Twisted in You

by Fabiola Francisco

  No one wants to see what I have swimming in my mind. Do they want me to paint them a picture of how I was raped? Do they want me to paint them a picture of my momma’s lifeless body staring back at me after the final blow?

  Or do they want me to act out what he did to me after the cops left and marked her murder as unresolved. Do they want me to explain how he got me to not tell the cops what truly happened? How he threatened me? Or better yet, how he silenced me?

  I don’t think the peaches in Chasing Freedom can handle that kind of truth. They live here, on the silent sidelines, thinking the world is as perfect as you make it. Or so, that’s what I think of them.

  So tonight, as I sit here remembering what landed me here in this fucking fabulous place, I have trouble fighting the urge to “self-harm” as my therapist calls it.

  Why do I harm myself? Why did I start? Always the same fucking questions. You’d think having a PhD would make the guy better at cracking the obvious. He hasn’t figured it out yet, and I don’t want to tell him.

  Usually, I stay up all night and watch the sunrise. I barely sleep. When I close my eyes, the burning fire that haunts me sparks deep within my imagination, bringing me blinding memories of him overpowering and possessing whatever he felt was his.

  So lights out for me means quiet time in my head. Time to figure out how the hell I’m going to leave this place and what I’ll do when I leave.

  When Carly came by, I told her she didn’t have to. I appreciate it, but this isn’t somewhere I want to be remembered in.

  The light begins to shine through the window. A new day. A new hope. A new memory to resurface.

  More therapy today; more ways to sort through my emotions and issues so that I can have a breakthrough in my recovery. Aren’t you jealous of my day? After a few weeks of being here, I still resist the therapies. But I show up each day.

  It’s easier to do what they want, to exist like a living ghost in the halls of this purgatory. That’s what I did with the devil anyway. Numbed the pain, numbed the disgust, numbed my own existence—a rag doll to throw around and play with.

  God, I hate that I think about it. I hate that it’s all stuck in my head. I feel like I’m losing my mind.

  Shower. Change. Breakfast. Try to keep my breakfast down. Paint. Group discussion. Writing therapy. Alone time. One on one therapy with the shrink. My day in a nutshell, literally. I feel like I’m living inside a nutshell—the walls all the same, the rooms all the same, the people all the same. It’s bland and boring.

  But there is no red, only white; there are no devils, only lost souls, like me, wandering in the unknown purgatory we have been sentenced to. I take my seat in art therapy and prepare for another day of “soul searching” and “emotional cleansing.” I roll my eyes at the thought. Right, because painting is going to help understand why the drunken bastard dragged me and trapped me there in the depths of the fire, doing whatever he pleased with me, burning me each night, stabbing me each day.

  Suddenly, there’s yelling. Lots of it. I’m taken away from my thoughts. What’s going on? I’m trying to focus on my painting. If I need to be in this damned place, I want it to be quiet inside my own head.

  The door bursts open and I see a pair of heavy boots stomping into the art room. “I don’t need help!” He yells, causing me to jump. Stop screaming. Please, stop, I plead silently. I cover my ears and begin to rock.

  I smell the alcohol on him. A scent forever burned in my memory. He continues to yell angrily, and I get flashbacks of the devil yelling at Momma, at me. I get flashbacks of the stench on his breath and clothes when he would pry open my bedroom door and stumble onto my bed.

  Ugh! I begin to scratch my wrists. It isn’t cutting, but if my nails are long enough, it helps to ease some of the pain inside me, pierce through my skin at least a little bit.

  “What the hell’s wrong with Red?” He tilts his head towards me. Oh God, I hope he’s not like the devil. He doesn’t look like him, but he smells like him.

  I can’t tell what he looks likes. He’s wearing a black cap, covering most of his face. Besides his big boots, he’s accessorized with rings and ear gauges. Tattoos cover his left arm, starting somewhere from under his black tee.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Hunt.” Sam, the only normal person in here, tries to pull him out of the art room to settle him down.

