Blurred Lines

by M. Lynne Cunning

  As I took the stand, adjusting the microphone before sitting down to stare nervously into the eyes of Dean’s lawyer, I felt the nudging, the pulling, the fight to remain me. Dean’s lawyer began to question me, simple things at first, eventually working his way to more complex questions that I needed to think through.

  The truth should be easy to tell, and I began to paint the picture of the husband I had lost, the man I had loved. The man I still loved. I weaved through the story of how we had both been unfaithful, and how I would take it all back in a heartbeat if I had the chance. Eventually, though, I felt Sarah tugging harder at me, my mouth moving to enunciate the words she spewed.

  I fought hard against her, but Sarah made sure I was labeled as crazy. The words I announced to the courtroom began to contradict each other, and I began to bounce back and forth between speaking in the first person and speaking in the third person.

  One minute, I could feel my grief stricken me, threatening to overwhelm me to tears. The next, I showed no remorse, so nonchalant about the entire ordeal that I could have been discussing the weather. On numerous occasions, I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut so tightly I saw stars behind my eyelids, giving myself a moment to try to achieve clarity between what I wanted to say and what was coming out of my mouth.

  Doing that had always seemed to work before, allowing me to focus all my strength on pushing Sarah away from me. The shift of perception within the courtroom was almost palpable. I saw and felt the moment when I realized that the judge, jury, and other people within that room began to question my ability to give such a testimony. After only a few minutes of cluttered, confusing answers, I was asked to step down from the stand. My eyes were wide as I saw the look on each of their faces that yelled at me loud and clear: You’re crazy.

  It only took a matter of days for the courts to subpoena me to consent to a full psychiatric assessment and deem me mentally incompetent as Sarah wreaked havoc on my mind, poking and prodding at me from the inside, unwilling to let me sleep, rest, or even calm down.

  Dissociative identity disorder, that was what they called it, although I don’t fully agree with their ruling. Seeing as I requested on numerous occasions during the psychiatric assessment to be called Sarah, however, I did not blame them for such a diagnosis. I assume Sarah had a lot of fun with that.

  As if showing the world I didn’t know who I was during the trial was not enough, Sarah became dramatic over the course of the questioning while I was on the stand. My body pulsed with her satisfaction and amusement as she described for the jury her attraction to Dean, the way she felt he was a compulsion, not just someone she slept with to get back at Michael.

  The way she waved off the idea of loving Michael both broke my heart and made me angrier than I had ever been before, but I was no match for her once she had reached that point. The only thing she did speak out against that I actually agreed with was that Dean had fought with Michael in self defense.

  Yes, there was more to it than that, but neither Sarah nor I wanted him incarcerated for the outcome of our affair. We both wanted Dean’s freedom, but for very different reasons. I wanted him to be free because I viewed him as innocent in every way, while Sarah desired his freedom so he would be available to help her, be with her, and ultimately be used by her.

  Sarah was the dominant one now, and out of pure amusement, she displayed me as a mentally incompetent whore with a lack of remorse and no tact. It was the only time I was relieved to be confined within the back of my mind. If I’d had to share that kind of shame, embarrassment, and resentment with the world, I would have rather died than have to remain in the public eye any longer.

  To say that the newspapers and media had a field day with the testimony that erupted from my lips would be an understatement.

  Sarah ruined me, and she did it publicly, with wicked satisfaction.

  Regretfully yours,

  Lauren

  The nurse exhaled slowly. Never before had she read such a tale of confusion and fear. So, Lauren was truly Lauren. That piqued the nurse’s curiosity because, for the past year the patient had spent within the West Heights facility, Lauren had adamantly demanded to be called Sarah for most of that time.

  Sporadically, she would become more docile, more likable, and then correct the staff members when they referred to her as anything but Lauren. For the most part though, she wanted to be Sarah. The nurse now realized Lauren had no choice by that time. What she wanted or didn’t want meant little in the eyes of Sarah. A chill ran down the nurse’s back as she realized at what cost Lauren had become Sarah.

  She flipped the page and a folded piece of paper slipped out. It had been folded and refolded. The page almost silky with wear. It was a short letter, the handwriting closer to chicken scratch than a polished scrawl. The nurse’s gaze flitted to the bottom of the page, where Dean had signed it.

  To my Sarah,

  Please tell me you are being treated well in that prison they have subjected you to. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for the wrongdoings done to you, I swear it. While I know I sit here inside the shabby confinements of the Central Texas Detention Facility labeled as some kind of murderer, I am perhaps more confident than I should be that my sentence shall be lessened. You, on the other hand, have been dealt an unfair hand, a beautiful mind being locked away where the world cannot see you for the diamond you truly are. That in itself may be the biggest crime of all.

  I cannot sit here without being overcome with remorse and sickening sadness over what happened to Michael. I promise you, Lauren, if I could relive the events of that evening, I swear I would fix this, change it, and keep you safe. Michael and I may not have seen eye to eye, but if your freedom could be won from his death having been prevented, I swear to you I would take it all back and make it right.

