Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts

by Mary E. Palmerin

  A man hovers above me and my eyes grow wide as I shut down, turning back into the bear that wants to protect herself from everything because I am not able to trust anything. I show him my teeth once more, not making eye contact with him even though this is just a nightmare. Eyes tell stories that I don’t wish to know. I thrash over and spit into his face, not taking note of his features because I know he will only hurt me.

  Then something happens quickly. The haunting returns as he pulls a shiny needle up to my face, showing me that anguish is inevitable. I feel the puncture into my arm. I want to cry out and beg for mercy again, but that is just a mirroring image once more. Nothing is what it seems. My voice is mute as the pain subsides and the harsh whiteness of the room softens on my eyes. I relax as the tearing in my wrists doesn’t seem as bad. I am slowly tucking the mad being back below as I seek solace while comfort washes over me.

  But I remind myself of one last thing again; nothing is what it seems. Then, my eyes become too heavy to remain focused on the swirling lights as they close and I feel like I’m high on a drug, floating on a shining star untouchable to the nightmares that previously crept up on me. I feel the sun shining on my skin as I embrace the goodness of this dream. Something peaks my interest in the distance, a shadow of something familiar.

  Something that I lost.

  I float closer to the shadow and see my boy. My monster. My lover. My savior. My all. My heart swells as I try to grasp onto the goodness. But just as his lips curve into a smile, the shining of the sun is gone and everything turns to nothing.

  My mind is a wicked place, a looking glass of what I want, but what I can’t ever have.

  Perception: a conceptual understanding and the capability to become aware

  Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick. I open my eyes to see the same light that haunted my dreams. My entire body hurts and I can’t understand the difference between heaven and hell at this point. There is intense pain in my back and my arms are still locked at my sides. I turn my head to look at my right shoulder, seeing evidence of my dream. Fresh, red teeth marks cut through my thin skin. My eyes lazily make their way to my hands and I become confused, seeing that I am restrained at both wrists. I am lying in the middle of a bed, and it isn’t like the bed that I had at Claude and Helen’s. It smells sterile and clean. That fucking light is pissing me off and I feel like I am about to freak out again soon, unable to understand the difference between my thoughts and true reality. I knew I was on the verge of madness before, but now I have been pushed over the precipice as I fall. I don’t even know who I am or if this another movie playing in my mind to taunt me like before.

  I trust nothing except the fate that I chose by giving up. Yes, yes I died, right? I felt my life slip away as I gave in. The demons told me that I will forever be in hell. This is just a stopping point within the scenes of hell. I will try to accept that, but people don’t feel when they die. Anxiety plagues me as I try to pull the rational part to the surface. I’ve lost it. Lost it all. I don’t even know what’s happened to me. I want to be saved, comforted, and goddamn it I want pity!

  I yell out, taking the breath from the bottom of my tiny lungs and pushing it out as hard as I can even though it burns like heck. I hear a click behind me and heavy footsteps follow. My heart thuds in my chest as footsteps down a creaking hallway remind me of Claude, the awful man who took so much from me. I begin to settle in panic mode as I feel someone’s stare peering deep inside of me, but I am far too tired and scared to look over to see what greets me. I will only be punished more.

  “Gwendolyn?” a deep voice calls out to me.

  My belly grumbles to life with the remnants of what I used to survive. Is this my job? Fuck to survive? Is that why I am tied up? Is now the time that I tell him he can have his way with me before I even see his face, making the decision so my wrists can be freed? Will he meet his maker just like Claude as fury takes over my being? Am I truly the makings of an awful killer? Even I don’t know the answer to that because I have gone insane.

  “Gwendolyn” the husky man calls out again.

  I decide to survive this godforsaken nightmare and give him what they all want. He has me tied up at his mercy. I laugh seductively, pulling my pink lips into the perfect smile. I roll my head back, pushing my perky breasts higher in the air. I turn my head to the side as my crimson locks brush over my face slightly. I giggle again, gyrating my hips up into the air.

