by KC Decker
Sutton sits on the bed behind my coiled body. He leaves the light off, and because evening is stealing in, the environment is darkened. The room and my soul, fading to black.
He doesn’t say anything. Not at first. He just gently rubs my back and brushes the sticky hair away from my face. He will be fired for touching me, but he doesn’t seem to care.
When my anguish finally turns to mild shaking punctuated by tiny gasps of air, I peel my swollen eyes open. I focus on the texture of the wall and try to dismiss the fact that Sutton is still rubbing my back. It’s quiet, though there is ruckus beyond my closed door. Evening reflection group is probably starting to take shape by now.
“This is part of it, you know,” Sutton murmurs as he again swipes his fingers across my cheek. I don’t respond, I have nothing left to give—least of all my voice.
“Acknowledging the grief is an important step. It doesn’t make you weak. On the contrary, having the strength to finally face all this requires incredible strength. I’ve never seen you so strong—so, so formidable.” His words bring another round of hot tears to my eyes. I am a lot of things, but formidable is not one of them.
“You are courageous in allowing yourself to feel all this. It’s the first step to tackling it and claiming your future without the shackles of your past. Mercy, every-single-one of your feelings is relevant and deserves to be felt,” he murmurs.
“It hurts so bad.” In a shocking display of vulnerability, I give voice to the truest words I’ve ever spoken.
“Mercy, it’s supposed to hurt. You’ve been through a lot, so let it hurt. Feel things instead of denying them as though you’re not entitled to have those emotions. It will hurt like hell, and it will continue to hurt like hell—until, one day, it doesn’t hurt quite as bad, and the next day, it hurts a little less, and the next day even less.”
“It hurts too much.”
“Mercy, one day you will see what I see, and you will know how special you are—how resilient. But we can’t get you there if you are stuck here. And I mean that figuratively not literally. You are stuck here,” he whispers as he gently taps my forehead.
“If I’m so special, why doesn’t anyone want me?”
“You have no idea,” his words sound full of ache and confusion before they trail off.
“I’ve always scared people away. It’s me, I’m the common denominator. I’m broken.” My voice is a squeak, it’s barely audible.
“Your experiences have tried to break you,” he clarifies. “But guess what? You are far from broken. Don’t you see? There is nothing wrong with you. The schizophrenia is a challenge, nothing more, and it can be managed. As far as all the people who you think rejected you, guess what? They were ill-equipped to deal with a child’s psychosis, but they did not reject you. If they rejected you, they never would have brought you into their home. All those families wanted you so bad, they decided to overlook your special needs. They wanted you—they couldn’t handle the psychosis.”
“I am the psychosis.”
“No, Mercy. You are not. You are a million things, and only one of those things is schizophrenic.”
“Why do you talk to me like that? Like I matter to you?” I ask as I sit up and face him. I want to look him in the eyes when he answers me.
He immediately swipes a lock of hair behind my ear. His penetrating blue eyes are almost too much for me because our faces are only about a foot apart. I think I want him to hold me. Not like a lover, but as someone who comforts me and makes me feel like I’m going to be ok. The fact that I don’t like to be touched except by a very select few unsettles me a bit as well. Is it because he is good looking and says sweet things to me? Or am I just starved for human touch?
I lean in, partly to break the intense eye contact, and partly because I do want to feel human touch—from him. He reads the situation correctly and wraps his arms around me. If one of the nurses sees this, he will be gone in an instant.
“I talk to you like that because you do matter, and someone should have told you those things a long time ago.” His answer is soothing, so I bring my arms up to return the hug. His back is muscular…and he smells good. Clean, like a breath of fresh air.
Touching him and inhaling his essence, feels like a basic instinct to size him up. It’s something primal. Like I’m choosing a mate who can ensure strong offspring. Someone who can protect me…and make me feel important.
“And because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he finishes.
Chapter 7
My heart is beating an anxious rhythm that threatens to pound right out of my chest. I can feel the sweat trickling into my eyes, and the saltiness burns and blurs my vision. I know I’m strapped down—or at least held down. I cry out when the stick is shoved between my teeth because it cuts into the soft skin of my lips before I’m forced to bite down on the rough bark.
The panic is here. Sometimes it takes a little time to build up, but not tonight. My breaths are so short and shallow that there is no chance of oxygenating my blood, and my hands and feet go numb.
My thoughts become particularly pervasive when my clothing is ripped off. It’s only a dirty smock, but the underwear is prized above all else because I’m often not allowed to wear them. My breasts have begun to bud as well, so the indecent display of them is more shameful than the filth that’s shouted in my face.
Once I’m naked, a surge of adrenaline courses through me and I fight like a wild animal to get free. I scream through the branch clamped between my teeth, but my voice is raw and ineffectual. It will be gone soon; the human larynx is not meant to sustain such strain. I’m going to die. This time, they will kill me.
I’m cold from the sweat that is pouring off of me, but my face is hot with fear. I can no longer make out what is being screamed all around me. It’s bad. The chaos, the fear—all of it. There is raw hatred here. Hatred, contempt, and death—it’s all around me.
