by Yessi Smith
But here’s the thing I won’t confess to anyone. I’m not sure I want to be alive.
“Do you still hurt?” Ann asks.
“Some, but it’s getting better.” I can’t remember how I used to talk, but since I woke up, my voice has taken on a tone devoid of any emotion. I hope, at one point in my life, my voice sang with the carefree innocence.
“Good.” She doesn’t look up from the notebook she is writing on.
I want to take it away from her, so I can see what she’s written about me. Mainly, I want an answer to the biggest question that keeps me awake. Am I curable?
“The police came by again this morning,” I supply.
“Oh.”
She continues to write, and I find the urge to rip the pen out of her hand unbearable.
“Yeah, they think they found the guy who did this to me.”
That catches her attention, and I feel guilty for my lie.
“Not really.” I shake my head at her, unable to hide a smile that has forced its way onto my lips.
“Do you want them to?” she asks, looking straight into my eyes.
I’m not sure if she knows how intimidating her stare is, but I don’t waver. I return it, as if my chest isn’t about to collapse in on itself. I let out a barely audible sigh when she finally looks away first.
Do I want them to? It seems like a silly question, but the truth is, I don’t really care.
I only remember broken up pieces that I might or might not have imagined. The only thing I know for certain is that he—is it a he?—must have kept me in the dark because the dark terrifies me. It’s a debilitating terror that leaves me frozen without the strength or ability to move a single limb.
And I don’t like being held down—or held at all really. I need the freedom to move without any form of restraints or pressure. In fact, I nearly lost my mind when a nurse was helping me walk for the first time. Logically, I knew he was helping me stay upright, but I couldn’t handle the pressure of his hands supporting my back.
“Of course I do,” I know that’s what she wants to hear. But there’s no closure for something that I have almost no recollection of happening.
“They want me to work with a police sketch artist.”
“And?” she prompts.
“I don’t think it’ll work. I don’t remember what he looks like.”
“You don’t, but maybe your mind does.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I’m resigned to the fact that she will get her way.
Along with my memories, I’ve also lost my free will. My existence is nothing more than me drifting through the motions, eating when they bring me food, sleeping when they turn the lights off. If I was different before this, I’m unaware of it. Who I was, what I liked, what I did.
Does it even matter now?
Shortly after our visit, Ann returns just as the sketch artist arrives, and I can’t help but wonder whether she has my room monitored. The less frantic, more sensible part of me rationalizes that she’s probably working with the police—you know, to help me get better, so they can find the bad guy.
The sketch artist, who Ann explained is also a police officer, introduces himself as Derrick, and I fully assess him from my bed. He’s a typical white boy with a blond crew cut and blue eyes—no, scratch that. He has green eyes. He’s tall, strongly built, and speaks with a lazy drawl that doesn’t lessen his threatening demeanor—until he smiles and exposes his perfectly imperfect teeth. I like him based on his slight imperfection, and I find myself smiling back at him.
I force myself to shake his hand during introduction, and as physical contact is made, I beam at Ann when screams don’t escape my throat. Progress, right?
Poppa helps me keep my hospital gown closed in the back, so I can make my way to a table without exposing myself to everyone, not that my parachute-sized granny panties would provide much exposure.
Fancy panties, a new haircut, and self-defense lessons make the top of my to-do list.
Derrick instructs me to close my eyes and begin describing whatever comes to my mind.
But nothing is there.
I close them tighter until white spots appear behind my eyelids, which is a nice diversion from all the darkness.
“She knows how to draw,” Poppa chimes in, addressing Derrick. “Let her do it.”
I hesitate before I open my eyes and take the pencil and paper away from Derrick. I repeat the words to myself. I’m not sure if I believe Poppa, but after a few minutes pass, my fingers begin to work, and I realize that I do indeed know how to draw. It’s a surreal out-of-body experience that makes my heart pound loudly in my ears. I don’t let my mind dwell on what I’m doing, but I hope that my subconscious serves me right.
Done, I look at my work and find a familiar face looking back at me from the paper. But the fear I expected to find when I looked into my captor’s face never comes. Instead, I grin and show the drawing to Derrick, who shakes his head at me, clearly amused. I smile to myself and can’t help but wonder if, in my convoluted mind, I actually believe Chris Carrabba has left fame and stardom just to abduct me.
Happy with my drawing, I toss it to the side and get a new piece of paper that I quickly start sketching on. Poppa takes my drawing of Chris, and I hear him chuckle.
“You always did have a thing for that boy.” He laughs.
I’m so engrossed in my next sketch that Derrick’s laughter scares me. I glance up at him, happy to see he didn’t notice my sudden anxiety.
“What else can you draw?” He smiles at me, a nonthreatening big-brother type of smile that I hardly have time to return.
“Wait and see,” I respond, just as curious as I go back to work.
After a few moments have passed, I suspect I have a healthy appetite for good music when I see Kurt Cobain’s eyes forming beneath my pencil. I notice Derrick sketching next to me while Poppa has retreated back to his chair.
“Where’s Ann?” I ask no one in particular.
“She wasn’t amused by your drawings,” Poppa retorts.
