Misfit Pride

I open my eyes and for the first few terrifying seconds am terribly disoriented. The bright light blinds me, and I blink rapidly, trying to chase away the blur. I feel a strange weakness all over my body, as many people hover over me, checking my vitals and speaking to me.

Ah, a hospital. That explains the dazzling white.

At first, I do not understand a word of what they say, English as foreign and forgotten as everything else.

But then, slowly, as if walking out of a haze, everything starts coming back. After swallowing suddenly gathered saliva, I'm able to respond to the doctor's questions, with a hoarse voice that sounds like stranger's to my ears – yes, I'm fine. No, I do not feel any pain. No, I do not know what might have caused my coma – I fight an urge to roll my eyes at the lie. I do know, only the answer would get me into a mental hospital, which I would like to avoid, preferably.

Finally, I'm allowed to ask questions as well – and the first one is how long I had been asleep. Not about the date, because, I realize bitterly, it would not give me any estimation, as I have no recollection of the last day in my realm at all. The doctor replies that since I was transported here, three weeks had passed.

A mere three weeks, which for me, equal to lifetime. I ponder on it for a while, again unnerved by the tricks of time – once, month amounted to a century, and now, three weeks were four decades. But I discard these thoughts quickly, firmly telling myself that it has nothing to do with me anymore. I'm not returning to Thedas, ever again.

A miracle, they call me. An unexplained coma for close to a month, with close to none brain activity, and yet I wake up right as rain, and aside from initial shock, there's little else wrong with me.

Still, I'm told I need to remain in hospital's care for at least a day longer. My muscles had partially atrophied during my period of unconsciousness, unused, and I can feel the weakness of my limbs – though I can guess from the looks sent my way, and my own assessment, it's nothing serious. They just want an excuse to keep me around longer, and perform more tests, trying to come up with the cause behind my collapse.

Internally, I'm sympathetic of their confusion. A king's ransom for anyone who could come up with an answer as unlikely as the truth, and then convince the others of it.

I do my best to hide my growing unease, pondering on the situation. After finally finding a way out, I have no intention of letting the story repeat itself. While I have no idea what triggers my connection between realities, I cannot count on it being severed simply by my return. I wreck my head, as nurses flutter around me performing tests, trying to come up with a solution.

Finally, it comes to me, as I recall more and more of my life here.

Sleeping pills.

Once, the necessity of them chafed, as I believed myself restrained from my amazing ability. This time, they are a chance at normality, which I crave desperately.

Just as I finish this line of thought, the doors burst open, and the members of my family burst in. My mother runs to my bedside, weeping, rejoicing at my awakening, relieved. My younger brother is also crying, though much more subdued, because boys are not supposed to be as emotional as girls, says my father. But even he is moved, and blinks to hide the moist in his eyes.

I had put them through a lot. The prognosis were far from optimistic, with an unknown cause, and a passage of time without any improvement. My parents look as if both of them aged a couple of decades during the time I wasn't here, I realize, and my heart wrenches at the new stress lines and wrinkles, and the dark circles under their eyes. I touch my mother's face, retracing her features, learning them anew. Then my father draws us all into a bear hug, and I let the tears flow, no longer ashamed, but happy, overwhelmingly happy, to be home.

I send them home, after hours, with words of reassurance and love. I regret that they cannot remain, but the rules are strict when it comes to visiting hours, and I shouldn't be so selfish. I know for certain, my mother's work suffered, as she spent days by my bedside. As did Jeff, she informs me conspiratorially, with a covert wink, after calming down.

He sends his apologies at his inability to visit me, as he is in delegation at the moment, and has no way of returning. But he will come tomorrow, when I'm to leave, he swears.

I feel strange reading the message from my cell, as I clumsily operate the keys, and reply that it is fine, he has nothing to apologise for. I had forgotten so much, and it will continue to inconvenience me for a while still.

In the evening, a first minor hurdle appears. When I ask for the sleeping medication, I'm refused, on the grounds of it clashing with some of the stuff in the drip-bags, still attached to my wrists.