I stop screaming when clammy hands take hold of my leg, followed by more hands. When they pull my legs apart, the scream overtakes me, and the fight inside my body tries once again to take over. Then the burning comes, and my scream is enough to pierce time.
“Mercy! Oh, my God! Mercy! It’s me, stop!” The voice is Lyla’s. Why is she here?
“Everybody out!” Someone hollers. I’m shivering on the floor, flopping like a fish out of water, gills expanding, yet drowning nonetheless. I’m terrified, and my throat is raw and scratched open. The night nurse drags the blanket from my bed and tries to wrap me up in it.
I rasp out an objection and scurry as far away from her as possible. Lyla is crying, but she is allowed to stay in the room. The night staff has been given explicit instructions from Sutton, but everyone seems hesitant to shoo away the code team.
My desperate screams have evolved into raspy sobs. I know I am in my room, but the fear has followed me home. A distinct marker of schizophrenia is when the delusions reflect a profound fear, along with the loss of the ability to tell what’s real or not. And right now, I’m having a hard time distinguishing what is a danger to me, and what is not.
I do know that if anyone tries to touch me, I will lose it so hard, the staff will have no choice but to sedate me. In Sig’s day, I would already have found my sweet oblivion.
My senses come into focus a little at a time, right now I can feel that I am soaked, and I can hear Lyla crying, the only other sound in the room is a distant chattering. It sounds like someone’s teeth chattering together.
After thirty or so minutes, Lyla moves from her bed and takes a seat near me on the floor. When I don’t react badly, she reaches out her hand and lays it on the ground, palm up, and next to me. Without too much hesitating, I place my hand in hers, and she tightens her grip.
Taking that opportunity to speak, the nurse informs me that I’m cold and shivering and should take the blanket from her. That’s as far as she gets because this is the moment Sutton storms in the room.
He invades my space without sparing a
second thought, and summarily dismisses the night nurse. He gently tips my chin up so he can look into my eyes, and then takes quick stock of everything else. This is when he notices Lyla holding my hand. I know she is afraid to keep holding it, but also afraid to let go.
“You are a good friend, Lyla,” Sutton says with tenderness. I can feel her blush with his acknowledgment, but I also know she thinks about him sexually, so his proximity probably plays a role in that blush.
“Mercy, I need to see you in my office, would you like Lyla to come too?” he offers. I like that he isn’t reprimanding her for touching me. It’s like he understands that some rules should be broken.
“Lyla can go back to sleep, she’s probably fighting the Seroquel,” I mumble. She gives my hand a squeeze and then climbs back into her bed. I think partially because she is tired, and partially because she is only wearing a tank top and panties—like me, but I have no desire to go back to sleep, or to remain in this room, for that matter.
“Can you stand up?” he asks as he rises to his feet and extends his palm to assist me. I take his offered hand and get to my feet. I’m still freezing cold. I also know the worn-out cotton has adhered itself to my body, but it is kind of dark in here still, so maybe he won’t notice the obscene display.
“Let’s get you some dry clothes first,” he says as his eyes drift down my body and then make their way back to my eyes. He definitely noticed my nipples, and maybe my stomach where the shirt has clung a little higher than it should be.
“Lyla, can you help her? I’m going to get my office unlocked, and the lights turned on, then I’ll be back to get her.”
“Of course, Dr. Sutton. Thanks for coming in tonight,” she says shyly. When he leaves, she wastes no time before saying, “If all I had to do to get him to look at me like that, is hallucinate, I would totally do it—at least a few times.”
“Lyla?”
“Yeah, Hon?”
“Too soon.”
“Right, sorry.”
***
I don’t feel so bad about my rangy hair and dumpy clothes because when we get to his office, I notice Sutton is wearing faded, torn jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He is the one with the MD, so if he isn’t worried about how he is dressed, I don’t care that I’m wearing old scrub pants and a dry tank top—the slutty shirt was on Lyla’s insistence.
“I want to start by telling you that I am not surprised you had a nightmare. Anxiety manifests itself in all kinds of ways, and after yesterday, and the letter—well, I’m just not surprised.” He takes a throw blanket out of his closet and hands it to me before sitting down on his end of the couch.
“Sutton? Are you special or something?”
“My mom thinks so.”
“I’m serious, you must be a little slow. Why else would you minimize something like that?”
“I haven’t minimized anything. Anxiety is no joke. Neither are panic attacks.”
“Do you actually think that was something as trite as a nightmare?” I ask, disgusted with him.
“Mercy, what are we talking about here?”
“The same fucking thing we’ve been talking about all along! That was no nightmare, Sutton!” I say the word nightmare like it tastes dirty in my mouth. He holds up his hand in a defensive position.
“Hold it, I’m trying to understand things. Are you telling me that you were awake and in bed when you hallucinated…or that you were asleep when all that happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have the hallucinations ever happened at night like that before?”
“Yes! Of course.”
“Wait. Do they happen during the day too?”
