sort of sadness, ever daunting as though she has lost the unspeakable. Her name is Chloe Price. I know I loved her, and I love her still. When I see her, dream of her, my heart flutters in my chest, light like a feather drifting on the summer breeze from the ocean outside my window. But even amongst the feelings of passion, there is a sense of loss, like that floating behind my Chloe's eyes. Something is wrong, something is gone. It is the thing I have forgotten. And it seems my lucid dreaming has brought her to life in the most violent way imaginable, forceful and unreal. Desperately I reach for her, longing to remember what has been lost to the tides of time.
Her name is the only one to come to my lips. Perhaps she is an imagined character, but she gets me through these long days, ever by my side. The others in my mind remain nameless in their existence. But not she and I dare not speak of her to the doctors. I could not stand them refuting her reality.
Sometimes I imagine I can reverse time. I'd love to see what stands on the other side of the door to my past, now closed to my eyes. I like to imagine I came from a coastal town, small and full of drama. Can you imagine? Everyone knows everyone and gossip is abound. Maybe my town holds a dark secret, but nothing interesting ever happens in Arcadia Bay.
Arcadia Bay. I made you up, but you sound so real. And like Chloe, I am fraught with sadness when I think of that place. Something is missing, making it incomplete. I've told the doctors of Arcadia Bay. This is the only topic in which they simply write in their pads and say nothing. I've often wondered what this means. They always have something to say about my visions, but not Arcadia Bay.
Where do I go from here? I want to start documenting my stay here so I know what is real and what is not. I will hide this journal under my mattress so they cannot find it and perhaps with time I will start to achieve some clarity beyond these vile medications. I have a session today. I will try to remember all I can and record it for you, oh reader, like a snapshot from the camera of my eyes. For now, I can hear the beast and its rasping as though it is just beyond the door. I don't want it to get me. At least, not yet.
