Most people think they know what dying is. They think it's when your heart stops beating, when your lungs can't take in oxygen.
But as the past...ten years had proved, things could change. I thought I knew myself, and then I just about broke my own arm. I thought I knew that my parents loved me, however averse they were to showing it.
I was wrong, of course. When had I ever been right about life?
Dying is when, even for a second, you forget your sister's face when you told her you'd had another vision. Dying is when you innocently try to remember the way your favorite dress looked on you and, damn it all, you can't.
Dying is forgetting life.
I didn't notice it at first. It was just little things, bit-part people I couldn't quite conjure up.
I'd forget that Janey Freeman had a heart-shaped face, or that my little alley cat had a spot of black on her side that looked exactly like a paw print.
But as time marched on, it got harder to remember Cynthia's hair, or my mother's eyes. I stopped being able to bring back what our front door looked like.
I tried not to sleep too much. If one day, I finally, finally remembered that Cynthia's eyes were a deep golden brown, I lost all memory of that when I slept. I'd have to be dead on my feet before I would actually lay down and nod off.
Even without sleep, I knew exactly what was happening. I was losing my memory.
Oh, not in the Alzheimer's way. I could tell you the last thing I'd eaten, the dress that barely fit that I'd put on a few hours ago.
I was starting to forget the long-term things. The asylum had succeeded in taking away my past and my future. All I had left was the present.
And presently, the present was awful. I was starting to forget everything I had.
One day or night, I wasn't really sure which, I woke up from a nap. And for a half a moment, I couldn't remember Cynthia's name.
It was the first step toward a long downfall. Eventually, I forgot everything about Cynthia and my parents and all my old life.
You don't understand, I tried to explain to some not-there person. You don't know what it's like in here. I just...I gave up. I gave up, and I freely admit it.
When you're a kid, you always have a bunch of adults all over you about that one message: Don't give up.
Well, I have news for you. Sometimes, when you are fighting and fighting and you've known from the start you're not going to win, you have to give up.
It's not so much giving up as an acceptance of what you've done, what you've tried, what you've failed to do.
It's a soul-searching experience, forgetting everything you know. When I tried it, I spent some quality time with just myself.
Although I must caution you, for some people, it's a rude awakening. It sure was for me.
Maybe I didn't plan it too well. I mean, I did it in an asylum, for crying out loud. It's not exactly the best time for soul-searching. That could be how some people wound up there.
Anyway, so, I found out a lot about myself. You know how some people say they're good in a crisis? Well, they're usually not.
Especially not me. My preferred method of dealing with trauma was either screaming and banging my head against the wall, or sleeping.
Passive-aggressive, yep, that's me. But anyway, we were talking about my little pilgrimage into the far corners of my mind.
I would have liked to have tested my vision capabilities, but it didn't really work out.
I had visions of me getting the electric shock treatment, being brought food, never getting out of here. Well, no duh. Any psychic worth their salt would have told me that.
So I worked on my character. I couldn't exactly make myself into a kinder person. I mean, kindness is based on how you treat others. And what others did I see? Dr. Veravaz?
No way was I going to forgive him for this, ever. I'd rather die a thousand times. I couldn't possibly...well, I didn't need to dwell on that.
There was no need to think about things that only upset me. The one upside to this was that I didn't have to face anything I didn't want to.
If I had a flaw in my character (which everyone did), then so be it. I was in an asylum. Who really cared?
So for a while I was in my little enjoyable limbo. And then I started to wake up slowly from an imperfect dream.
I was a monster. What was wrong with me? (I had forgotten completely about my visions.) What kind of child was sent away by their own parents?
This new era of self-loathing and depression was tougher than the last one. At least before, I'd been able to enjoy myself. I'd had a nonchalant attitude toward...well, everything.
But now everything was different. I cried for weeks at a time. I'd sit in the middle of the room and just stare into the darkness. I refused to eat or drink for days, then I'd polish off an entire tray within minutes.
My new outlook sent me reeling into a nothing world. I forgot everything. Sometimes I even forgot where I was.
I would wake up, sure I was dead and had ended up in hell. Then I'd endure the shock treatment and I'd realize I was alive, after all.
The world was pitch dark and desensitized. I sometimes hyperventilated or threw up for no reason. Then I'd lay in the bed, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling.
Still, I didn't feel any of this. Sometimes I wasn't even aware I was doing it. I had no concern with the outside world.
Occasionally, I got a new trunkful of clothes. They told me who it was from, but I never really remembered.
They fit, and I'd change eventually, once my dresses were too badly stained to wear.
I ate and wore clothes and slept. Nothing was ever interesting or fun. I just kept living.
It wasn't like I hadn't tried to stop. Living, I mean. I starved myself sometimes, but always caved in. I tried to drown myself in the sink, but then I realized it had a drain and the toilet was just too gross.
Then, eventually, I became too detached to even try that. I lay in bed, too dispassionate to move. They had to pick me up from my (death)bed and cart me to shock therapy.
After the treatment, they laid me near the door. I didn't even want to move. They dragged me to and from therapy, but I didn't care.
Maybe that was why, when the vampire came, I never felt it.
Hey people! Thank you so much for the excellent reviews. Y'all are great! Anyway, I want FOUR reviews for this chapter before I post the next one. Luv ya!