Fugue Forgotten
Chapter 3
Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.
Thanks to PTB for the wonderful beta-ing.
I can't help but count the cracks in the deteriorating tile floor as I'm escorted like the prisoner I am to my session with Smith. My feet, only protected from the harsh surface on which I tread by thin slippers, scuff in a comforting rhythm. It's actually the only sound. The hallways I pass through are quiet, which I find odd. It's daytime and one would expect some sort of activity to be audible from the hallway – some sort of sign that there's life here.
Doors are closed, the little windows in them dark and still. The stillness here makes me anxious, jittery. I want to scream in the middle of the hallway and wake this place up. The lack of life here is a unsettling reminder of where I am.
"Keep up, Isabella."
The orderly doesn't even look back as she issues me a command. She can go fuck herself. I'm not some child to be reprimanded for walking to slow. I'm tempted to slow down even more just to screw with her, but making someone here angry is the last thing I want to do. They are, after all, in charge of the chemicals that are forced into my body.
Too soon, I'm standing at Smith's door, the heavy oak wood looking worse for wear. The orderly knocks for me, like I'm incapable of banging on a piece of wood. They're all so fucking discriminatory here. Being a patient, you're automatically assumed to be mentally incompetent. I can't bring myself to care enough to tell them otherwise.
Smith stands before me, and a very faint wave of nausea rolls through me. Had there been no drugs coursing through my bloodstream, I'm sure I would have vomited on his annoyingly shiny brown dress shoes.
"Good to see you, Isabella." I stare numbly at Smith as he dismisses the orderly and opens the door wider to invite me in. His office is large, but of course it would be. He is the head, well, really the only psychiatrist here. A battered oak desk is pushed against the far cinderblock wall right next to a large window. Maybe one of the only unbarred windows in the whole damn hospital, because of us being the prisoners that we are.
I take my usual seat on the large, overstuffed couch that's placed next to Smith's desk. I like to sit in the middle. The green velvet looks like it dates back to the twenties, and the cushions poke me. Sitting in the middle, I'm far away from Smith, who rolls his desk chair out and sets it catty-cornered it to the right side of the couch.
His pants are the color of dog shit and his plaid shirt makes me dizzy. I can't keep myself from following his foot as he bounces it while he crosses his legs. Our appointment hasn't even begun and he's already scribbling like the mad man he is in his annoyingly yellow note pad.
"I'm feeling a little troubled, Isabella. How are you feeling?"
The shrink was feeling troubled. Wonderful.
"Fine." I cross my arms around my middle as if I'm attempting to block him from me.
"Do you know why I'm feeling troubled?"
I shrug my shoulders. I don't think I could care less. Actually, I really couldn't care less. I was dosed right before my appointment.
"You had another fugue." Ah, throw in the fancy terms and call yourself a doctor.
"You bounced between unresponsive and maniacal for a week. I believe it's safe to say your current drug combination is not getting the job done."
I don't answer him. I have nothing to say. I feel like I should be devastated. Finding out I'd just had an episode that lasted a whole week should be disheartening, upsetting… something, but I can't even feel a tinge of emotion as his words blur together.
He'll come up with another combination of drugs I suppose.
We begin to go through my typical post-episode routine.
"Do you remember anything from this past week?"
I honestly don't.
"Do you remember throwing yourself at your window?"
That would explain that still painful gash on my forehead.
"How would you say your feelings of depression are this time?"
My typical post-episode feelings of depression are definitely still with me… I guess. I mean, from what I remember right before they poked me with the seemingly ever present needle.
I hear Smith sigh and hope he'll release me early from my appointment. I have nothing to say to him.
"I can't help you if you won't talk to me, Isabella."
I tried that. I tried talking when I first got here, but no one listened. No one listens! It's like I'm talking to myself, and I can't deal with it anymore.
"Your father sent you here so you could get help. He would want you to talk to me."
Guilt tripping me is not going to work and Smith knows that. He just likes seeing me squirm. The hatred I feel towards my father is enough to crack through my medicated shell, but I stay silent. I want out of this office.
Smith sighs again. "If that's how you're going to be, Isabella." He leans sideways and pushes a button. "Your new medication will start today. I don't think you should eat with the other patients today; you're not quite ready for that. I'll see what I can have brought to you. That will be all."
The bastard is smug as he takes away my dining privileges. That's what I call them. I may sit alone, but at least I'm in a room with other people who don't have a scary amount of control over my every movement. No one judges in the dining hall. We're all on the same level, all held against our will with giant pills shoved down our throats.
Yet, I can't bring myself to care. I'm so weary. I feel like I've aged fifty years in the time I've been here in the institution.
Smith escorts me to the door where an orderly is already waiting for me. I count the cracks in the tiles on my way back. Can't let my IQ deteriorate too much.
I'm left alone in my room with a bang and the sound of the lock turning in my door. I feel like I'm moving in a world of cotton – my body is slow to respond, sounds are muffled, and I somehow sink onto my hard bed with the ease of a ninety-year old.
The familiar patterns that that tatmy eyes trace on the ceiling are comforting, like my own fingerprints, only magnified. I blink so slowly that there are long moments of black in my sight. My eyes are gritty, and I can feel them roll back and forth.
I'm still thirsty. That's the one feeling the drugs can't conceal. I may not feel hunger, or anger, or sadness, but I am more than aware when my mouth is dry.
I think about trying to bang on my thick metal door to get the attention of one of the nurses, but it's too much work to walk the short distance from my bed. Besides, they've learned long ago not to pay attention to banging or yelling, not unless it sounds like the patient is harming themselves.
