Chapter One: Enough Stories
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35 Years Post-ANH
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The mirror was cracked, like so many things.
Lera Verili wondered, as she brushed her hair, how long it would take the nurses to realize this, and replace it. She wondered, then, if they thought she and her roommate were unstable enough to warrant such a concerned reaction. And she wondered that it no longer bothered her that they did.
She touched the glass gingerly, being careful to avoid the sharp, broken edges. Her roommate, Gisel, had punched it in her sleep, and both girls had refrained from mentioning the incident and the nightmares.
That was how it was, in the Chume Ward for the Mentally Unwell.
Giving her hair one last tug, Lera set her brush down, and grabbed her notebook and pen before leaving.
The walls of the hallway stretched before her, and for a moment Lera leaned against her shut door, staring. Each side was painted white, almost glaringly so, and was interrupted only by the doors to other rooms.
I can't wait to leave
The thought brought bitterness, but Lera pushed it aside. Why break tradition by being honest with herself? She had ignored her parents' relationship, and her own danger, and she could ignore this, too.
Lera's feet took her to her therapist's door, and then through it; she stared at the ends of her socks. Normal shoes were not allowed here—just slippers or socks. As a result, Lera didn't even have the choice of wearing heels and pretending she was taller.
Not that it mattered, here.
"Lerasina," Dr. Pilk greeted warmly, smiling.
Lera smiled back, because adults—especially adults with medical training—liked to think that if kids smiled, then they were normal. "Hi."
"Take a seat, why don't you, Lera?"
Lera stared at the green, worn couch, and sat on the arm rest. A small defiance on her part, but Dr. Pilk only shook her head before ignoring the action.
Dr. Pilk chattered something about charts, and approval in areas, and asked about some of Lera's recent visitors. Lera responded mechanically, her thoughts drifting. Through a nearby window, she could see the Ward's courtyard, the hardiest flowers just beginning to bloom. Moving her mud-brown eyes from there, she found a calendar.
March? Was it only March? Suddenly light-headed, Lera slid from the armrest to deep into the couch.
March. That made it…sixteen months. Sixteen months since it all—
"Lera? Are you listening to me?"
Lera flushed, wanting nothing more than to hide under a bed in the dark, where no one could see her. "Sorry," she mumbled, pulling on the cuffs of her oversized sweater.
Dr. Pilk sighed and rubbed her scalp in exasperation. "Lerasina, please don't start this now. You're nearly out of here. Isn't that what you want?"
"Well, of course I— What?" Lera blinked and sat up straight. "I am? Really?"
Apparently pleased that she had seized Lera's complete attention, Dr. Pilk smiled. "As you would know if you had been listening, yes. However…"
There was always a "however".
"However, I have one last task for you, before you return home."
Lera slumped back into her chair, shrinking into herself, preparing for the worst. She could just tell this would hurt. "What?" she asked, resigned.
Dr. Pilk leaned forward, elbows on datapad on lap. "Although we know what happened was not entirely you, Lerasina, you must face it—completely and utterly—nonetheless. I want you to choose one way to express everything that happened. Everything. You must exorcise your demons."
Stars.Painful didn't even begin to describe this task. Sadistic, maybe. Lera wondered if Dr. Pilk had demon blood, or if she had been possessed by a Sith lord, or if she was a spy for—
Stop it, Lera. Enough stories.
"Once you have completed this assignment, you are free to leave." Dr. Pilk reached over to pat Lera's hand gently. "But, more importantly, you will simply be free."
What an idiotic, naïve woman. As if such a tiny thing could possibly undo all the damage.
"Well, hop to it, Lerasina. Therapy and Group have been suspended until you finish." The woman paused, then smiled. "Therefore, this is your last session. How does it feel?"
Lera wrapped her arms around herself, looking around the room—at its calendar, its window, its tasteful but sparse decorations. Finding no words, she gave a final, I'm-alright smile, then left.
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There was really no choice in the how of Lera's explanation; she was a writer, it was what she did. And it was…comforting. Writing she knew, and she could generally trust it, so long as she had the control.
Still, she stalled for all of thirty minutes.
The cracked mirror had been replaced, and if they had accidentally moved something, they had put it back. Probably, she thought, a good idea, since one never knew how a tiny detail would affect some of the crazies. Her half of the dresser was still a little messy—she always meant to clean it, but never got around to it. Scraps of flimsi with notes were scattered about, waiting to be used for her stories.
