Disclaimer: don't own.
This is not my real skin, Trina thought.
I've got them all fooled – and who can blame them? It's impossible to see, this thin sheath of transparent armor that's protecting me. They wrapped the bandages on it, they put this damn I.D. bracelet on it – but they never touched my flesh. Not really. And the moment their backs are turned, I'm going to slough it off, like a snake, and SNAP! I'll be gone. Then they'll never catch me, never trap me again…
"Baby?"
The illusion shattered.
"Trina, baby – are you with us?"
Her father hadn't called her "baby" since she was four years old. Growing up, it had always been Tori for whom those terms of endearment were reserved – Juan Vega wasn't a man given to great shows of outward affection, and (so Trina thought) he had decided early on that the limited store of love he had to give would be better spent on his younger daughter than his older. After all, Tori was the talented one, the beautiful one, the smart one – the one with a future. La princesa, Juan nicknamed her – Daddy's little princess.
Trina's resentment at being the unfavorite had simmered in her veins for as long as she could remember. But now, seeing the concern and anguish in her father's deep brown eyes, she began to wonder whether she had judged him too harshly.
"I'm…I'm sorry, Papá. I kinda drifted off for a second there."
Her mother, sitting on the other side of her, squeezed her hand. "I know it's hard to focus right now, Trina. But the doctor's trying to help you. You need to give her your attention."
She's treating me like I'm a misbehaving toddler, Trina thought, and momentarily bristled. Why does she think I'm stupid? Can't she see that I'm practically a grown woman now? God, I hate her so much – no, I'm a wicked, wicked daughter, thinking such a thing…
She shook her head back and forth, hoping against hope that she could dislodge the confused thoughts.
"Trina," said Dr. Marguerite Courtland softly. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
"I just – I don't understand it," Trina whimpered. "I should be feeling depressed, shouldn't I? I mean, it's depressed people who try to kill…who try to do what I did. But I'm not depressed – at least, not right now."
"Well, how would you describe your feelings right now?"
"It's too hard to put into words. One moment I'm angry, the next I'm afraid, then I think I can take on the whole world…it's like I'm trapped on a roller coaster that never stops." She shuddered.
The psychiatrist nodded. "Trina, we'd like you to stay here for the time being so that we can observe you and make certain of what's going on, but I think I have a pretty good idea already of what's causing your emotional instability. Have you ever heard of borderline personality disorder?"
Trina shook her head, puzzled.
"In a nutshell, it means that you're not certain of who exactly you are. You tend to depend unconsciously on other people to define you – you feel like their approval gives you worth. And when it seems to you that they're denying you that approval, it's as if the rug has been pulled out from under you. Your rational mind is drowned out by your emotions – you act impulsively to try to rectify things. Sufferers from BPD may attempt suicide for any number of reasons other than simple depression – momentary rage at the world, a wish to hurt the people who've hurt them, even the hope that people will love them after they're gone. Does that sound like it describes how you're feeling?"
Trina tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she began to weep silently. I knew it. I'm a wreck. Broken in the head. Tori and André should have let me die…
"What do you recommend, Doctor?" asked Juan as he put an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Does she need medicine? Therapy? Just tell me. Whatever it takes, we'll make it happen."
"Well, some BPD sufferers can benefit from psychoactive medication, but it may not be necessary. Right now, we'll have Trina take part in daily therapy sessions as an inpatient, until we're sure she doesn't pose any further risk to herself. Okay, Trina?"
Trina wiped the tears from her face with the back of her bandaged hand and looked up. She wasn't thrilled with the idea of being stuck here and having her mind probed – she had an instinctive distrust of "shrinks" – but this woman seemed different. Marguerite Courtland was a woman of about sixty, her hair still mostly blond though streaked with gray, the wrinkles at the corners of her blue eyes giving her an air of authority earned, not from books and academic degrees, but from hard-earned life experience. It was obvious that the concern she showed for Trina wasn't feigned.
Still, the thought of staying in this hospital for God knows how long was deeply repulsive. "I-I don't really know if…" Trina stuttered.
An image flashed before her mind's eye: her birthweek party. Tori, grinning, joyous, singing to her, only to her:
"You might be crazy, but have I told you lately that I love you, you're the only reason that I'm not afraid to fly…"
She looked at her sister now, sitting beside their mother. Tori's eyes were red; she hadn't slept in two days. Now, feeling Trina's gaze on her, Tori momentarily ceased wringing her hands and gave her sister a thumbs-up.
Tori's mouth moved. No sound came out, but Trina read her lips:
You can do this.
Turning back to Dr. Courtland, Trina drew a deep breath. "…Okay. If that's what you think is best. I just want to get well. Please."
Dr. Courtland smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."
And so Trina Vega's long journey began.