  “Fuck me. Free me. Fuck me. Free me.”

  I continue to repeat myself as I grind my hips in the air, hoping that he relieves the wetness between my legs. Yes, I am beyond repair, dead or alive. I’m damaged, conditioned to submit and enjoy, to do whatever they please.

  But just as soon as the lust between my legs starts, worry travels up my back, ready to sting me with its venom and dance along in my crazed mind making me wild with rage. I’m confused and barren. I need solace, but no one will help me.

  “You are safe, Gwendolyn,” the sultry voice says.

  I laugh again, this time louder.

  “That’s what they all say!”

  Then Jekyll turns to Hyde as the tears come from my eyes. I scream at the word safe. How dare he use such a word! Images of my boy flash before my mind and pierce my heart, making it difficult to breathe. I cry out in physical pain.

  “Welch! Welch! Save me!” I beg, pleading to the man that tells me I am safe.

  I don’t believe him. I am safe with no one except the boy who stole my heart. Now I am deserted and alone, all alone with nothing except the thoughts and memories that are filling me with madness.

  “Gwendolyn, calm down,” the voice says again, tugging at the rational part of my brain and pulling it to the surface.

  “No! No! Welch!” I beg once more.

  “He’s safe too, Gwendolyn. Please relax.”

  I let my tears fall and curse myself for believing the man who is talking to me. I see Welch smiling, happy and in the arms of people that are providing him with shelter and love, all of which are things he has deserved his whole life. My tears won’t stop as I try not to give into the word safe, but that sliver of hope splinters to the surface and I relent, sagging back into the bed.

  “You’re alive, Gwendolyn. And you are not alone.”

  Words that are both glorious and painful. I can’t decide if I am grateful to hear that I am alive knowing that I am or petrified because the hell that I was stuck in was in my own head. I try so hard to hold onto the man’s words, to believe what he is saying, but I fall back into the tunnel of nothingness as I yell out in desperation for understanding.

  I’ve lost my mind. Coming to terms with that makes me scared of myself.

  My eyes flicker open and I don’t struggle to move or scream. Maybe I am not totally lost in an oblivion of misunderstanding the insanity. Perhaps I will find myself again, but maybe not. Maybe I am ruined for the rest of my life and I have to accept that. My feet may never be back on the ground again. Crazy people don’t think like that, do they?

  I look down to my wrists, admiring the red burn marks from the material that was strapped around them to keep me still. I bend my arms at both elbows and cringe in discomfort. I have no concept of time, I only know that I hurt all over. I look down to my legs which are covered in bruises, not realizing why I am lifting my gown. I guess to determine how much time has passed to see if the thrash marks have turned into scars. I’m not wearing underwear which makes me uneasy, wondering if I have been taken advantage of. Paranoia is worse than anxiety as the unknown washes over me, making my heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings. I make note that the burning, tearing pain is absent between my legs like it was the night Connor took me.

  The hair on my sex has grown over and the memories of that night make me smile, but also break my heart. I peel my gown up more and see scars over my belly and breasts along with the bite mark left by Connor. Thinking about that fucker takes me from calm to pissy in two seconds. I look around my room, noticing now that the walls
are padded with white padding and there isn’t anything else but a bed and a steel toilet in here. Worry strikes again as I think to how I alleviate my bladder and bowels before people, as that would be the ultimate humiliation; pissing and shitting myself in front of anyone, let alone strangers at a place I don’t know.

  I push my gown back down and swing my legs to the side of the bed as every muscle in my body protests. My feet touch the cold floor and I attempt to stand, but my knees buckle and give out as I fall to the floor, busting my lip open. Recollections of the time that asshole, Connor, tripped me in the hallway and tearing my lip open invade my mind. Will life always be like this? Will there always be a bad memory attached to everything that I do from this day forward? I curse myself for living, still unsure of what happened.

