Fall into Darkness

Chapter 11: Amnesty

Trixie lay on the bed of her room at the Cauldron Lake Lodge. Honestly, she had some trouble getting out of bed today. Not only was her bed really comfortable, but she'd been feeling a little dull and lifeless as of late. She supposed it was the medication and hoped that wouldn't be needed for much longer. It always made her feel so drowsy and distant, as if her soul wasn't actually in her body.

Cauldron Lake Lodge was a giant log cabin, basically, with all amenities a private clinic could offer. The single window in her room offered a lovely view of the hedge maze outside, the sun pouring in and illuminating her desk. On the day lay a leather bound book and a set of classic writing gear: a quill of all things. Trixie supposed she should get up, but didn't feel like it all that much. Her body simply refused to rise. And it's not as if she had much freedom to move: an IV was still attached to her arm. Though the IV stand was on wheels, there wasn't any place to go except for her desk.

Bed it was then.

There was a knock on the door and snick from the lock. The door opened and revealed Dr. Hartman with that assuring smile of him. Behind him stood the muscular nurse Birch clad in all white, crossing his arms as he stood guard outside while Hartman closed the door. Trixie didn't like nurse Birch very much: he was mean and talked a lot of smack. A bully convinced of his own authority.

"Ah, good morning, Trixie," Hartman greeted as he took the chart from her bed and examined the levels of her IV. "How are you doing today?"

"I… I don't know," said Trixie. "I still feel a little… like I'm not inside my own body. Does that make sense?"

"Hm, that would be the medicine. I'm sorry, Trixie, but after your episode I had no choice. But I do think I can take you off the drip-feed today," he said. "Have you written anything more today, Trixie?"

"Not yet," said Trixie. "Not sure why you want me to write down that fantasy I lived."

"It's a form of therapy," said Hartman. "Your fantasies become a physical object in a book. Thus, to write about your fantasy in great detail separates you from it. Bellatrix Black becomes ink on a page and Trixie White returns where she belongs."

Trixie let her bare feet slip into a pair of slippers. Her all white outfit was baggy, yet comfortable as she grabbed the IV stand and wheeled it to the desk. She picked up the book and opened the page on a description of Hermione. She… she had felt so real. "Is that why my memories have not returned?" she asked.

Dr. Hartman smiled again. "Don't you worry about that, Trixie. This isn't the first time this happened to you and every episode is shorter and less impactful. You might see this as a setback, but I assure you it isn't. We've made great progress over the past years."

"I still have the accent," replied Trixie. "I don't know how to speak normally."

"It's very convincing," said Hartman. "In another life, you would have made for a fantastic stage actress. But, rest assured, your own voice will return in time, Trixie."

"Can I speak to my father?" asked Trixie. "I would like to tell him I'm alright."

Her father. When Trixie realized she was a lesbian and came out to her wealthy parents, the reaction hadn't been… favourable, especially not with her ultra-religious mother. It started ten years of hell with her eventually being cut off and having to eke out a meagre living as a waitress. But after her mother's death her father was overcome with remorse about what they had put her through. As his health declined, he had dedicated most of his wealth for the best private clinic money can buy. But the damage was great and fixing her would take time, as Hartman had told her.

"Soon," said Hartman, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I've spoken to Walter's assistant. Jesse says his health… well, let's just say that he's not well at the moment."

Trixie closed her eyes and sighed. "My father's dying and here I am living out a fantasy of witches, magic and imaginary girlfriend. Fuck."

"Don't be angry with yourself, Trixie. Focus on positive things. Your father wouldn't want you to beat yourself up," said Hartman. "Tell you want. I'm going to free you from the drip-feed so you can move freely through the lodge today. I've been watching your progress and I think you're stable enough to be among the general population again."

"Oh, finally," Trixie closed her eyes and let out a sigh of relief.

Hartman handed her a bottle of pills. "As long as you take two of these every hour until you go to bed, you should have nothing to worry about. I'm sure you remember where the kitchen is too. Cooking has been part of your creative therapy, Trixie, and I must say that both your fellow patients and the staff have greatly missed your creations. Especially your absolutely delicious cheesecake."