I'm still numbly processing the fact that Smith tried to make me feel guilty by mentioning Charlie. I wince as a particularly sharp spark of anger pierces my shell of medication. I rub my chest trying to soothe the burn. He makes me angry – I don't have to feel the anger to know it's there. Smith may be a doctor, but that doesn't mean he knows what he's doing.
It's almost like a feeling of self-preservation; my intense need to break free from this house of horrors.
I'm still rubbing my chest through my thin shirt when I notice the dull burn hasn't subsided. Instead, it's increased almost tenfold. I like it. I'm feeling for once. It means my drugs are wearing off; I smile at that thought. It's been so, so long.
Getting the ability to control my emotions back is like stretching my legs after sitting still for a long, long time. I'm stiff and many of the feelings are unpleasant, but the feelings of discomfort are real, welcomed emotions that have been buried deep within.
It's almost exhilarating. It gives me hope. Not hope that I'll be cured – I don't think I can ever hope for that to happen.
I feel like I can breathe. I inhale deeply just to prove it to myself.
It's a glorious feeling and I plan on enjoying it for as long as I can. I sit quietly on my bed. I'm slightly awed by how my body is more responsive. I move my hand in front of my face and flex my fingers, moving them quickly like I'm playing a piano. It's cheesy, just like how it's done in the movies, but I've taken my fine motor skills for granted and learned my lesson.
Unfortunately, without the numbness of the sedatives the pain in my wrists is amplified and almost unbearable. Still, I welcome it. I've gone too long without feeling.
As I lay on my bed flexing my fingers, I can hear the sound of approaching footsteps, and my heart jumps uncontrollably in my chest. The only reason someone comes in here is to medicate me. I don't want to be medicated, but when has what I want ever mattered?
I need to decide now. I need to figure out if I'm going to fight back this time, now that I'm capable of controlling my arms and legs, or if I'm going to lie here and take it.
A thick blanket of dread rolls over me as I imagine myself submitting to the nurse. It will accomplish nothing. I don't want to begin again, the cycle of foggy days and forgotten nights.
I'm… I don't even know how old I am anymore. I don't know what year it is. I must be 16 or 17 by now. I believe that's old enough to make your own decisions. I should be the one deciding what's best for me, not some old and unhelpful man who calls himself a doctor.
My door swings open, and I can feel a wave of adrenaline rush through my veins. I don't know why I'm nervous. I almost didn't recognize this feeling; it's like a rush of euphoria coupled with a hint of fear and butterflies in my stomach.
"Hello, Isabella."
She pauses as if she's expecting a response. You think she would've learned by now that it isn't going to happen.
I look behind her. The door is open, the bright fluorescent light beckoning me. I'm so close. I don't know where I'll go once I get out of my room, but I won't stop moving.
The nurse approaches me. I count down in my head. 3, 2, 1. I jump off my bed and fly past her on somewhat unsteady legs, but they don't stop me. I hear her yell as she realizes what's going on. The path to my door has never felt longer. I feel like I'm trapped in one of those dreams where you're running and running but not getting anywhere.
Panic wells deep within my chest. I'm really not getting anywhere.
Suddenly, I'm flying backwards. Hands lose their hold on me and I hit the tile floor with what feels like five hundred pounds landing on top of me. My head snaps back and I see stars. I always thought that was just a saying, but it's true.
Something cracks, my guess would be a rib. For a moment, that pain distracts me from the pain in my head. I hear screaming. It's incomprehensible and loud. And then I realize it's me.
I scratch and kick at whatever I can. I was so close to getting out of here, I'm not about to give up.
I can hear whoever is in the room yelling things like episode and sedation. They think I'm in a fugue, but they're so wrong. I've never been this lucid! Why can't they see that?
There are hands everywhere, pinning me to the floor.
Fingers peel back my eyelids and shine a light in my eyes even though I'm clearly awake. The only thing they manage to do is aggravate the pounding in my head.
It hurts to breathe, especially with another person sitting on top of me. Something hits my face, probably a hand. I'm sure I'll be bruised within a few hours.
The rusty smell of blood permeates the air, and this time I don't have the cocoon of numbness to keep my stomach from rolling.
I try to yell at them to tell them I'm okay, that I'm still here. But my mouth is covered by a clammy hand, only adding to the nausea I'm currently fighting.
I catch another whiff of blood, probably from the cut that's reopened on my forehead, and I can't struggle with it any longer. The meager contents of my stomach force their way up my throat and pool in my mouth. I'm still on my back. I panic because I can't breathe without potentially choking myself.
The hand releases my face, and I turn my head to the side and empty my mouth. I can feel vomit slide down my cheek and pool near my neck.
There's a sharp pain in my thigh, and whoever is sitting atop me gets off. I'm like a fish out of water, flopping on my floor as the drugs kick in and ceased to be a threat to those around me. Not like I really was in the first place.
"The new doctor starts tomorrow. Maybe he can do something with her. It's not like she can get much worse."
It's strange how that's really the only sentence that filters into my clouded brain. I don't think much of it.
They make sure I'm thoroughly incapacitated before leaving and locking the door behind them. I'm left curled on my floor, bleeding and covered in vomit.
I highly doubt there is anyone out there who can help me now.
Thank you for the fantasmic reviews. You guys are awesome, PLEASE keep it up. I'm not beyond begging here. This story is dark - it takes a lot to write the chapters. Your reviews are like energy. Also, I'll send out sneak peeks again to anyone who reviews. To anyone who didn't get a sneak peek last time and reviewed, I'M SO SORRY. That was my first time doing that, I need to set up a better system. This week will be better.
You guys rock.