  “Always a pleasure, Sam, but, I. Don’t. Need. Help.” God, he’s an asshole. Stop putting on a scene and leave the damn room so I can go back to the thoughts inside my head.

  My nails pierce deeper into my skin, causing it to break. Yes, release. I can’t stand watching this scene without being able to control something.

  Sam finally gets him up and out of the room. He’s not like the devil; he’s stronger and taller. I hope demons don’t possess him. I wouldn’t be able to fight him off. He’s the only person who has acknowledged my existence in this fucking place and that’s not a good thing.

  I want to remain invisible, white like the walls, camouflaging into nothingness. I don’t want to be noticed. I don’t want to be taken. I simply don’t want to be.

  Finally, quiet time to let the paintbrush move unceremoniously, and I return to the thoughts in my head. It felt good to be able to pierce my skin again, even if it was only with my nails. That asshole had to bring back so many vivid memories.

  His anger, arrogance, smell, all of those took me back to hell, dragging me by the feet as I struggled to hold myself out of it with my hands holding the frame of the door.

  “No, stop! Let me go.”

  “I’ll let you go when I’m done with you, bitch. The more you fight it, the harder I play.”

  Ah! I hear the devil’s words in my ear. I feel him next to me, ready to attack. I can’t stand it. Is part of being locked in here remembering all this crap?

  I throw the brush down and rub my arms, rocking back and forth. I don’t want to remember anymore. I don’t want to think about it. I close my eyes before tears begin to roll down my face.

  For the first time since I got here, I’m scared. Whoever that asshole is, he reminds me too much of my past. The white in this purgatory has been stained with black.

  I hear the heavy movement of boots, and I shudder at the thought of that darkness reentering my life. He slumps on the chair next to me. God, this can’t be happening again. I hate being here in this fucking prison, but it’s the only place I know evil can’t get to me. Now, there is the permanent memory of it sitting next to me.

  “So, what poison got you locked up in here?”

  I look at him blankly. “I don’t do drugs.”

  “Then why the fuck are you here?” He spits at me, and I get a whiff of alcohol laced with mint on his breath.

  I shrug, hoping he goes away. Hoping he takes the darkness back where it came from.

  “What? You don’t talk?”

  “I’m talking.” Leave me alone.

  He looks over at my canvas. “That’s some warped shit.”

  “Life is warped.” If he only knew how fucked up life is.

  He’s an asshole brat.

  “Only if you want it to be. So, you don’t have anything to share. Don’t lie. You’re in here for a reason. You look like you know some good stuff. I won’t tell anyone,” he smiles, feigning his good intentions.

  “Fuck off,” I say looking at him dead in the eyes. I will not go through this again.

  I catch a glimpse of his eyes, it’s hard to tell under the shadow of his cap if they’re green or hazel, but they look sad and angry. I can’t see the rest of him, besides a light beard that covers his face.

  Nope, he doesn’t look like the devil, but I see the darkness that surrounds him. I try to ignore him and go back to the mindless painting I’m doing. I have no idea what is on the canvas, so I look up to see what’s so scary about it.

  Shit. I never focus on what I’m painting with the brush; I move it along so no one bothers me as I get lost in my mind.

  It’s him.
He’s staring back at me, fury and hatred painted in his eyes, horns adorning the crown of his head and a malevolent smile plastered on his shattered face.

  I drop the paintbrush quickly and stare in disbelief. How many times have I painted this? What the fuck has come out of me through that brush when I wasn’t paying attention? I stand up and throw it away. My scars begin to itch. I need something. I need a way to escape this. It’s too much for me to handle. I pierce my nails into my scars. The skin there is thinner, more breakable, fragile like me. Maybe I can gush them open and let myself bleed out of this misery.

  “Mikayla, we’re not done yet. You know you can’t throw away your art. It’s part of therapy.” Here we go again with the same damn speech that painting will help me understand the reasons why I feel the way I do.