Trixie nodded. "I'll see what I can whip up," she grinned, happy to hear that her skills were appreciated. "What I cook up will depend on the ingredients I have access to when creativity sparks."

"Atta girl," chuckled Dr. Hartman. "But do remember to write down your story. The more you write, the quicker Trixie White makes her recovery. And remember… Two of these pills, every hour. Now, shall we go for a brief stroll? To reacquaint yourself with the clinic grounds and your fellow patients."

Considering she had been in this room for a few days or so, Trixie was eager to agree. She accepted the bottle of pills and let it slide into her side pocket while she ignored the glares of nurse Birch and followed Hartman outside into the corridor. This patient wing contained the private rooms of her and her fellow patient. Her room was relatively sparse, but was marked with a sign reading 'White'. It was odd to her that the doors all had glass panes so everyone could see inside… but she supposed that was so the nurses could check in on them more easily.

Her neighbour across the hall was named 'Lane' and through the glass she could see a wide array of painter's gear as well as empty canvas. Next door to her was 'Emerson'. Not sure what this person was about, but there were all kind of posters with space-ships on it and a model of some sort of shuttlecraft. Opposite to this room was 'Desole'. Not much to see other than some lovely sculptures.

They passed double doors and the last room, one larger than the others at the end of the corridor, was marked 'Anderson'. Two beds were inside as well as plenty of Norse objects: a viking horn, shields and some guitars. The name Anderson rang a bell and the memory was screaming at her to be remembered. Yet her mind was still so fuzzy. Perhaps she should take two of the pills.

"Not yet," said Hartman as they both entered the elevator opposite to the Andersons' room. "It's good of you to be diligent, but you should definitely wait a bit before taking the pills. You just got off the IV, remember."

Trixie shrugged and re-pocketed the pill.

"Creativity is a major part of the therapy we offer. Artistry and creation is the most powerful tool for healing. A way to make sense of the world in a way that is meaningful to the individual. Art shapes us, Trixie. It shapes the world around us. It gives us our place. Our purpose. To a degree, it shapes out world," said Hartman. "Sometimes, such in your case, to our detriment."

"Will I ever have a normal life?" Trixie asked that question, surprising herself. Did she want a normal life? What even was a normal life? What even was real? Thinking about this made her even feel more detached from her own body, her own self. It was confusing and unsettling.

Hartman didn't respond as they got off the elevator and stepped out of the front door. It led to a fountain in front of a large gate leading to the road. The entire compound was enclosed by a high wall with spiked bars on top. To her left was part of the lodge labelled a staff area. To her right was the entrance to the garden. Around the length of the lodge ran a stone path with plenty of benches. It was a lovely day out, the sun was warm on her skin and the air was dry and soothing. She would enjoy spending some time in the garden today.

"Trixie, you've been suffering from paranoid delusions, irrational thinking and obsessions. You're fiercely intelligent, but that doesn't help you," said Hartman as the two walked the path. "In fact, it makes matters worse for you. Light and darkness has been a recurring theme in your episodes. And Bellatrix Black isn't the first alternate persona you've created, far from it."

Trixie glanced around the garden. It seemed familiar and yet it did not. It was still hard to think. Nearly impossible to focus. Hartman didn't seem to notice and continued to babble as Trixie followed. "You have constructed elaborate fantasies so detailed and convincing you have others believing it. You created a lover. A manifestation of that which you always wanted to have in your life. A beautiful girl, smart and clever, headstrong and proud. In a way, she is a reflection of you. The person you want to be. Perhaps there's an element of narcissism to a point. Reflection of your own mental damage onto another."

"You say I never had sisters," Trixie said. "Yet I remember them so clearly. A past we shared together."

Hartman turned to her, that reassuring smile aimed at her again. "You've always been an only child. It's all in your head. You've been making it up."

"And Hermione…" Trixie closed her eyes. "I… She… felt so real. So… genuine."