I panic, at first – what am I to do, as they won't let me out, and I refuse to take any chances with my newly gained freedom?

In the end, I reach to the most straightforward solution – and simply do not sleep at all. I remember that getting a hold on the pills shouldn't be too hard, and, comforted by the thought, I spend the night reading the magazines left over on the bedside table.

Jeff comes to take me home the very next day, and the surreality of the situation assaults me yet again. He brings a bouquet of flowers, a beautiful, rich lilies – I used to love them, I think? But they pale in comparison to their counterpart in Thedas – and they hold little value, brought by a stranger. Because, I recognize honestly before myself, I do not know the male in front of me anymore. What had attracted me to him in the first place, I wonder, smiling genially and thanking him for his effort all the while.

Once the formalities are done, he ushers me outside, and into the car. I take a gulp of the polluted air, and am attacked by a sudden cough, as the city smells assault my nostrils with their variety and stench.

But it is a relief, as well, as I take in the views outside, as we drive through the city, familiarizing myself again with the spiking, blocky buildings, and an array of glass, reflecting the rays of sun. So much grey, as opposed to the blinding white, but that's fine, just fine.

Jeff comments that I'm unusually quiet, and I don't reply – I wouldn't know, the person he once dated is long gone. It is a normal behaviour for me now.

In the next weeks, I learn to deal with the strange dissonance my mind lives in. On one hand, I feel too slow, clumsy, graceless, as my body cannot keep up with commands, used to the much different reactions of the Elvhen. Also, the gravity is an awkward thing to adjust to, as my movement is held back, chained to the ground, when I used to nearly fly.

On the other hand, the life itself is much quicker paced. I remember spending the days observing a single magical trick, slowly unravelling its nature and basics, until I had a complete grasp on it, to perfection – here, every action seems half-assed, as people rush between assignments, pulled from one task to another, a never-ending tale of chase and run.

My friends criticize there are times I seem out of it, dazed. The sad thing is their comments hit the bull's-eye. Cause I am.

Soon enough, the summer vacation are over, and a new semester begins. I wander through the ancient buildings, their red bricks partially cracked – some of them in a middle of renovation, and lose my way more often than not. I stop by to appreciate the architecture, so different, much more bulky and less ethereal, but so real, so amazingly human. The lectures bring headaches, as I try to reconnect with terms, phrases and formulas long forgotten, and the people are a sea of unknown faces which I'm supposed to know, supposed to remember. Only I don't, and the coma excuse works only for so long, before they start to get irritated with me.

The pace overwhelms me, as I try to juggle looking for work, relearning the stuff I need for my studies, as well as dealing with the necessities of my social life.

At first, I try to recall, and once that does not work, relearn, how to love Jeff. But we are already in a relationship where I am supposed to know that – only I don't. I find him childish, annoyingly so – he reminds me of June sometimes in that respect, and it frightens me. I find him petty, at times, and incredibly intolerant of the differences between us, and it chafes. Chafes, because I was already once caged, and I refuse, refuse to submit to someone's whims anymore.

Finally, I stop trying to make it work, trying to revive a corpse that had long rotted.

He notices the change immediately.

'You've changed' says Jeff, his tone accusing.

I want to scream. Of course I've changed, it's been forty years for me! But I cannot, because it had not been, not for them.

So instead, I just nod, holding back my words. They're not for him to hear, nor to understand – he proved that pretty comprehensively during those past few weeks after I had left the hospital.

But he isn't stupid, so I do not need to speak anymore, for him to understand the implications.

We part ways amicably, more or less. He is bitter, and some part of me feels for him – I would be bitter in his place too. He packs his stuff, and moves out of the flat – and I'm left blissfully alone, to learn how to cope with my life anew. It's a huge relief, as I do not have to pretend, anymore, at least in the confines of my rooms.