Speaking of writing… She caught one of her story datapads, which had been about to fall right off the dresser, judging by its precarious position over the edge. Lera added it to the stack of 'pads at the left-top of her flat space, just a little away from Gisel's hair elastics and tiny, plastic wrappers. Brushing some of these nuisances away from her own things, Lera then lightly blew at the dust that had begun to collect on her 'pads.
She hadn't written much of anything, for quite a while. She couldn't, almost, bring herself to type or write anything into a datapad. Flimsi, yes, sometimes she could use that; flimsi was safe, hers.
Writing that came too easy, though, was definitely not.
Carefully, she wiped down the 'pads with her hand, and arranged them in order of how much she had once written them. The stories she had barely started planning, let alone writing, were hidden at the bottom. Ghost Glass, on the other hand, was nearly completed, and so it sat on the top. She hoped, wistfully, that this would be come-hither enough for her frightened muse.
Foolish, the only thing she had written since winding up in the Ward, Lera stuffed into the back of her sock drawer. That story, while actually finished, disturbed her. Much darker than any of her other work, she had scribbled it down furiously, attacking the flimsi until she ripped through it, carving into anything below it.
Lerahated that she could write like that, now. As soon as she left this place, she would smash the datapad into a thousand pieces.
Slamming the drawer shut on Foolish, Lera worked blindly to clean up the rest of the dresser's surface. Upon finishing, she attacked the nearby desk. Dr. Pilk's new task could be done in a quieter room, away from Gisel, perhaps even in a solitude chamber, but Lera wanted it here.
This room, where she couldn't escape reality. Call it masochistic.
She wondered if it was her memories or Everything Else that made this so impossible.
Finally, she had nothing to do that could distract her. The room was immaculate, or as much so as she could stand; her pen and many pages of flimsi were placed exactly how she liked them on the desk.
Lera found one, last escape—a holo-slide. Flipping it on, she watched the holo-images appear. One of she and Arelyk, one of Nichyn on his first night at the Rym home, a few of her friends, one of her…parents.
Groaning, she flipped past that series quickly, until she was back to some harmless images. As the slideshow continued, more pictures of Nichyn appeared, and then some of Lera writing—Nichyn and Arelyk must have snapped those.
Nichyn. He had tried to warn her, had thought something was wrong, before anyone else. Ironic, then, that it was the problem's nephew who tried to save her…
Lera grabbed her pen and tore the words through flimsi until it fell apart, and the words remained only on the desk.
Most was garble; Lera doubted anyone but her could have understood it. She had seen this before, however—whenever she had tried to write since That Day—and so she could decipher bits and pieces of it—
You— (and a dirty name Lera would never have used before) you used me!
WHY
Sanar? Sanar, why didn't you—
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—
And it all exploded in my face, and—
Why wasn't I good enough to save—
Stop it! Please, stop!
Let me go.
"No!" She screamed out loud, and slammed her hands down over the writing, covering it up, hiding her shame. Her eyes pricked, and she covered them, pushing the tears back in. "You stupid, stupid girl—don't cry."
She smothered her eyes until the tears were gone, and then she clenched her hands tight, tensing until it felt like a scream. Releasing her muscles, she whispered, "Don't break," over and over again, like a mantra, until her heart beat in time, and her eyes were clear, and she felt calm again.
Lera took a new piece of flimsi. This one, she would write properly. Staring at it, the rage and betrayal left her, and only exhaustion remained.
All of this…desperate, destructive passion…it wasn't her—at the very least, not entirely. She knew that. It didn't make it easier to deal with, of course, but there the truth lay.
Just pretend they're characters, and Dr. Pilk will have her "exorcism".
But where to start?
Lera tapped her pen against the flimsi for a moment, thinking. Finally, the muse gave a little, and Lera came to a decision.
There was more—far more—here than Lera's story; she could only be cleansed if she said it all. It would be more, perhaps, than Dr. Pilk wanted, but that was okay. Dr. Pilk really didn't matter.
She waited another moment, then slowly began.
"It's time."
A good enough start, for someone who hadn't written in a couple months.
Great. Give yourself a pat on the back, Lera. Now keep writing. And don't you dare stop, coward.
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.Tjz