"The human mind is a fascinating machine, in a way. Desires can sometimes supersede reality. Your own mind can be your greatest enemy, Trixie. You'd do well to remember that."

Finally, Cauldron Lake behind the lodge came into view. The stone path gave way to a gorgeous stone viewing deck ran along the entire back of the lodge. Mirror Peak, the tallest point of the caldera, loomed before her. From here she could see the ruins of the Look-out Point. Apparently, there'd been a nasty gas explosion a few days prior, something she had apparently Incorporated into her fantasies. Far below was the lake, its waters like a black mirror. Gazing upon it made her head hurt.

"You cannot tell reality from the fantasy you've created. Unless we fight the fantasy, it will return. You will fight against me, of course, as you always do, but think about it. Doesn't this make far more sense than the insane alternate identity and conspiracies you have concocted for yourself? Everything can be explained logically if you just think about it."

That was just it. It was near impossible to think straight. Perhaps she should take those pills soon anyway. Perhaps that would help.

The centrepiece of this deck was a massive decorative sundial in the ground around a rounded section of the deck protruding outward. Latin words were etched in the metal: 'In Tenebras Cadere'.

Fall into Darkness.

Wait… how did she know that? Why would she know Latin?

"You remember nothing? You always loved to sit here and watch the lake for hours," said Hartman. "I can understand why. I never get tired of this view. Very inspiring isn't it?"

Cauldron Lake sprawled before her. Trixie could make out the spot were Divers' Isle had been when she had arrived. Had she? Arrived? Wait, that was the fantasy. There was nothing but waves and islands didn't simply disappear. Trixie pushed it to the back of her mind: this fantasy was dangerous and insidious, it seemed. She turned away from the lake and regarded the lodge. It had once been a hotel, she'd been told. A massive three story log-cabin like building with a center main area where the wall facing the lake was all windows. It looked welcoming enough... but then why was she being so apprehensive?

Hartman beckoned her to follow. "After all your nightmares, waking up from the fantasy should come as a relief to you. If it doesn't, think to yourself why that is. Because you think I'm lying or because you don't want to admit that you're not well."

Trixie thought to herself and let out a sigh. "I am... not well," she muttered. And she meant it. She had no idea what to believe and trying to think was like trying to pierce a veil that didn't want to be pierced. What was real? And what was false? Trixie… felt real. But was she really?

Hartman seemed pleased. "Good. It's very natural to think of you as my enemy. It's natural to want to flee back into the world you've constructed for yourself. But I can't do it by myself. You need to work with me. And I think we've been making great strides so far…"

One thing Trixie did know for certain, was that the man did love the sound of his own voice. Part of the job, she assumed.

The central lounge was very pleasant, doubling as a sitting and dining area, divided in multiple areas where patients could withdraw and relax. Several people were there, including Nurse Birch and Nurse Sinclair, a hard-faced woman who was always glaring. Aside from the furniture, there was a huge central fireplace. Above the fireplace hung trophies for deer, elk and a stuffed cougar. Hartman looked at the dead animals with no small measure of pride. "You were impressed by my trophies when you first arrived. Well, what can I say, I do love to hunt. Man versus nature and all that. The great outdoors."

A young man looking to be in his early thirties approached her and Hartman. He seemed skittish and not all there, moving erratically and having a wild look in his eyes. "Ah, Emerson," said Hartman. "Come say hello to Trixie. She's doing a lot better now."

Immediately, the man turned his gaze to her, narrowing her eyes. "Trixie? Trixie. Tricksey. Tricksey Trixie!"

"Now now, Emerson. Trixie is confused enough as it is," said Hartman.

"You think the future will have flying cars? Hah, that's for mundanes. No, no, no, in the future, we will take pictures from the internet. And we will sell them as exclusives! People will trade them and drive up the value! Art becomes non-fungible currency! Invest now and we can use them to buy an island in the Fiji's! Digital becomes reality! Reality becomes meta! Are you ready to enter the Metaverse, Tricksey Trixie?!"

Trixie blinked. "I… have literally no idea what any of that meant, but it still sounds utterly moronic."