“Mostly at night.”
“Mercy—”
“You don’t understand. I can feel them burning me. They physically hold me down.”
“I’m not suggesting they do not feel 100% real, but are you ever awake when they happen?”
“I’ve had hundreds of them. I’m sure some were during the d—”
“Holy shit! Mercy, have you ever hallucinated in the light of day?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, my God!” his hands are raking through his hair, and he is looking at his lap like it holds the answers to my psychosis. To be honest, I’m starting to wonder again if he really is cut out for this job.
It takes him a few minutes, and a couple stops and starts before he is able to form words again.
“Mercy. We need to back up. I need you to tell me everything you can remember about your childhood.”
Chapter 8
Were it not for his broke college kid outfit and tousled hair, I might actually think he looks sort of professional now. He has adopted the look of stern concentration and added some hipster glasses to his studious note taking. At this point in our impromptu session, his brows are now permanently knitted together.
“Were your parents’ kind to you?”
“Being kind is an awfully subjective term when it comes to my parents.”
“When you were little, did they hold you and kiss you? Did they tuck you in at night?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Did they love each other? Or were they constantly fighting?”
“I don’t remember them ever fighting.”
“What was their economic status? Did they have jobs? Did you live in affluence? Poverty? A house? A shack? Tell me everything you can remember.”
I wrap the blanket around me tighter, it smells like Sutton, and I don’t know how to feel about that. I also don’t like to think about my past. That door has been closed for a long time, and I prefer to keep it that way.
“I remember my mom used to make clothes. She made them all pretty much the same because uniqueness was not really a priority. Us girls weren’t allowed to go to school, but she taught me to read anyway. I was proud of that until my dad found out and slapped my mom. It was the only time I ever saw him raise a hand to her, but he hit her so hard, she fell down.”
“Did he ever raise a hand to you?”
“No.”
“How about his voice?”
“No, he was a gentle, quiet man.”
“Why couldn’t girls go to school?”
“It’s a little hard to explain now that I have some perspective, but women were very subservient to men. Men were the chosen ones, and were treated with reverence, sometimes even awe.”
“What do you mean when you say, awe?”
“Just that…it sounds stupid to say out loud. Sutton, I need you to understand that my childhood is incredibly shameful for me. So much so that I’ve never told anyone about it. Not a word.” I can’t even look at him. I feel dirty and nothing but disgust for myself. Once I tell him everything, there is no going back. Once I speak it, it will have to be true, and he will know my shame.
Sutton drops his notepad to the floor and scoots across the couch. Now he is very close to me, and there is no way I can tell him the things that happened.
“Mercy,” now he takes my hand, and I have little doubt he can feel it shaking. “Let’s be clear about something. You were a child, and none of what you tell me has any reflection on you. Nothing at all. You should not be carrying this shame. Do not take ownership of something you had nothing to do with.”
“I did, though. I shared all their views. I was a Believer.”
“No, Mercy. You were an impressionable kid.”
“I was a Believer.” Now my chin is shaking.
“You trusted your parents. How can anyone find fault in that?”
“I was a Believer,” it comes out as a whisper.
“From what you’ve told me so far, it sounds like you were raised in a religious cult, and I have little doubt that it plays a massive role in your psychosis.”
“It didn’t feel like a cult. Not at the time.”
“What can you remember about the leader?”
“He had a lot of wives. He was a prophet, so he spoke directly to God. He said God would protect
the true Believers when he cleansed the world of its wickedness.”
“Everyone believed him and trusted him without question?”
“Oh, yes. He could drink poison; it was clear he was protected by God.”
“Now that you are away from his influence, can you understand that he was lying about drinking poison?”
“He wasn’t lying.”
“No?”
“No.” I can feel my throat hitch, and I only realize he is still holding my hand when he firms up his grip. I feel a little stronger with him holding on to me. It sort of feels like he is there too, standing in the dirt, watching everything happen.
“He gave it to a goat first.” There is a faraway look in my eyes, and I can see the disturbing scene perfectly in my mind's eye. “Nothing happened at first, but after a while, the goat crumpled to its knees—only his front legs. Everyone said he was praying.” I can still see it.
“Can you see him suffering?” I whisper before I realize what I’ve asked makes no sense because we are sitting in Sutton’s office.
“Yes,” he whispers back.
“It wasn’t just the goat.” Inexplicably, I burst into tears that I didn’t even feel coming. He wraps his arms around me, and I dissolve into someone I don’t even recognize. It’s like I’ve opened a gas valve and any second the whole place is going to ignite.
When I finally collect myself, I want to tell him the rest. I sit back, and he swipes the tears under my eyes with his thumbs—but he doesn’t let go of my face.
“What else did he give the poison to?”
“The boy babies.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“And my brother.”
***
It took Sutton a long time to respond to my words, and when he finally did, it was with a litany of expletives. Now, he is pacing his office and can’t complete a full sentence.
He comes back over and takes a knee in front of me. Both of his palms are flat against the leather of the couch on either side of my legs.