  For you, Lauren, I would do anything.

  If I have to do my time within these four walls that have seen so many darkened, lost souls just so I know I will see you again someday, so be it. But do not think for even a second that I will not fight for you. A fight brought me to this place, and I do hope that another fight will get me out of here.

  I will use my freedom to secure yours. In many ways, I belong where I am right now. You do not, and so I pledge my adoration for you and promise to you wholeheartedly that I will set you free, Lauren.

  Be strong, my Sarah.

  Dean

  The nurse checked the top of the page, but there was no date. The letter must have been from around the same time as the first journal entry, but there was no way to be sure. According to the media, Dean had been convicted of manslaughter after a relatively quick trial that lasted months, not years, and given the shortest permitted sentence for such a crime.

  Even without the knowledge of the journal entries, the nurse was aware that Dean’s involvement in Michael’s death was not so cut and dry. The courts had debated tirelessly as to whether he was a man who had set out to kill his lover’s husband in a bid to win her for himself, or whether one misplaced hit to the head had resulted in an accidental death.

  In the end, many people were surprised by his conviction, mostly due to the testimony from another woman who had been present during the altercation. It had been said numerous times that this woman was actually the mistress of Lauren’s husband, hell-bent on getting her revenge for the death of her lover.

  As she refolded the letter and tucked it back into its rightful place, just as Lauren had done, the nurse glanced over at the next entry on the page that followed. The distinction between the two personalities was evident.

  Not only did Lauren write differently from Sarah, her formation of each letter more artistic and even, the tone in the next entry made the nurse bite the inside of her lip as she processed the words before her.

  Something has got to be done about this place. Not only do they attempt to force feed little pills into me to calm me down, they are starting to irk me with their constant attempts of psychothera
py and wanting to talk. If they believe for one minute that talking about my feelings is going to fix this mess, they are sorely mistaken. They can keep their psycho-babble to themselves.

  Damn it, Lauren, look what you have done!

  Not only are we stuck inside this concrete hell where people only speak in hushed, mockingly soothing voices and carry clipboards to constantly write down everything you say and do in front of them, they allow a flood of letters from Dean in here practically every day in the hopes that seeing them will help make me more forthcoming to the idea of their help for my…oh, what do they call it…oh yes, my condition.

  Please. The only condition I have right now is a disgust for this place and an annoyance at the sight of Dean’s writing. The letters he continues to write are full of promises of freedom and declarations of his devotion to me.

  It’s all Lauren’s fault, the sappy, weepy love letters and the chivalry. I don’t think he will ever realize it was just about sex. Lauren could not figure that out either, for that matter. Instead, she made the mistake of tossing feelings and emotions into the mix, which quite obviously created more complications than I ever thought imaginable.

  If Lauren had just let it go, let it be only about the physical, I would not be stuck in this place with Ativan in my bloodstream and a tidal wave of love letters taking up space in my garbage can.

  If she hadn’t run with her tail between her legs back to Texas to plead for forgiveness from her not-so-loving husband, it would not have ended like this. Weakness did this.

  Lauren’s weakness, not mine, landed us here and, for that, I hate her.

  Sarah

  The nurse shut the journal, holding her finger in place so as not to lose her page. The entire staff at West Heights knew Dean visited Lauren almost daily after spending a relatively short stint of six months in prison, having been released after his lawyer appealed the original ruling. His conviction was again lessened after Michael’s death was deemed accidental, allowing Dean to go free citing only criminal negligence.

  Many people within West Heights, not only staff but also the residents lucid enough to follow the media coverage, were shocked and intrigued the first time Dean walked through the front doors and requested politely to see Lauren Carrington.

  It had been the most high profile case West Heights had ever been privy to. A man died because of it, after all. Witnessing the interaction between the two lovers whose affair had been the catalyst for someone’s untimely death was far more interesting to everyone than it should have been.

  Only weeks ago, when a staff member led Dean through the halls to Lauren’s room, Lauren took one look at him and promptly told him to leave. Not to be deterred, Dean sat outside her door for almost an hour each day, whether she spoke with him or not.

  Initially, she sat with him a few days each week. They had conversations in hushed whispers and held hands, showing the affection of two people who had been through an unthinkable tragedy together.

  On other days, she remained at a distance from him, hissed at him in frustration that her name was not Lauren, or else she would refuse to talk to him at all.

  As the weeks passed by, however, the staff and Dean himself began to notice the shift in her behavior. The days where Lauren was docile and welcoming of Dean’s visits became fewer and farther between, overtaken instead by blatant annoyance.

  Now that she had read a small portion of Lauren’s journal, the nurse was sure she could see what was happening. Unable to stop herself, she opened the journal up again and flipped through to about halfway through the book.

  This has got to stop.

  Better yet, Lauren needs to stop.