Hartman chuckled. "Neither do we. His delusions are even grander than yours."

Emerson narrowed his eyes at her. "Yeah, you'd like me to go away, won't you? But you can't just decide what future you want to have! You can't just write a different ending because you don't like the outcome!"

That said, Emerson dove behind a sofa, peeking at her ever so often. Trixie didn't know why, but the words Emerson had just spoken had struck a deep chord in her. Write… a different ending?

"Creative thoughts as being a futurist is a bit of an… abstract form of art," said Hartman. "Still, it makes him receptive to our methods."

An older woman, looking to be in her sixties, sat on a bench staring blankly at a sculpture in front of her while quietly humming to herself. Those eyes deeply disturbed Trixie: it was as if the lights were on, but nobody was home. The poor woman just stared at the small obsidian sculpture of a formless thing, never taking her eyes off it.

"That is Wendy Desole. Brilliant sculptress. Makes exquisite work, still does. Unfortunately, that is all she can do right now. She's completely withdrawn into herself. She was… frightened by her own work," said Hartman.

"Can you help her?" asked Bellatrix, not able to tear her gaze from those living dead eyes of hers.

"Yes," said Hartman. "But it'll take even more work than I'd have to do for you."

"Me?" Trixie said. "And how do I fit in this motley crew?"

Hartman crossed his arms as Trixie regarded the poor woman. "Trixie, you a very rare breed. Your creativity manifests the best in your cooking skills, but this is simply because it is the first creative skill you picked up. Truth is, you can do it all. Aside from cooking, you've developed impressive musical and writing skills. Before your latest episode, you've not only dabbled but made great strides in teaching yourself sculpting and painting. You have a rare combination of drive, willpower and determination mixed with a perfectionist streak which allows you to manifest your creativity through any means you put your mind to. That makes your situation most dangerous, as the elaborate fantasies are an indication of, but also very tragic. You are a savant, Trixie. In another life, you could have been this generation's Michaelangelo. Alas, tragedy is often the lot of the hyper-intelligent hyper-creatives. But we're working on that, aren't we?"

Are we?

Trixie supposed it was all very flattering, but what was the point of being 'this generation's Michaelangelo' if she'd spend her entire life in a loony-bin?

Hartman led her to another section of the main hall, where two elderly men were playing a board game. Both men were clad in leather jackets and looked to be at least a hundred and fifty years old. One of them was hitting the table with a squeaky multi-coloured toy hammer. The other one was wearing an eye patch and was studying his next move carefully. Trixie paused: she felt like she should know these two men, but the memories simply didn't come flowing back.

"And finally the last members of our little family. Tor and Odin," said Hartman. "Gentlemen, don't you have something to say?"

Thor kept banging his toy hammer as if it was a judge's gavel, but Odin looked up from the board to look at her intently. "Welcome back… Trixie."

"The Anderson brothers," said Trixie, before she realized that she had said it.

Hartman seemed surprised for a moment. "Indeed. Your memories must be returning! These two fine gentlemen had an old rock band from the Seventies. After the band broke up, they moved back to their old family farm. But... they aren't well. In advanced stages of dementia, in fact."

Trixie didn't miss the dirty look Odin gave Hartman. "They are well cared for, TLC and all that, but nothing more that can be done. Rock and roll lifestyle has a tendency to leave its mark."

Just then, the lights above them flickered for a moment before it returned. Tor and Odin didn't seem concerned, but Hartman seemed irritated. "Excuse me, Trixie, but the power's been acting up all day and I need to see to it. Now, remember your pills. Two per hour starting one hour from now. And it is essential that you continue to write. It is vital to your therapy."

The moment Hartman was out of earshot, Tor slammed his hammer into the table. "I'd like to bash his head in a hammer! A real one!"

Odin smirked at Trixie. "He'd love to flush out our secrets, but he has no clue! Not after years of trying. He's not crazy enough."

Tor rose from his seat to chair, but immediately grunted and reached for his back. Trixie gave him a wary look while Odin chuckled at her. "Being crazy is a requirement. Who else would understand the world when it's like this?! Takes crazy to know crazy."

