Fugue Forgotten

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.



I don't know where I am. I'm numb to all sensations as I float in an empty plain that is neither here nor there. It's refreshing to be able to think clearly without the dulling apathy of the sedatives. Here, I don't feel the madness that usually resides in my head.

As much as I hate being in a transitory state, I don't mind the clarity, during which I can think, breath – be. The odd thing about my episodes are whenever I'm caught in the throes of one, I'm quite aware of it. It's only afterwards that I don't remember anything.

I'm also blissfully unaware of whatever damage I'm causing to my body right now. If the episode is bad enough, I catch snippets of whatever I'm doing. Perhaps they're brief moments of lucidity as I fight to catch my breath before plunging into the deadness that I currently occupy.

There's a body on my bed. She's sitting hunched over with her knees to her chest, her chin tucked in so that her hair covers most of her face. Her hands clasp her wrists as she sits and rocks. She looks distressed, and for a moment, I'm suffocating, overwhelmed with a rush of despair for this shattered girl whose face is so like mine.

And then it's gone. Her movements have stilled, and her chin now rests atop her knees as she stares at the empty side of the room. She's mumbling; one hand travels up to her stringy, lifeless hair as the other softly pats the bed.

"I can be free." Her desires are mine. Freedom is what we crave. Freedom from this disease; independence from this prison.

"Free," she moans, louder now. She starts to rock again, each sway increases in intensity. The bed squeaks in protest, as if it's shouting at her to stop, to snap out of it, to stop acting like a fucking lunatic. But that's why she – I'm, here.

And then she's out of the bed. She almost looks like she's suspended in mid-air, flying. Free. She's across the room, scrambling slightly as she gets twisted in the covers. Her legs are shaky, but that doesn't keep her from moving quickly.

She's at the door. Her hand grasps at the handle, and she yanks on it. The sound of the locked door shaking in the doorframe is deafening and I start to cover my ears with my hands when I realize it's unnecessary. The noise isn't painful; nothing is painful when I'm here. The move was merely reflexive.

"Free," she cries.

Her gaze darts around the room. She's as skittish and awkward as a scared animal, and the thinness of her body only accentuates that.

She's scurrying again, across the room. She's at the wall with the window situated in the upper right-hand corner. She's clawing at it, her fists bang onto the grey cinderblocks.

"Free," she grunts.

She keeps banging. I can only imagine how painful the wall is against her small hands.

"Need to fly away." Her voice is lighter now, almost singing.

Suddenly, she stills and stiffens. Her twig-like arms are straight at her sides, her back unnaturally upright as she sits on her knees against the wall. She leans forward, jerking her head against the wall in the process. A low moan escapes her lips, and then a high, uneven shriek.

There's the sound of keys jingling at the door, and I hear it slam against the door-jamb when it's roughly pushed open.

And then I'm away and it's quiet. If I could feel my heart, it would be pounding against my chest. I'm gasping as if I'd been holding my breath for hours. I want to go back. I want to see what happens to the girl.

What I really want is to be back. I want my body. I don't think it can take much more of that abuse without suffering damage. Well, more damage. I'm already broken. I broke the day Charlie signed me in at the front desk and drove away without a second glance.

That Charlie isn't the father I knew – the one I grew up with. My Charlie was daddy. He was warm, kind. He kissed my scraped knees and twisted ankles. He checked my closet for boogey men and under my bed for monsters. He was there when the nightmares had me screaming in the middle of the night.

This new Charlie wasn't there when I needed him the most. When I'd had enough of the needles. When I yearned for a soft, warm bed. When I needed to be held by my daddy.

He had morphed into Charlie – a man ashamed of his daughter. Unable to support her.

He pushed me away.

Just like my body pushes me away. It is morbidly fascinating how this state is timeless. The moments and instances just flow into one another, only occasionally broken up by brief flashes and pictures of real life.

My mind spins as I'm bombarded with another image of the girl. She's back on her bed, and if I couldn't see the shallow rise and fall of her chest, I would have believed her to be dead. She's on top of her threadbare blanket, still dressed in her thin pants and long sleeve shirt.

Her wrists are tethered to the bed on either side of her, as are her legs. Thick straps of leather that are cutting into the soft, delicate flesh of her wrists and ankles immobilize her.

She's not screaming anymore. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused – she's been given another dose of sedatives. Barely audible whimpers erupt from her throat. My stomach churns when I notice an oozing gash on her forehead, and I shudder as I remember the distinct sound of her head hitting the wall.

She's trapped, just as I am.

It bothers me that no one has taken the time to tend to her wounds. She's left bound there like an animal, not important enough to cover a cut or loosen the bonds.

I'm pulled away again and I want to scream in frustration. These visions give me a taste of the reality I so desperately yearn for when I'm …away. To be yanked back to my lonely world of quiet is torture. With every image, I hope it'll be the last, that I'll be released back into my body for good.

"Isabella." A cold, hard voice pierces through my world of silence.

"Isabella." My surroundings are fading. There's an intense pressure on my body from all sides, and I struggle to breathe. I'm dizzy, like my mind is swirling in a vortex of clouds.

And then there's pain. Unimaginable pain, everywhere. At least I know I'm in what's real. Bella is back.

Bella is hurting.

Why is my head throbbing? It enunciates each beat of my heart with an undulation of ache that encompasses my whole head. I can smell old blood. It makes my stomach churn, and I fight back the urge to vomit.

I'd probably choke if I did, seeing as I'm strapped to my bed. Thick bindings of leather keep me pushed down against my bed, unable to move. I'm confused as to why I'm restrained. I don't even know what day it is.

"Isabella."

I want to yell at whoever is calling me that. I want them to get the vivid and painful light out of my eyes. I would push them away if my arms could move.

