“I’m done for the day,” I said, sensing that the doctor was giving up on me.
“Very well,” she said, disappointed, and pressed a button on her phone. “Escort for room 7.”
After I was returned to my room, I spent hours replaying what the doctor had said, over and over in my head. On an average day, I loved my tiny room. Because of events upon my arrival here, I was segregated from other patients, and I had a room to myself; it’s small but quiet. White-painted brick walls, a creaky metal bed, a relatively small window, sealed-with-wire mesh to prevent escape. The floor was the cheap linoleum tile you might see in a school cafeteria. I liked it because my room was bright all the time. There was even a lamppost outside the window that made it bright at night.
Today, however, it was much too quiet. Perhaps there was too much room for my mind to wander. I’d rather be in a place reverberating with a million voices so that I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. I wouldn’t mind so much if my thoughts were productive in the slightest way, but they were on a loop of unproductivity, replaying the same ideas and doubts over and over again, making them more frustrating every time they crossed my mind. I was becoming angered by my frustrations when I heard a knock at the door.
“Danielle Blake, it’s time for your medication,” the voice preceded a face at the door.
“Umm, come in?” I said. It was a weird introduction for a medication dispenser. Normally, they just walked in.
A girl nervously pushed the cart in and fumbled with a cup as well as the pills. She was surprisingly small, with long dark hair, and light blue eyes. They projected a somewhat vacant expression. She handed me a cup with water.
“Please, take your medication, Miss Blake,” she said in a falsely authoritative inflection, giving the impression she was acting out a part in a play, and not very successfully.
“I’m not taking this,” I replied. She appeared confused; clearly, she didn’t know what to do or say next.
“Miss Blake, it is important that you take your medication on a daily basis; if you need assistance in taking your medication, I can have alternate staff come in to help you,” she said.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” I said with a mild laugh, “This is for Daniel Black, I’m Danielle Blake . . .”
She looked down at all the medication again, searching for mine. I laughed out loud at this.
“Ya know, that’s a good way to get fired around here,” I said continuing to laugh.
She finally located the right medication. “Here,” she said, shoving it toward me with the water.
“Thank you,” I said, raising my glass in a ‘cheers’ fashion. I looked down at my cup before swallowing the pills.
“What are these?” I asked, not really that curious.
“The usual,” she replied after examining her chart, “at least that’s what it says on here.”
“They look different,” I shifted my head to the side, as though they might actually change size or color.
“Well, you know what it most likely is, they’re giving you generic now. It’s the same pill, technically. Let’s see . . . yes, you’ve been taking the new version for almost two weeks now.”
“Weird, I guess I never noticed. I mean, I have been feeling different; I feel like I’m on fewer meds, but I can’t complain about that, I suppose. My mind is just on overdrive.”
“Well, I’m sure the doctor has something to help that,” she said.
“Dr. Joy, do you know anything about her?”
“Dr. Joy?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, I’m curious, where does she come from? Is she new? Family? Married?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Blake, I don’t know Dr. Joy,” she said, tapping her hand on the cart, “I just started, and I mostly stick to dispensing.”
“Right,” I said.
She nodded and exited the room.
Chapter Five: Peyton
I sat waiting for my next session with Dr. Joy to begin. She did her usual scanning of pages and scribbling of notes for five minutes or so, then looked up. After two-and-a-half weeks of our sessions together, she suggested an interesting topic to explore.
“Let’s fast-forward a bit. Let’s talk about when you met Peyton,”
I looked up and sat silent.
“Peyton . . .” I hadn’t spoken her name for a long time. I tried not to even think about her. The doctor must have done her research because as important as Peyton was, I did everything in my power not to talk about her. She was my best-kept secret within those walls. I had barely written about her in my journal for that very reason, fearing someone else might get ahold of it. I always wanted her to be only mine, my secret.
If there was one person in my life who had a completely pure heart, it was Peyton. The day she came into my life was the day I found hope, not only for me but for humanity as a whole.
I was seventeen at that point; barely a senior in high school and school had been uneventful up until then. You would imagine that with my unwelcoming disposition and avoidance of any activity, I would be a target for other students, fortunately, that wasn’t the case. By choice, I ostracized myself from them, and they never bothered me. I liked it that way; I was quite the loner, not wanting to cling to or get involved with anyone or anything.
“Hey, mom, where are you? I’m waiting outside,” I had just gotten out of school and normally she was there to pick me up, but today this wasn’t the case and I’d phoned her.
“I’m so sorry. I had to take care of some things. Is there any way you could walk home?” she asked.
I would normally say yes, but not today.
“I can’t walk home; it’s about to rain,” I said, taking in the overcast sky. I wasn’t sure it was going to rain but didn’t care to get caught in the middle of a storm on the way home. Plus, walking would take almost an hour.
“Well then, take the bus,” she suggested.
“The bus? I don’t even know what bus I ride.”
