Chapter 37

Deja was very groggy. She couldn't recall much of what happened over the last few hours. Her mind wasn't functioning as it should. She could feel herself strapped down to something. The movement in her arms and legs were restricted.

She opened her eyes slowly, and was blinded by the fluorescent lights. She blinked a few times to adjust to the brightness. Slowly, she craned her head to the left and then the right. She couldn't make out where she was, but knew it wasn't at home.

She looked down and noticed the straps holding her body parts in place. The room was white and appeared very sterile. There was one door with a small window, but she was unable to see out because of the position she was in.

Deja attempted to call out, but her voice wasn't strong enough. She'd never felt this weak before. It was as if all the livelihood was sucked out of her.

She began to remember what happened before she woke up. She had killed Mort. He had become Shooter and a struggle between the two of them ensued. She had no choice but to shoot him. It wasn't as if she wanted to hurt Mort, but he wasn't himself. Shooter had left her with no choice.

Remembering the events she began to sob. Tears rolled down her face, her breathing increased and her chest began to convulse. As if out of nowhere, her voice started calling out for help. Within seconds, two fairly large men in white uniforms entered the room.

"Calm down," the blond man told her.

"What's going on? Where am I?"

"Same place you've been for the last few years or so," the other, darker haired, man muttered.

"Few years?" Deja asked confused.

"Look, the doctors want to keep you restrained like this until you calm down. I suggest you do as you're told so you can go back to your regular room as soon as possible."

"Think we need to give her a calming injection?" the dark haired man asked.

"No, I don't think so. She hasn't done anything outrageous since being restrained. We'll get her doctor in here and she can administer any sort of medication."

The two men checked to make sure she was shackled down properly and left the room. Nothing they'd said made any sense. She couldn't have been sent away for killing Mort could she? Had they put her back into the asylum for ending his life? But the man said she'd been there for a few years now. There was no way she couldn't have remembered the last few years of her life, was there?

A tall, thin redheaded woman made her way into the room. The name Dr. Stradford was on her name tag. She approached Deja with caution and said, "Are you feeling up to talking?"

"I'm confused," Deja answered wearily.

"I know, and I hate to see you in this shape, but you must understand it was necessary."

"Can someone please tell me what's going on?" Deja pleaded.

"Deja, I'm going to need for you to relax before I can have the nurses undo you."

"How can I be relaxed if I have no idea about what's going on?"

"You've had a very trying time here with us and you're just now coming back to 'reality.' I'll explain everything to you in our meeting this afternoon, but we need you as calm as possible first."

Deja decided she didn't have any other choice, but to calm down. She took a few deep breaths and let her body release. One of the men from earlier entered the room and undid her restraints. Her ankles and wrists were sore and after sitting up she began to massage them.

She attempted to stand, but her legs felt wobbly. The other male nurse entered the room with a wheelchair. They both helped Deja get in it and her doctor wheeled her into the office.
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"Okay, I'm really at a loss here. You're going to have to explain this to me again," Deja said to Dr. Stradford.

Dr. Stradford had told Deja what reality was for the last hour or so and Deja was still in disbelief. She needed to be told again, exactly what was real and what she had conjured up in her mind.

"Okay, let's go over this briefly," Dr. Stradford began, "after you were released from the Waverly Institute, roughly nine or ten years ago, you moved back in with your mother. Everything was fine for about two years, then when you were 18, you relapsed. No one is sure why you retrogressed, but you began to see imaginary people. Not the same ones that visited you at Waverly, but entirely new people. Your mother was so worried that she had you recommitted. Your condition only became worse after you entered the other institution, Safe Haven. You were there for almost seven years. You'd led yourself to believe that you had this boyfriend, Darrell and that things were great at first and then he began to cheat. You had no concept of time or place. You actually believed you were living in a house...alone. When your mother saw that your progress was worsening, she had you moved here. She saw no need in leaving you in a place that wasn't treating your condition. She did some research and came up with my name. Not to brag, but I'm a leader in the field of mental psychosis. She wanted the best help for you." Dr. Stradford let out a long sigh. She wanted to get all the details of this retelling correct. "I spoke with her on several occasions about your condition and we filled out the necessary paperwork to have you moved here, to Florida. She knew she couldn't afford to move here herself, but was willing to move you to benefit your situation. Unfortunately, only a week after settling you in here, Janice passed away. It was due to a stroke, but I somehow feel it was her heart breaking due to the fact that her only child was in such bad shape. I just think it was all too much for her to handle alone."