  I push my arms onto each side of my head, lifting my body up and turning to sit on my bottom. I wipe my lip with the back of my hand, discarding the crimson liquid that matches my hair onto my gown. The door behind my bed clicks and I don’t turn around to see who it is, still fearful and not willing to completely trust whoever these people are. The familiar snaps meet the hard floors and I look down seeing a pair of shiny black dress shoes. My heart drums in my chest. It’s a man, and I don’t trust him. None of them.

  He scrunches down as I have a view of his gray dress slacks. He smells strongly of cologne and richness. All things the epitome of smartness. Things that I was destined for before my life changed. Now I am just another forgotten one.

  “Gwendolyn, let me help you. Will you let me help you?” the husky man whispers.

  I remain still on the cold ground, feeling the shell start to crack. I’m ready to let it fall, but terrified what the results may yield. Look at what happened last time I started to feel. I became the girl who lost everything, twice. I’m scared to face that. Scared to have faith in other people and humanity once again. I fall to his feet and sob, the strong smell of leather tickling my nose and still reminding me that I am alive and this is something that I don’t have a choice in facing.

  It’s time, once and for all to sort out this hell in my head.

  Like I said to Helen, Bring it bitch…

  Two Months since the Bittersweet Goodbye

  Time is a funny thing. It usually goes fastest when you want it to slow. Ticks along your life that mean so much pass by in the blink of an eye, years later to be forgotten as other events plague the happiness and overshadow it with its fear. I worry that is what will happen to me as I battle the fucked up shit that is waving around in my head. I’ve only come to terms with true reality days ago, if that can be counted as such begging my psychiatrist to help me as I slobber and sob at his feet.

  There are so many questions that I wish to ask, but the answers scare me. I know they walk on eggshells when around me. Perhaps I scare them and I can’t say I blame them because I even scare myself. I haven’t come to terms with what exactly happened that night, only that I have been separated by Welch since. What caused me to freeze in the middle of the road is unknown, maybe I was subconsciously seeking death only to be punished by surviving. I still can’t be sure if I am thankful that I survived it.

  The physicians were astounded that I wasn’t more injured from being hit by the cop car, only suffering from a bruised liver and kidney and a cracked skull without evidence of a brain bleed. Of course I was cut and bruised everywhere, still am two months later. It’s ironic to think that a year ago my snow white skin was flawless, now it bears the marks of so much brutality. But every scar also shows that I made it through.

  Today I am due to have my first session outside of this padded room. No wonder I am crazy being stuck here. Can you blame me being surrounded by white pads, buzzing lights, and nothing else but my memories and thoughts? Healing won’t ever be plausible if I stay in this place.

  I hear the clicking of the door behind me as I am curled up on my bed. Thank goodness they gave me sweatpants and a T-shirt last night, ditching the nasty hospital gown. My nervous tic returns as I bring my knees up to my chest, clawing at the backs of my bruised legs. I wonder when I won’t hurt while my mind roams for the cause. Perhaps it isn’t from the physical pain from the accident, rather bottling the emotional pain that I have endured. I don’t know much about the mind and how it works, and quite frankly I am too scared to figure it out.

  The steel door to my isolation room opens and the familiar clinking of fancy shoes taps along the concrete floor. It comforts me in a bizarre way, but I am trying my best to withhold the trust factor because humanity sucks in general. For some reason I feel like I can have faith in this guy. We will see.

  Dr. Emmanuel Yavez is a forty-something year old gentleman with black hair, scruff on his face, and a soft aura, one that makes me feel at ease. Even with his domineering height at over 6’4”, he still seems like he wouldn’t hurt a flea. We haven’t discussed anything in depth, only how I ended up here after the accident, but I am not oblivious to the obvious.

  Claude and Helen.

  “Gwendolyn? Are you ready for our first formal session?” he asks.

  I peek up from under my tired eyelids. Part of me wants this, to believe that I can get better, but is this part of the system working? Will I end up a forgotten one, locked away in a white, padded room while someone throws away the key as I am left to rot?

