After stepping out of the shower, Eva threw on her ratty old bathrobe. It rested just above her knees and was full of holes, to compensate for the lack of cover she pulled on a pair of clean sweats. Going into the kitchen, she started cleaning up her mess from dinner. She honestly couldn't figure out a way to occupy herself. TV was not doing a thing for her. As she shoved the last few dishes into the dishwasher, Eva glanced over at her bookcase. It rested on the far wall and was packed with variety of books. Closing the dishwasher, she walked over and aloud her fingers to run up the smooth spines of her books. Within a few minutes, she pulled down her marked up copy of Sylvia Plath. Taking a seat on her couch, the book fell open to worn pages
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
Her nails dug into the pages, causing crescent divots. Feeling a sudden disgust with the words and with the rearing of Joker in her head. She wanted something sobering, something that put her into the realities of pain, all of the cuts and bruises inflicted on her over the last few days. Flipping several pages back, she tried to lose herself in the words
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
His face came back to her again, as if to coax her along this winding path. Eva couldn't seem to purge him. All the things that he was, everything that he was doing to bring her down to some ridiculous level.
I am terrified by this dark thing!
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead!
I think I made you up inside my head
All day
I am terrified, its malignity!
Sung me moon-struck
I think I made you up inside my head!
Moon-struck
Quite insane.
Malignity, this dark thing that sleeps inside me.
Letting the book drop to the floor, Eva clutched her head and cradled it to her knees. A headache was blossoming, everything in her was screaming with confused agony. Nothing was processing in the realm of sanity, the words melded into a mess of jargon that made no sense and all the sense in the world. Her apartment began to spin a little when she made attempts to stand, it was as if the words of Plath pulled from her mindscape to dance in the realms of reality. Why was this happening? Everything he did, all the things she had done in the name of self-preservation were coming back and nailing her in the gut. As if her own human decency was punishing her for her actions. Eva saw the face of the man who choked on his tongue, the blotched up eyes of Mr. Harris. Joker's face blossomed, still coaxing her downward. Falling back on the couch, Eva kicked away the book and buried her head in the pillows "No darkness, not moon-struck, just shut up."
The images and words continued to dance, she waved her hands at them "I did nothing wrong. Please. Just. Shut. Up."
This was guilt, the overwhelming sense of guilt. It was swallowing her in much the same way when Eva was trying to navigate her life after her mother's death. At least in those days, drugs had numbed some of the insanity, perhaps even the hallucinations. Hell, Joker had wailed on her enough to cause minor head trauma. All rationality did not stop the onslaught of hallucinations and guilt ridden headaches that gobbled her up into the darkness. Curling up, Eva did her best to push away the words of Sylvia Plath and the face of Joker, but he grinned down her, as if in approval of her toeing the line of madness. As he said, one bad day, that was all it took, and Eva had had several bad days.