“Danielle, it’s bus 50. Hurry, and don’t miss it on purpose, because I can’t pick you up. Okay? Love you.” She hung up, not allowing me an opportunity to argue.
I walked toward where all the buses gathered and reluctantly approached bus number 50. It was bad enough riding the bus, but the worst part involved trying to find an open seat next to someone who seemed receptive to someone else sitting with them. Usually, this was never. I climbed the steps and thankfully there weren’t too many people already on the bus, and I found a seat toward the back that was completely unoccupied. It was over the wheel, and my feet sat awkwardly, but I didn’t mind at all, provided I didn’t have to ask, “Is this seat taken?”
Everyone else piled aboard, mostly underclassmen: freshmen and sophomores. It was embarrassing being a senior. I looked out the window, waiting to get going. A group of girls was conversing outside. People around me had their windows down, and these girls talked so loudly, it wasn’t hard to eavesdrop on their discussion.
“Peyton, come on, we’re riding home with the boys,” a tall brown-haired girl said to another girl.
“Yeah, come on,” a short blonde-haired girl echoed.
“No thanks; I think I’m just going to take the bus,” a girl with light brown hair, green eyes, and a perfect tan replied. She was exceptionally attractive, and I recognized her from around school. She was in track, so her body was strong and tight, but still very feminine. Her appearance was perfect, at least in my opinion. She turned toward the bus as I was observing at her, and I thought she might have noticed me staring, so I shifted to face forward in my seat but still listened.
“You always ride the bus, why don’t you just bring your car?” asked another girl with dark flawless skin, and long dark hair tied back, although she only seemed half interested.
“I like the bus . . . I’ll see you guys later,” she said while climbing aboard the bus.
I peered over the seat to see if she had had the same problem trying to find a seat. Of course, she did not.
“Hey, Peyton, you can sit here,” I heard a boy’s voice from behind me.
“No, sit here!” came another guy’s voice.
She waved to them. As she drew level with me, she glanced down, seeming to recognize me, although we hadn’t met before. I half smiled, and she shook her head slightly as if realizing her error, but she still pointed to the seat next to me.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked with a nervous smile.
I was so surprised she even asked, I didn’t give a verbal response, I just shook my head.
“Great,” she said with a sigh of relief and plopped down next to me.
I thought this could be an exceptionally awkward trip since the seating arrangement positioned my leg close to hers. I felt my leg twitch out of nervousness and hoped she didn’t notice.
“So, what’s your name?” she asked, turning to me.
“Dani,” I answered.
“Dani? Is that short for Danielle?”
“Yeah,” I said shaking my head.
“I like Danielle better,” she said with a smile, “I’m Peyton.”,
She extended her hand, and I shook it. I always thought it was weird that people meet and still shake hands, but did it anyway.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“So, you going to the football game tonight?” she asked.
“Uh, no, are you?”
“Maybe . . . Do you ever go?”
“I used to . . . with my family, but haven’t been this year.”
“That’s cool,” she said, pushing her hair back with her left hand. As she raised her hand, I noticed scars lined her wrist. It was hard to detect with her tan, but still visible.
“What happened?” I asked pointing at her wrist, then immediately regretted my impulsive question.
“I think that’s more of a personal question than you intended to ask,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, I didn’t know –”
“Do you want the truth or the lie I tell everyone else?” she asked.
“Both.”
“I have a very vicious cat, at home,” she said, and laughed, casting her eyes downward.
“And the truth?” I prompted.
“The truth . . .” she said looking at me, squinting her eyes as if she was searching for something. I held her stare as she searched, trying to convey that it was safe to tell me. She bit her bottom lip and explained, “The truth is, I did it to myself.”
I was caught off guard by her blatant honesty.
“You tried to kill yourself?” I asked in a non-judgmental tone.
“No, not at all,” she said.
“I don’t understand,” I confessed.
“Well . . . do you ever get so mad or frustrated or upset that you feel like you’re just going to lose your mind?”
“No,” I said wanting to be able to understand what she was talking about, “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I hope you never do.”
“But why did you do it?”
“When I get all of these emotions, they are overwhelming. I start to lose control of myself, so I cut just a little. It’s like letting the air out of a balloon slowly rather than just popping it. It makes it so I can actually get to the next point in my life.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“No.”
“Does it make you feel better?”
“For a moment . . .” she said, looking at me and giving me a smile. I sat quietly for a second. I hadn’t had a serious conversation with another person in a long time, much less a virtual stranger.
“I know what you’re thinking: she’s beautiful, athletic, smart, rich; what does she have to be sad or angry about, right?”
“No . . . not at all.” I tried to hide that that was exactly what I was thinking.
“Do you know how many people hate you when you’re popular and your family has money? Almost everyone does, including the people who claim to be your friends. I just wish I could tell them that they don’t know what I’ve been through; what I go through. Everyone has a story that no one knows.”
“I believe that,” I said, definitely being able to relate to her last comment, “I wish you didn’t feel like you had to do that.”