  I am not sure what she is trying to accomplish, but I can feel the anticipation and nervousness coursing through the veins we share.

  She needs to realize I have won, and she let me do it. She is far from an innocent bystander in all this. Blame me for it if you must, but do not try to make me out to be the bad guy.

  Lauren is no victim. In fact, the sooner she realizes how much I have helped her, that she is better off when I’m calling the shots, the sooner she will stop looking so damned crazy to everyone around us.

  I have read what she wrote in this little book.

  So, because I know she will undoubtedly check here as well to see what I have said in response, this one is for you, Lauren.

  I will eventually figure out what you are up to. I am not going to sit here on the sidelines while you try to screw up everything we have accomplished together. Dean’s infatuation with us…well, I suppose it is actually with me, since I had little help from you in roping him into this in the first place…is going to be our ticket out of here.

  If you would just stop fighting me on this and stop pushing me away, we could get exactly what we want from him, use him for whatever we need him for, and then be on our merry way once they let us out of those big glass doors in the front of this place.

  We do not love him, Lauren, and we will not require his needy infatuation once he gets us out of here. Yes, I have every intention of getting rid of him when the courts rule us as being rehabilitated. I mean, we got rid of Michael, did we not? That was just easier than I had expected. It was a more permanent solution as well, but that is not the point.

  The point is, Lauren, you are not going to win this one, all right?

  Let it go, and just enjoy the ride. There is no need to be weak, like Dean, like Michael. Weakness will get you nowhere. It is me that will get you somewhere, beyond these walls even, so stop struggling.

  You are starting to annoy me.

  Sarah

  The nurse shook her head sadly. What a struggle, to be in constant battle with yourself, with someone whom you feel is sharing your mind and body, living your life for you. As the nurse flipped ahead again, page by page, she began to realize most of the entries were written and signed by Sarah, not Lauren.

  The warnings and the agitation at Lauren’s will to fight were escalating. Sarah’s writing grew messier as she threatened Lauren and told her in no uncertain terms how things would play out. Again and again, Sarah stated blatantly how she would continue to use Dean’s affections until she no longer needed him. She cared very little, if at all, for him.

  The nurse began to wonder if the hushed conversations between Lauren and Dean involved Lauren pleading with Dean to not come back, to leave her here before Sarah irrevocably did more damage to him than she already had.

  If the nurse had known such a battle of wills was happening between the personalities of Lauren and Sarah, would she have told Dean?

  On the days Lauren was actually herself, she had repeatedly told him about Sarah and begged him to save himself, and he had chosen not to listen to her. There was nothing the nurse or anyone else could have said to him to convince him Lauren was, in fact, telling the truth. It was possible that, toward the end, Lauren had managed to persuade him.

  The one thing the nurse did not understand was how Dean could not see that Lauren and Sarah were, in fact, two separate people. Did his love and adoration for her truly cloud his views and judgment so much that he had blocked it from his mind?

  Perhaps love truly did overcome all things.

  Not everyone on the staff at West Heights had even believed the stories that came from Lauren’s mouth. Even in a psychiatric facility, it was difficult to comprehend how a completely normally-functioning woman, educated and married, well-liked by all who knew her, could become a victim of dissociative identity disorder at twenty-nine years of age without anything leading up to it.

  The fact that the alternate identity was a character from a story she had been writing was the aspect that many struggled with. Which came first, the identity that ultimately became a character or the idea of a character the resulted in another identity?

  Late onset dissociative identity disorder mostly occurred in those subjected to severely traumatic events or tragedies. Michael’s death, and Lauren’s role in it, had obviously been enough to secure S
arah’s place within Lauren’s mind.

  Perhaps becoming Sarah was the defense mechanism Lauren’s mind needed in order to deal with such a tragedy, or maybe it was just the weakest moment Lauren had ever experienced, giving Sarah the crack in the foundation large enough to slip through and take over.

  The nurse was beginning to feel an overwhelming surge of sympathy for Lauren. Regret flooded her as well, knowing that, until finding this journal, she had been one of those people on staff at West Heights who had failed to believe Lauren’s tales and her diagnosis.

  She reopened the journal, feeling certain that reading Lauren’s story in her own words was the only way to redeem herself for her disbelief.

  February 16, 2015

  Once again, Dean showed up here today, insistent on seeing me. He spouted his usual hopes and dreams for us, but also promised he was getting closer to having his appeal to the courts approved to have me released from this facility into his care.

  I must admit, I honestly believed he was just blowing smoke in the beginning, but he is actually serious. He held my hands in his and swore he would take care of me and not let them ever lock me in a place like this again.

  If I did not want the freedom so badly, I would have undoubtedly gagged at the thought of being under his surveillance all day. Dean would be constantly watching me, helping me, and spewing his ridiculous poetic terms of endearment.

  There is no way I will allow that to happen, but first I have to play the game and use his determination to get me on the other side of those locked doors. If he can manage that for me, I can manage the rest. Without him.