I laugh but stop myself. I didn’t realize I actually knew how to laugh, and the sound feels foreign while coming out of my throat.
“Don’t mind her. I wanna see what else you got in there.” Derrick winks at me and points his pencil to my head.
“Not much,” Even to me, my tone sounds dry, so I add a smirk, not wanting to break the little bit of camaraderie I’ve found with my new friend.
We continue to draw next to each other, the frenzied movements of our hands going from one piece of paper to the next. We’re close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin, but we’re not so close that I’m uncomfortable. The calm silence has overtaken the room, and I no longer jump when Derrick laughs at our renditions of artists we’ll probably never meet.
There’s peace here, letting me know that even the worst of storms have a time of quiet tranquility before they destroy everything in their wake.
When it comes to bacon, neither my age nor cholesterol levels are a factor. The smell alone is something no grown man should have to deny.
I watch the oil splatter from the pan onto the stovetop and think about my wife who is upstairs. My sweetheart is as beautiful now as she was the day I met her thirty-seven years ago when we were still in our early twenties. Her hands, so petite, still fit in mine, as if they were molded just for me. When she leans toward me, her head still finds the crevice of my neck, and she believes it to be the most comfortable place on earth. She is and always will be my heart, my soul mate.
The bacon sizzles, shooting hot grease onto my hand. Wincing, I flip it and pop two pieces of bread into the toaster. I walk to the refrigerator and pour a tall glass of orange juice just as the toast pops out, asking me to butter it. Dabbing the excess grease off the bacon and place them on the plate.
It’s perfect and ready for my girl.
I knock gently on the door that leads to the room we have shared since we moved into this house thirty-five years
ago. The door creaks when I open it, and when I enter our room I’m met with the sound of my wife’s quiet snores. She sleeps deeply, my girl, but still, I quietly walk to her. Careful not to spill anything, I set her plate on the nightstand by the bed and ease myself onto it.
Leaning down, I kiss her forehead as I have done countless times during our marriage. I sense it when she opens her eyes, and I lean away from her, so I can take her in.
Beautiful.
She looks at me, and her eyes smile although her lips are pulled into a permanent scowl. She opens her mouth to speak, but it is still early, and her brain isn’t ready to function just yet.
“I made you breakfast.”
She mumbles, an arrangement of vowels and consonants that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me. I understand her. I always have. We have our own language that no one else is privy to.
“Yes, your favorite,” I repeat what she has told me to ease the agitation she feels toward her greatest betrayal, her brain. “Bacon and toast.” I prop her back, so she can eat.
I help her, guiding her food to her mouth, only pausing so that she can take sips of her juice. I wipe her face when she’s done before kissing the side of her mouth that no longer has any feeling. She closes her eyes, concentrating her movements so that she can touch me. And she does. It’s a jerky motion, without much control, but it’s full of the love that keeps me alive.
“My Mando,” she tells me in our language.
“My Erica,” I respond, bringing her hand to my lips.
When she’s ready, I help her off our bed so that we can shuffle our way to the bathroom. I steady her as she removes her clothes and walks into the shower. She holds the handle I made her and keeps her feet on the rubber mat I put on the floor. She doesn’t like it when I hover over her, so once I’m sure she is fine, I leave the bathroom and wait for her on our bed. She revels in the small independence she finds in the shower. With my heart in my throat, I worry she’ll fall, but still, I have to give her that little bit.
She wasn’t always like this. My Erica was once vibrant, full of color and movement, eccentric, animated, and kind. Her smile could weaken the most callous heart, as it had mine. People wanted to be around her, to be seen with her, to talk to her. Those people who, at one point, simply wanted to share the same room as her are long gone, forgotten.
Life is cruel that way. The same hand that once wiped away tears, held others in their grief, now only has one hand that still searches for hers. It’s enough for me, and I hope I’m enough for her.
My blood boils when I think of the people who took the essence of Erica away from her. It doesn’t matter that they paid their own price. It doesn’t matter because they will never know how my girl suffers or how much I suffer for her.
Because I cannot hurt them, I hurt the girl, the one who got away. I’ll get her back though and torture her worse than she could imagine for running away and leaving me without completing my revenge.
Physical therapy is awful, like a-dull-knife-forcing-its-way-out-of-your-groin type of awful. But it has to be done—or so I’m told—so I do it. I suck it up and willingly subject myself to a pain so excruciating that I can’t remember anything but the pain. Get it? I can’t remember anything but the pain. Funny, right?
The only thing comparable to physical therapy is my sessions with Ann. She prods and intrudes, making me feel as if she left every facet of my brain touched by her grimy fingers. But the joke’s on her because I still don’t remember anything that happened in the last twenty-four years of my life. My existence started when I opened my eyes in the hospital.
I heard her inform Poppa and my doctors that she believes I’m suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder. Ann would have to continue evaluating me for a month before she can properly diagnose me, but the ongoing hope is that my memories would return when I’m ready to remember them. I have no idea what that actually means, and I don’t think she does either.
What if this isn’t like some lame movie where the heroine—me—remembers everything at the end of the film because, like a flash of light, she suddenly realizes she’s ready to open her mind to her past? What if my future doesn’t consist of any recollection of my past, and Karma lets the bad guy go without any ramifications or justice?