Trixie snorted. "That's probably the sanest thing I've heard all day," she muttered.

Before she could react, Tor whacked her straight in the forehead with his toy hammer. She grunted, more from the fact she'd been startled rather than any pain.

"I like her," Tor chuckled. "We should let her go to the farm!"

"Valhalla!" Odin laughed. "It's where we put it all down, lest we forget. All you need to know to get your head right."

The way the older brother Odin regarded her with that intense single eye of his was somewhat worrying. He knew more than he was letting on. But… why did Trixie know that the brother knew more than he was letting on? Was she sinking into her fantasy again? Pills. She needed to take the pills. But… no. Not yet. An hour from now.

She excused herself and found her way to the kitchen. Doing something she was familiar with should soothe her, or so she hoped. She sorted through the myriad of ingredients and wondered what to make. A cheesecake seemed to be a good idea, as Hartman had told her that the others quite enjoyed that. Of course, preparing a proper cheesecake would take a lot of time. Fortunately, she knew just a thing: a recipe which didn't require a water bath and could be eaten warm from the oven with a scoop of vanilla icecream on top. Trixie didn't know how she knew this, but she figured it was all part of the hole in her memory. She got to work and roughly 45 minutes later, emerged with tray filled with plates of steamy warm cheesecake with vanilla icecream on top.

She stood by the sofa behind which Emerson was hiding. The skittish man did not appear, but she left a plate next to the sofa along with a plastic fork. The moment she took a few steps backs, a hand emerged from the sofa and quickly ripped the plate away. "Thank you, Tricksey Trixie," sounded a soft whisper.

Trixie shrugged and put down a plate for Wendy. "I'm just going to leave it right here."

The next visit was to the Anderson brothers. Thankfully they were too engrossed in their game to take note of her again. The cheesecake, however, was very much noticed.

There was one person, however, Hartman had forgotten to introduce her to. Rudolf Lane, the painter, was hard at work at his easel on the upper floor, at a window looking down upon the deck and lake beyond. He was a bald man in his forties, a paint pallet in one hand and eagerly adding brush strokes to his canvas.

"Oh, hello! I've painted you!" the man greeted without looking up or even having seen her approach.

"I've brought you some cheesecake," Trixie replied and put down a plate. But when she looked over the shoulder, she found herself wondering. Oh, the painting was very good, that much was clear to her. It was just… unexpected. It was a painting her… well, the back of her, but the hair gave it away. She wearing a long black coat, a camo-print backpack and running through… a corridor? No. A hedge. Two hedges? A corridor between two hedges? The painting made it seem as if the walls… hedges… were falling into her. A strong woman, stood among the shadows… defiantly.

Lane smiled and kept painting. "I was struck by inspiration a few days ago. Hartman wanted me to paint landscapes, but now I've been doing these things. And a lot of them. The images just keep coming. Hartman likes them. He has them in his office."

"That's not me," Trixie muttered. "That's… me from my fantasy."

Lane replied. "You should probably go inside, though. The storm is very fierce."

"What are you talking about? It's clear as can be," said Trixie. "There's not a cloud in the sky."

Lane said nothing anymore and continued painting. Though he did stop to take a bite from the cheesecake and took a moment to give her a compliment. Though she wondered who the craziest person in the lodge was, Trixie was quite pleased that her art was being appreciated. Moreover, she was happy to notice that at some point Wendy had broken out of her catatonic state to empty her plate.

Trixie had to admit that, despite the anxieties and doubt still coursing through her, she had been feeling a lot better. Grounded, even. The empty detached feeling should go away at some point. Good. Trixie felt she was well underway to finally getting better.

So why did fake memories of a kind-hearted brown-haired, brown-eyed girl called Hermione were still haunting her? Fake memories that kept screaming at her that this girl she loved was still in terrible danger. And why was, somewhere deep inside of her mind, a fake-persona called Bellatrix Black clawing, cursing, swearing and screaming at her to be unleashed?