  I nod my head yes. I guess it is now or never…

  We’re in a room that is not what I expected. I thought I would walk out of my isolation room and down a hallway into his posh office to lay back into a comfortable couch as he splayed canvas pictures before me, asking me how I felt about them.

  God, this is so different. We walked down the hall with people strolling, some without supervision, others with an escort. It made me nervous to wonder why they were here. Is the world really full of that many misunderstood people, or are we all really sick, infected from various vile components? I suppose I will never know, but the question is intriguing, nonetheless.

  The room that I am in has two activity tables and a shelf of jigsaw puzzles and board games. What. The. Actual. Fuck? Am I in preschool again? The plaque before the door was labeled treatment room 1. I had this vision in my mind before we opened the door that it would either be the sofa or a table with electrodes that would be stuck on my head to shock the crazy away.

  I was wrong about both.

  “Gwendolyn, please sit. Can I get you a glass of water?” he asks, straightening his red tie.

  Red, blood, drip, drip, drip, thrash, pain.

  I shut my eyes tight and push back the memories that I hate more than anything else. He must sense my discomfort as I hear him take a deep breath in like he is preparing himself to run a marathon. I hope that I don’t make him lose. If there is one thing that I am thankful for, it is the ability to partially numb myself from the love that I miss so much. Maybe that’s just the massive amount of medication that I am being fed. I have often thought about refusing it, vomiting the tablets up after I open my mouth to the nurses to show them that I don’t have them hidden, but what would that help? It would only make the pain worse and the crazy increase.

  God knows I don’t need that. Maybe I am ready to try to understand what is happening inside my head.

  “Do you understand why you are here, Gwendolyn?”

  I nod my head yes, but I can’t muster a return with words. I hate words.

  “Can you tell me about that?” Dr. Yavez asks in a soothing tone.

  Soothing, a conundrum indeed. How can I be soothed before I describe the acts of taking a human life? The weird thing is, I don’t want to cry about it either.

  “Forced to fuck. Forced to obey.”

  Two statements full of so much truth, his eyes grow wide with surprise. Maybe I did learn a thing or two from my boy. He would be proud of me, being able to emotionally detach myself and stay numb.

  Nah, that is just the medicine. Whatever the case, I am glad. Take me on a goddamn ride, get me higher than a kite, but don’t let me have those tho
ughts with those horrible voices again. I will find a way to kill myself if it happens again and I will do it violently, because honestly I doubt that I deserve anything less.

  Dr. Yavez scribbles notes on his pad of paper before him and I watch him, knowing that my intent won’t work on him. I’m not sure that I would want it to even if I still held that card of being Miss Manipulation or not. It ruined a lot of things. Again, my boy’s face flashes in my head and I am glad that I was blessed with a little slice of heaven. I want to cry for him, but they give me pills that make me able to not to do that. I’m pretty fucking grateful to be able to have mere thoughts of the only boy that had my heart. Before I would go ape-shit crazy and now I sit across the table in some activity room for the socially inept people of society as a doctor studies everything about me.

  In my head, I feel like I am answering all the questions right and forming the correct facial expressions, but I am reminded of something grisly once again; nothing is what it seems. Ever.

  “Gwendolyn, take me back to the night that you left Mayesville.”

  Some tigers never change their stripes. I revert back to the feral girl that I was and I scoot my chair back quickly all while keeping my glinting eyes on his. He studies me carefully, not making any brash movements. I hop up on the balls of my feet on the top of my chair and I growl at him. Consider it a warning, asshole.

  But, he doesn’t judge me. Instead, he looks down at his notepad and jots down more notes. This does something to me, making me recognize that he isn’t out to get me. Will I forever be the used-to-be-sweet-girl, turned aggressor? What a tragedy, but it is something that I can’t help. Something in my fucked up brain snaps and I transform into someone else as I prepare myself for a fight; a fight of survival. But I am alive and my life isn’t in jeopardy. Something that I had right before this happened starts tugging, begging to be pulled out and played with. My voice of reason. I bite my lip hard because I want to cry, but the tears won’t come.