  “You can take your art and shove it up your ass.” I storm out of the art room, desperately wanting to escape my own mind and memories. I thought life as an eighteen-year-old was supposed to be good. Time to be living your life, not escaping demons and living in a judgmental purgatory with other lost souls.

  Fuck, this place smells like Clorox and stale candy combined. How the fuck I know what that smells like is beyond me, but I’ve been brought back to this godforsaken place for reasons that should be obvious, but they aren’t to me.

  I don’t have a problem. So, I like to have a good time; I like to party. Is that a sin? If it is, then sue me, along with all the other assholes in line to get a piece of my money.

  I want to go back to my stage, to my music. So I drove my bike off the road. That could happen to anyone. How about those fucktards who text and drive? Do they go to rehab for fucking technology addiction? I doubt it. Maybe I should start a petition for those assholes.

  I had a few drinks. I didn’t kill anyone. This time. Oh, shut the fuck up, subconscious. In the world I live in, alcohol and drugs are a must. It’s the way you handle people and stay sane through all the insanity that takes place.

  People come after you. They torture your image. They think they know who you are. They want to be your friend, and then when they get what they want, they sell you to the wolves.

  Of course I escape the madness with a few drinks. Wouldn’t you? It’s either that or kill someone, and I don’t want to go to jail.

  In Chasing Freedom, I already know how to go about playing these assholes so they believe I’ve been saved from my addiction. If I had an addiction, I couldn’t quit. I could if I wanted to, but it’s too much fun to give it up. Besides, I’ve never harmed anyone. You almost killed yourself. There you go again, speaking your mind. My damn subconscious must still be high.

  If I almost killed myself, I wouldn’t be walking around this damn sterile place without a scratch. I’m not like the people here. I’m not crazy.

  You’ve got the lunatic in that corner talking to himself like if he’s got a ghost next to him. Then there’s that skinny girl, who can barely move because she’s all skin and bones. You’ve got Red next to me, painting pictures of the fucking devil. I thought she’d be here for the same reason as me, but I saw the scars on her wrists.

  Suicidal. Perfect.

  Although, I admire her for telling the art teacher, I mean therapist, off. Can’t confuse the titles. She’s a therapist, not a teacher. I hate that bitch, always trying to evoke her judgmental beliefs on everyone.

  These people have issues. Getting drunk and having fun in my twenties isn’t an issue, it’s normal. I’m a rock star; it’s what I do. It’s part of my image. Now I have to spend three fucking months in this hellhole getting “sober” before I can go out in the real world. No alcohol, no drugs, no sex, no music. Fuck me now.

  I already know how this works. This isn’t my first rodeo. You’d think these retards would know by now that I’m not going to sober up and find some demons hidden deep within me. There’s nothing to find.

  There, that’ll do it. I hate that fucking art therapist. I only wish I was more focused on what I was painting, as to not give these people a look into the real reason I’m “unstable and traumatized.”

  I can imagine them all analyzing my crimson and black art, seeing the pain in me, thinking there’s no hope for me. Of course there’s no hope, when I was young the devil took it from me, along with trust and faith.

  I try to escape, but where can I run to in this maze? All the halls look the same; all the people look the same, eyes empty and hollow. No matter where I turn, there’s a nurse or employee waiting to reach out and help, ask what’s going on. Question why I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

  I’m not a twelve-year-old skipping class. I’m an adult. A fucking adult. Don’t I have a say as to whether or not I want to be here participating in these damn sessions? Apparently not, apparently when you try to kill yourself it’s highly recommended that you seek professional help. Whatever.

  I want to be alone. Alone to think about . . . I don’t know what I want to think about. Maybe daydream that I had a normal life, attending college, and going out with friends. Friends. Do I even know what that is? No. Instead the devil controls my mind and reminds me of all the reasons my life is the way it is.

  I won’t be at peace until he’s dead. Gone. Burning in the real hell that awaits him.

  So what do I do when my time here is up? When they’ve tired of me, marked me as cured or hopeless and send me out to the world again because they need space for someone new to enter this purgatory.

  I run. I run away again, maybe to another country. I have no idea. All I know is that the devil finding me is not an option.