Deja began to tear up. The first time Dr. Stradford had told her this story it was too much for her take in. She hadn't even grasped the fact that her mother had died. Her mind was like a fog. It was as if she was waking up after a terrible, drunken night.

Dr. Stradford continued, "Well, you and Janice made such an impression on me that I've made it my obligation to find a way to help you. And believe me when I say this wasn't an easy task. This fantasy world you were living in was magical at first. I would observe you interacting with specific people. You worked in a diner and there were definitely some interesting characters that came through that job. The most interesting being Morton Rainey. He was a writer, correct?"

Deja nodded slightly, tears forming in her eyes at the thought that Mort wasn't real.

"Well, your relationship with him was so pure and loving. I thought his materialization would aide in your cure process. But I came to learn that Mort wasn't healthy either. You had created him as being someone with a disorder as well. Only his disorder was violent. I'm not even sure you ever came to realize it, but his personality, Shooter...besides killing the people you knew about he also killed...Darell, your ex, and Celeste, Darrell's girlfriend. She was the one following you in the car that night. Mort did some investigating on who it was that night and Shooter ultimately killed her."

Deja was in shock. "How...how do you know all of this?"

"Well, we kept cameras in your room at all times. And even though I couldn't physically be there to observe everything that went on, I would go back and watch tapes of scenes that seemed interesting."

"So you mean to tell me, I actually acted out all of these scenarios? Like I would act out that I was riding in a car? Or when Mort and I...when we..."

"Made love?" Dr. Stradford asked. Deja nodded, embarrassment showing itself on her face. "Yes, I saw all of that, but I didn't like to dwell on those moments," Dr. Stradford said. "The times when you and Mort fought, when his 'Shooter' personality came out were the most crucial for me to observe. Especially your last moment with him. Do you recall what happened?"

"Yes," Deja said softly. "I shot him."

"Yes, and do you know why?"

"He was attacking me."

"In your mind that's what happened, but it was all coming to a close because of the medication you were given. A new drug, Dioxymal, was just let out on the market about two years ago. It was very controversial and had just been approved by the FDA. They only wanted it used in extreme cases. You were observed by a Dr. Terry for six months before we could begin administering the Dioxymal to you. He felt like you were a good candidate for the drug so we would inject you with a small dosage of it at night while you slept. Over the next few weeks we increased the dosage. You began to slip in and out of consciousness and reality. Finally, the night that you killed Mort we had given you the largest dosage possible without putting you into a coma. The largest amount legal. We hoped this would be the breaking point, and luckily we were right. We had to be very attentive of you that night. We couldn't risk you somehow hurting yourself. That's why you were restrained. After the 'shooting' you passed out and woke up this morning in the realm of reality."

Deja let out a long sigh. This was all so much for her to take in. "So, now that I'm awake from this dream I've been living for so long, where do I go?"

"Even though we're pretty certain you won't have a relapse, we have to keep you here a little while longer, for observation. Go through more conventional methods of therapy and then when I feel like you're ready to leave from here, we'll send you packing." Dr. Stradford let out a small laugh. She was elated that Deja had finally come full circle in her recovery.

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Deja was let back into her room. It was as if she was seeing it for the first time. In her mind it was her first time. Before, the confines of these four walls, had been the diner, the insurance office, Mort's house, the lake, everything she had ever come to know.

Now it was just a small, highly lit room with one bed and no windows. She studied the room. Looking in every nook and cranny. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she assumed it was something to connect her to her memory of Mort and Tashmore Lake.

Finding nothing, she laid down in her bed, exhausted from the day's events. Thoughts of her relationship with Mort and the children flooded her mind. She looked at her left hand, examining where here engagement ring had once been. Tears stained her cheeks. She fell into a dreamless sleep and wondered what the future held in store for her.