I moan in hopes that any type of vocalization will appease them.

"Do you know where you are, Isabella?" It's Smith.

Fuck off!

"Yes," I manage to croak.

What I would really like is for someone to get these goddamn restraints off me. They're cutting into my skin. My wrists and ankles are already swollen and caked with blood, meaning I've been here for awhile.

"Take these off."

Smith shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Isabella. We need to make sure you don't relapse."

We've been going through this cycle for what feels like forever, and not once have I relapsed. I think we both know that. I think Smith just wants to keep me uncomfortable for as long as possible.

I realize he just said relapse. That means I've just had another episode. A wave of grief, hopelessness, and anger crashes down over me. Why won't this end?

"That's quite a nasty gash you've given yourself there." He reaches to touch my head, but I flinch back.

I struggle with my bonds only to freeze when it exacerbates the stinging in my swollen flesh.

"Lie still, Isabella."

I don't like how he orders me around. He may be a doctor, but I have no respect for him. What has he done to help me? What has this man, who vowed to help others as much as humanly possible, done to release me of my mental chains?

Nothing.

"We're going to have to take another look at your combination of meds. Even with the daily sedative, it's not working."

His fucking ignorance kills me. It's been apparent that this "wondrous" cocktail of drugs hasn't been working since my first episode here.

As soon as Charlie signed on the dotted line, signed my life away to this psychiatric hell, a custom mélange of chemicals was concocted for me to be supplemented by daily sedatives.

Smith always tried to assure me, and maybe himself, during our appointments that the cocktail would take some time to work. I learned to tune him out.

Nothing works anymore. My brain doesn't work. My body barely functions. My ability to hope, to believe that maybe someday I'll get out of here, is on its last legs.

I exhale loudly and concentrate on tuning Smith out. It's easy – the fucker has an inherently monotone voice. Within seconds, he's merely a drone in the background and I'm left alone with the agonizing misery I feel sinking into every pore of my being.

This must be my fault somehow. Karma is an evil bitch and I must have spited someone terribly to end up here. I wouldn't wish this fate on my worst enemy.

I bet it was Charlie. I wasn't a good daughter to him. I was too needy, too clumsy. I never thanked him. Not once. I must have been an evil child. I must have done the devil's dark bidding to land in a place that resembled the likes of Hell. Funny. I thought Satan would have been a lot more powerful. And a lot better looking. Instead, Hades is run by a wiry older man with salt and pepper hair and a two-outfit wardrobe. Though Smith is a clever moniker for Satan.

I chuckle with dry humor and notice Smith giving me an odd look. He's clearly upset with my refusal to be touched, as usual – he believes it to be another symptom. I call it self-preservation. "So long as you're lucid come tomorrow, we'll have a session."

I'm excited to see him turn away from me to leave the room. My head is still throbbing and I would give anything for a cold glass of water to moisten my dry throat.

Before he leaves, Smith turns to me, his blindingly white teeth appearing as his lips pull back into an eerie smile. "I'll be sure to send the nurse in with your next dose soon."

Maybe he really is the devil.

He shuts my lights off on his way out. It's nighttime and only the slightest amount of light filters in through my sorry excuse for a window.

I lick my dry, cracked lips as I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't like the dark. I haven't ever since Charlie stopped checking my closet and bed for things that might get me.

"You're too old to still be believin' that, Bells," he would say, and I would try my damnedest not to cry. I was grown up now, fourteen. Couldn't cry in front of the chief. So I tiptoed back into my room, careful not to disturb whatever might be hiding in there, and jumped onto my bed. I scooted into the center so if hands emerged from underneath and clawed at the sides, they wouldn't get me.

But they did get me. The next morning, Charlie came to wake me only to find me catatonic, still curled up in the center of the bed. He took me to Dr. G who assured Charlie that physically, I was fine.

I was back to Bella in a day and half.

Two weeks later, Charlie had a night shift. I was slowly becoming used to the anxiety that would accompany bedtime now that there was no fatherly reassurance of safety. But being home alone at bedtime was something completely different. There would be no one to hear me scream, no one to save me from the monsters that might be lurking.

I was gone by midnight. I was incapacitated for a week this time. I didn't understand what was happening to me. Charlie didn't know what was happening to me. Dr. G didn't know what was happening to me.

We got by like this for months, possibly longer. I stopped keeping track. It was too hard when I was gone. Eventually, Charlie snapped and put me away.

Did Daddy know his little girl was chained to her bed? Did Daddy know his little girl was not eating? Did Daddy know his little girl was terrified that she would soon become a victim of not only the disease but the cure?

No.

Did Daddy know this wasn't working? Yes.

Fucking Smith tells him everything.

A sob rips through my throat, and my body shudders violently against my bonds. I want to die. It's that simple. I just wish that those running this place would put me out of my misery. Either fix me or let me die. Enough with this in-between shit.

Enough.

The warm salty tears that run down my face are comforting. They let me know I'm still sane, seeing as I can't physically cry when I'm in a fugue and not in my body. My moments of sanity are what I hold on to the tightest.

My sobbing must have alerted the nurse to my "need" for drugs. I'm helpless as she approaches me with the needle in hand. I want to scream at her as she wipes my arm with a cold alcohol swab, but my mouth is thick with dryness.

Her cool blue eyes seem to pierce into my soul as the needle pierces my skin.

My eyes grow heavy as an unnatural sense of calm flows through me. I stop fighting the fatigue and let the drugs take me.


I was a little disappointed with the response to chapter 1, lots of quiet people! To those who did review, thank you from the bottom of my heart. This is going to be quite the journey. To everyone else - please review! You have no idea how even the shortest of reviews really makes my day. Everyone who reviews will be sent a sneak peek of next weeks chapter.