I have a feeling of terrible déjà vu as I look in the mirror and see a stranger. The hair too grey, missing the white tone which made it so unique, the irises not bluish enough, and my skin too bland. The lines too plump, the figure too shapeless, is this really me? Who am I, where am I, what did I become?

Shifty eyes of a person out of her element stare right back at me, and I swallow a sudden gulp in my throat, angered, before releasing a panicked scream that has been rising within me for these past few days.

The glass breaks under my fist, a hole that cracks the entire surface.

I stand there, ignoring the blood flowing from the cuts on my knuckles.

This is what I wanted, isn't it?

Isn't it?

And as I look again at the cracked, disfigured reflection in a broken mirror, I find my determination anew. I'll learn again, I decide. There are things on Earth that I longed for during those four decades – it is high time I found them.

I find work as a stage setter, painting backgrounds for the plays in local theatre. It's not much, but it's something, at least. It allows me to dismiss at least one of the worries that hound me, and the smell and familiarity of paints calms me down, as I follow the instructions, creating mirages on the large props and banners.

I'm highly commended for my work, and some even suggest I try to make a living out of selling my art, instead of wasting my potential in a backdrop playhouse. I smile under my nose, and dismiss their suggestions, quite satisfied with my position at the moment – the only thing that I could paint if I tried to reach my creativity is Thedas. And I'm not quite ready to face it yet.

My friends all think me a bit crazy. In the end, I do not return to normal, not entirely. I sometimes speak words in a language that does not exist, before catching myself and returning back to English. And I never swear in normally anymore, the words 'Fenedhis lasa' springing from my lips without my realizing it. I also do not find a common tongue with them, not like I could before, and more often than not I remain quiet, listening to their words with indulgent smile.

But I try to play my part, try not feel so much more mature than the lot of them – because they aren't younger than me, only I got older much faster.

They chalk it all up on the accident, and it's close enough to what really happened, I do not mind.

Sometimes, I scare myself. The ease with which I can turn the words around, with which I can squirm out of any situation by playing on people's motivations and desires, the proficiency with which I can read them, efficiency in using it against them… My years in Thedas haunt me, when I masterfully dodge uncomfortable questions, avoid some topics.

The fear that drives me. I take twice the dose of the medication, terrified that single one will not suffice. I jump at the shadows, and I became somewhat of a recluse, distrustful of others and unusually closed off – or that's what my friends say. My once quite… well, I wouldn't say optimistic, but definitely positive outlook on life has darkened, and it worries people around me. For them, it's inexplicable – yes, I had a strange accident, but nothing really terrible happened, at least in their eyes.

I do not feel any connection with the bright, kind girl they describe of knowing. The only thing we still share is our desperate, foolhardy desire for independence.

It's the fear that finally does me in.

I was not aware the hospital had informed them of my initial, surprising request regarding being put to artificial sleep – but they did. My mum, suspicious of the changes in me, questions Tim and Lydia, and after a lot of squirming and dodging the subject, she drags the truth out of them. We have a long talk then, when she lectures me about the dangers of addiction –whether these are medical drugs, or narcotics. I nod at the appropriate places, generally in agreement with her, until I tire of the diatribe, and manipulate the conversation away from it. Her eyes gleam strangely, and I can feel her frustration with me – but she drops the subject, just as I intended.

I believe the issue forgotten, until, during my next visit, she rises it up again. This time, I let some of my irritation show through the timbre of my voice, replying sternly that I happen to be an adult, and whatever I choose to indulge in is none of her business.

The tension between us is so thick one could cut it with a knife, when we are parting. I avoid family gatherings for the next few weeks.

However, I reluctantly return to my childhood home for my father's birthday. Regardless of the conflict between me and my mother, he had no part in it, and, I felt, he shouldn't innocently suffer the consequences. The party drags on till late – with me and my mother deliberately sidestepping one another for the whole evening – and I decide to stay the night, unwilling to use public transport at this hour.

I wake to the sound of a car on a parking lot, and as I walk down, I hear the doorbell ring. My mother stands up from the kitchen table, and calmly lets two strangers into the house – it's clear she has been expecting them.