  “Mikayla . . .”

  “Don’t give me this bullshit, Sam. You’re not like the rest of these assholes, so don’t stoop to their level. I’ll go back to therapy when I’m ready.” She’s the only normal one here, the only one who seems to care about the people that walk through these halls.

  “All I was going to say is that your writing session starts soon. Maybe you want to go to that one since no one can see what you put down in your journal.”

  My damn journal. They think they’ve given me something I like; instead I get flowers and birds decorating something that is supposed to help me release emotions. I don’t fucking like flowers and birds. The least they could do is let me choose the damn journal I want.

  Besides, I don’t write much in it. I can’t find a way to put down what I feel. Hatred. Anger. Disgust. How do you emphasize those feelings with words? I won’t write about my life. I won’t write details. I don’t need any more reminders as to what my reality is . . . was.

  I grab my journal and storm into the room where writing therapy takes place. Taking the last empty seat, I notice a pair of eyes staring at me. The new guy is sitting across from me, his eyes dancing with curiosity. He smirks and gets back to his journal. A shiver runs down my back and I try to focus on what the therapist is saying. “Write words to help release emotions . . .” Blah, blah, blah. Same fucking shit every week.

  I pretend to write, moving the pen on the page without writing anything worth reading. “Now, close your eyes and visualize . . .” I lose the therapist again, not caring what the hell she’s saying. Visualizing won’t help. It will only make things worse. It will only make me remember.

  All the patients sit with closed eyes, hoping this will help them surface from this place, or maybe they play along because there’s nothing else left in them than to follow the monotony of this place.

  I roll my eyes and hear a snicker from across the room. That guy is getting on my nerves. He also creeps me out a bit. He’s too aware of what’s going on with me and my movements. He also drinks. Lethal combination. I avoid contact with him, but make sure he isn’t too focused on me from the corner of my eye. He isn’t. He’s actually scribbling away in his journal. I wouldn’t have thought of him as a writer. He seems like anything but. At least his journal isn’t decorated with birds and flowers.

  “It is important to accept that you are not at fault. Whatever experiences you lived that made you
get to this place, isn’t your doing.” This therapist is pissing me off. Her pacific tone is going to make me scream. I know it’s not my fucking fault that the douche bag took and took. But I’m the one that needs to live with it. I’m the one that has scars as proof, physical and emotional. I’m the one that needs to live my life running. I’m the one with hatred running through my veins. Veins that I wanted to let run dry.

  My wrists begin to itch again. My skin there hot and anxious to feel the sensation I’ve been denied. Inconspicuously, I run my nails over my skin, each time pressing down harder to cause some kind of similar pierce that the blade would. It’s not the same, but it’ll have to do for now. If my pencil were more sharpened I would cut through the first layer of skin, but they purposely leave the tips of lead dull. I hate to be so controlled.

  Thank fuck lunch time comes by quickly. I can’t stand anymore therapy sessions for now. How long is this day going to last?

  Grabbing my meatloaf and mashed potatoes, I sit at an empty table. I usually eat alone. It’s not like sitting with the others would make a difference. The silence is eerie, even for me. Despite what it sounds like, the food here isn’t all that bad, but I don’t have much of an appetite these days, or any day.

  I hear the step of heavy boots approaching, but I keep my eyes on my food, turning the piece of meatloaf on the tray with little interest. Waiting for me to look up, I feel his shadow hovering over me. I’m not going to give him my attention. Maybe he’ll go away.

  “Mind if I sit?” he finally asks when I won’t look at him. Keeping my focus on the food, I shrug my shoulders.

  “Are you always such a delight?” He sits across from me.

  “I try. Are you always such an ass?”

  “I try.” Smartass. I continue to play with my food, hyperaware of his movements, in case he decides to get too close.

  “At least if they see me sitting with someone they’ll get off my back. I never sit with anyone when I’m in here, so hopefully this will make them think I’m making progress and let me leave sooner.” I look up at him with curiosity.