Peyton just gave me a small smile back.
The bus began to empty out to the point where we were two of the few people remaining. Peyton began to glance around nervously.
“Do you want me to move to another seat?” she asked.
“Uh . . . I mean if you want, that’s okay, but you can stay,” I said, not wanting her to leave but at the same time, not wanting to seem weird.
“I do want to stay,” she said, “So, how come I’ve never seen you on the bus before?”
“If I was on the bus before, do you think you would have actually noticed?” I asked in a joking manner.
“Of course, I wouldn’t have ridden the bus today if you weren’t on it,” she said with a wink. I enjoyed her sense of humor.
“So, you’re on track, right?” I asked hoping it didn’t give the impression I was stalking aspects of her life.
“That’s right, how did you know?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oh . . . um, I’ve seen you around . . . in uniform.”
“Oh, yeah?” she laughed.
“Yep, so how’s that?”
“I love it,” she said, “I just feel I’ve been caged up for so much of my life, when I’m running, I’m free, I could go anywhere, and do anything. Plus . . .”
I was watching her eyes intently as she explained hoping to pick up the emotion behind every word she spoke. I suddenly saw an unexpected discomposure cross her eyes as her pupils expanded. It was an embodiment of terror. I tried to register why she would have this reaction. Then I heard the sound of thick tires screeching against the road attempting to stop in their tracks but to no avail. I knew it was heading straight for us. Peyton stared over my shoulder, then locked her eyes on me. Everything stopped. It was as if the world was trying to stand still so I could process what was about to happen.
Everything faded into a purple almost lilac tint and fixated in time. Everything except me.
I had my back to my window and twisted to see. Only feet from the bus was a semi-truck. The driver wore an expression of complete despair, as he gripped the steering wheel, slammed on the brakes, and simultaneously braced himself for impact. He knew what was about to happen. I turned back toward Peyton, her eyes fixed on mine. Time slowly came back into play, millimeter by millimeter, the truck initiated its collision with the bus. First, the glass gave way sending shards like droplets of water across the bus, then the metal began to cave in under pressure. It was a direct hit with where we were seated.
With chaos ensuing around us, I could not be distracted from the penetrating eyes of Peyton; my heart feared for her. I felt an obligation inside me to protect her. Instinctively I reached out and wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close to me. I immediately felt her arms wrap around me as the time returned to full speed. The truck ripped through the bus like an explosion.
* * *
I awoke, or so I thought, in the same place I remembered from when I was previously in the hospital. It was pure white on a bed, soft as silk, comforting against my skin. I rolled onto my back and put my arms behind my head. I thought I could definitely get used to the feeling I had in this place. I only wondered why I was here. This time I had surely died.
“Danielle,” said a voice.
I noticed a person standing beside my bed. She was tall, thin, with very dark skin, exceptionally short dark hair not even an inch in length. Most intriguing were her green eyes, my only memory of the last time I was here.
“Yeah?” I said as if I knew her. She sat on the side of my bed and smiled.
“Do you know what brings you here?” she asked
“Something bad happened, so I decided to take a peaceful nap?”
“Do you know what this place is?” she chose not to provide an answer to her previou
s question.
“A dream,” I countered definitively.
“Close,” she held her hand just above my body, in the middle of my chest “This is the place where your soul comes to heal when it is damaged, confused, or hurt. A dream in a sense that your mind creates the environment you see around you. It is your rationale of a place that would provide healing, and safety.”
She removed her hand from above me, “It seems as though your soul is quite damaged.”
“I feel fine. I’ll probably wake up soon,” I countered.
“You can wake up whenever you feel the need to do so; I suggest you wait for the healing process to complete. You wouldn’t want to enter the world with a piece of your soul missing. That would be quite foolish.”
“How will I know when I’m ready?”
“Your body will awaken itself, and you will find yourself in the present time, sorting through the pieces of what time has elapsed since you left.”
I absorbed these words. It was unusual because, although I knew nothing of this place or this person, it was dream-like because it all made sense. I knew I had to be here, I felt parts of me growing stronger the longer I lay in the peaceful oasis.
“And, who are you?” I asked, already comprehending the answer.
“I am what your mind created to explain to you what you do not know, and there are things I know that you do not.”
“Do you know of my great-grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever come here?”
“All too often I’m afraid, but she was much older than you the first time I saw her. Her imagination created a glorious place of healing, yours depicts a very basic, simple definition of tranquility. Hers was breathtaking, and it transformed over the years to become more glorious. She had a lot of reasons to be here.”
“So this place moves?”
“Not exactly, it transforms, based on how your mind defines it, based on your life, and your experiences.”
“Are there ever other people here?” She looked away from me.
“Sometimes the mind will create . . . illusions of other people in this place, but be careful about inviting them in, and letting them stay. In order to heal, their presence must be extracted, and once they leave, the mind loses them. They can only hinder the healing process.”
Manifesting Shadow, #1 Page 6