Regardless, Ann comes to visit me twice a day, every day. We mainly work on something she calls cognitive restructuring¸ which should be easy since there isn’t much to restructure. After all, my brain is a clean slate. We also work on relaxation techniques that consist mainly of meditating and breathing.
But nothing works. It’s not just that I don’t remember, but I also have anxiety attacks that rack my body, leaving me a trembling mess. Sometimes, they come on so suddenly that I have no way of controlling them, and they’re made worse with the knowledge that I’ll be given a sedative via a syringe. With Ann’s help, I’m finding out my triggers, which in turn helps me manage them—at least in theory. I’ve yet to see it actually work in real life. Mainly, my triggers are any human contact, aside from Poppa, and darkness. In other words, I’d fail as a vampire.
Today, Ann will be conducting my therapy session in my hospital room with two of my friends, who are apparently excited to see me. I try to drum up the same excitement, but just the notion of it makes my heart race in my chest and my head pound so hard that I’m sure it’ll explode. Closing my eyes, I focus on breathing the way Ann taught me until a reasonable calmness encircles me, and the twitching in my right hand has subsided. The whole time, Ann has kept a watchful eye on me, as a scientist would a caged lab rat. Maybe next I’ll get a little wheel to run in.
Moments after my nerves finally calm, Amber and Stephanie arrive. My breath catches in my throat when I see them, and I force a smile on my face. I ignore the cold sweats running down my back and do my best impression of what I imagine I’d look like when I’m not hyperventilating internally.
A tall blonde with gray eyes and tight lips introduces herself as Amber while Stephanie hangs back by the door. I know this is awkward for all of us, so I try on a more convincing smile. Finally, Stephanie, the one with brown hair and blue eyes, comes closer to me. It’s really not fair that Stephanie looks to be only a few inches taller than me, but she manages to look like a model while the best I’ve been able to do with my new haircut is something that is passable as cute.
I love my new haircut though, and I can hardly keep my fingers out of it. The girl who did my hair was able to keep most of the length, but she added layers to hide the damaged areas along with color, a subtle red with honey blond streaks. I’m no supermodel, but the haircut is mine, something I picked out, a small facet of my life that I have some control over my life—unlike my stomach, which is rumbling in protest to the nerves I’m trying to ignore. I cover my hand with the cotton sheet the hospital supplied, so I can hide the twitching of my fingers.
Calm, I remind myself. Breathe. Inhale, exhale. I keep my eyes open and the smile on my face while I go over the words in my head.
“So…” the blonde one says.
Amber, I remind myself.
She sits on my bed, and I force myself to stay still, so I don’t offend her as she invades my personal space.
“What have you been up to?”
Me? Oh, you know, painful physical therapy that resembles a slow death but reminds me that I’m still alive.
I’m not in physical therapy because I suddenly forgot how to walk, like I forgot everything else. It’s for the injuries I’ve sustained on my shattered knee from either being held captive or from when I escaped. I already had to go through one surgery for it, and I am waiting to hear if a second will be necessary. If not, my doctors will ship me off to a rehabilitation center by the end of the week, so my recuperation time will be faster, and I can be set up for occupational therapy as well.
Therapy, therapy, and more therapy.
The only time I actually feel anywhere close to normal is when I’m drawing or painting. I especially enjoy it when Derr
ick comes and draws with me. We’ve already given up on me giving him a description of my abductor for him to draw, but he still comes every few days.
“Nothing much,” I answer with a shrug. “At least, nothing exciting.” I avert my eyes, unable to meet Amber’s. “What about you?” The tension in the room increases with every silent second that passes between us.
“The norm,” Amber replies with a smile, as if I should know what normal is. “Shopping, partying, dating. Steph’s actually dating Shawn—you know, from elementary school?”
I blink back at Amber but nod my head, so she’ll continue talking, and I can stay silent.
“I won’t be for long,” Stephanie adds with a quick roll of her eyes.
“Steph hasn’t changed since…” Amber wavers but recovers nicely with a fake cough. “Well, the longest she’s ever been with anyone is a month.”
“I get bored easily.” Stephanie smiles.
“Slut,” Amber accuses on a laugh.
Unsure of what to do or how to react, I look over at Ann for direction, but I find her writing in her stupid notepad. I fight back the onslaught of tears threatening to come out, and I focus on the wall across the room while my friends continue their harmless banter. I’d like to take part in it, but I don’t know what my role in the group is, so I simply stay quiet.
When Poppa comes into the room, they greet him with a hug, which warms me to them a bit. Anyone who can be kind to Poppa earns brownie points from me. He takes his usual seat on my bed, leaving Amber to stand by my bedside—not that I mind. I’d much rather have Poppa with me than anyone else.
“It’s good to see the lot of ya together.” Poppa’s eyes beam at the three of us.
We smile back at each other. Then, I feel it. There’s something between us. We’re more than just friends—or we once were. It’d be nice if we could get back to the friendship we shared.
“Firecrackers is what y’all are,” he continues, taking my hand. “Always causin’ trouble.”