'Who are these people, mother?' I ask, feeling the dread stiffening up my spine.

'I have tried talking with you, Joanne – but it all proved pointless. It is clear what you need is beyond me – you require professional help' she sighs heavily, as my eyes grow cold, and my world crumbles. 'Your father and I both agreed, and acquired the official injunction of unemancipation over you. As of now, you are officially considered as incapable of taking care of yourself – until the facility physicians declare otherwise' she nods at the two males in white coats. 'This is my daughter, whom we spoke of.'

'Mum, you do not understand! I…'

'On the contrary, my dear' she interrupts me impatiently, 'I understand quite well you are addicted. Trust me, it is for your own good.'

I gape at her in disbelief, as I notice a steely resolve in her eyes. How could have I missed this? The signs were all out there… but I was so focused on myself, I disregarded them.

'I would like my daughter back' she admits quietly, and I close my mouth with a snap. She does not, cannot, refuses to see the truth right in front of her eyes, that this is me, this is what I've become. There's no changing the past, and yet, in her attempt to turn back time, she unwittingly dooms me.

But I can see the in her look, that there's no convincing her. So I bite my lip and turn around to walk out with my head held high, refusing to be dragged out like a criminal, like a freak, like an animal.

It's the only thing left for me.

Pride.

I'm promptly put into the white car, and driven away to the rectangular building, which stinks of medicine. At first, I'm numb, both from shock, and betrayal. How could she? No, how could they?

In order to procure the papers, they needed official witnesses of my self-destructive behaviour. They had convinced my friends to testify against me – all behind my back, without a word. I swallow a bile of bitterness, and sudden nausea.

My mood shifts, and by the time we arrive, I have to hold back the hysterical laugh, bubbling in me, as the two people in white coats show me the way into my closely monitored room. After all my efforts, I'm still closed in a mental institution – although for all the different reasons than those I had initially feared.

I point a middle finger to the CCTV camera observing the room – the place my parents found is truly top notch, joy of joys. How sad that in their misguided concern for me, they could not learn to accept me, to get to know me again.

And there's an irony of ironies, that after escaping the fate of imprisonment in one realm, I end up caged in another. So much for the so called freedom.

The well-meaning psychiatrist evaluates me during the day, and tries to reach me with her explanations of the necessity of getting over one's dangerous addictions, being stronger than our weaknesses. I listen to her with sardonically raised eyebrow, and, without remorse, shred her to pieces with my sarcastic replies. She does not deserve my ire, or wrath, and truly wishes me well, but I am done with playing by the rules – I've tried, and it does not work.

Of course, there's no way for me to escape the well-guarded facility, so I slowly reacquaint myself with the inevitability of my return to Thedas. My insides twist at the very thought, nervously, as I hold onto the weak hope that with as much time as had passed, there's a high chance that June had forgotten about me.

And then I remember the passionate gleam in his eyes, and my hopes come crashing down, and I have to hold back a panicked scream. Not that it would achieve anything – only confirming the already convinced people in their mind-set of my druggy tendencies.

It's not like I have any hopes of avoiding my fate, so I do not avoid sleeping on purpose – the nerves keep me awake. My eyes become bloodshot, and soon I am too weak to take any action, to think.

The nurses say I'm stubborn.

I suppose, in a way, they got it right, though it seems to be an understatement – I am beyond stubborn. This is my pride. This is what freed me once, my iron will that upheld for four decades… and it will cage me this time back again.

Finally, even the fear is not enough to hold the bone-deep weariness at bay. In the final moments of lucidity, I scribble a short message to my mother.

I know it's petty of me. I know that I should have told her more, before, that maybe she would have believed me, before she became convinced I was an addict. But still, I'm far too bitter over the events not to do it. I know they will pick it up and deliver to her, once I'm asleep again, so I focus on it with desperation, barely keeping hold on my consciousness as I write with shaking hands a single sentence – but it's enough to convey the venom of my thoughts.

I told you so.