Psych chapter 3

Psych chapter 3

A Chapter by LunalitSol

Chapter 3

On instinct (it is definitely not a remnant of pattern from Mia…or…Cecilia…they don’t exist, I reassure myself irritably), I head for the bathroom, fingers extending deftly towards the cold-handle on the right side of the faucet. I turn, opening a small cupboard behind me and extracting a washcloth. Duty calls. I place a slim, pale finger beneath the faucet and immediately pull back, eying the, what I now realize to be  very frigid, jet of water tumbling indifferently downward. I pause, collecting my thoughts, then flick at the red-marked handle. Studying the flow, I then jab my finger at the blue one, turning it from its ninety-degree angle to an approximate twenty-five, whilst the red sits warmly at full ninety. Smirking, proud, I once more maneuver my finger beneath the water. Again, I pull back quickly, this time releasing a low growl. Too hot, too hot….I move the left handle once more, glowering at it in annoyance, this time pushing it to a sullen forty-five degrees. I take a deep breath and throw my hand beneath it, a grin worming its way onto my face as my flesh is engulfed in the tepid stream. The grin quickly morphs into a haughty smirk and I release a gloating “humph” at my cowering opponent.  

 I swiftly proceed to soak the washcloth, my euphoria fading into the background as necessity returns to my mind’s forefront. There is dried blood on my hands, around my ears, and all over my neck, as well as hair, and a multitude of other places. The bleeding had been growing steadily worse as time passed, I knew (this time, part of me must admit that this is where the Mia memories {and Cecilia of course} must come into play….however this part is minute and duly shoved back into the darkest recesses of my mind (keeping the two other girls company in their faded box, locked tight).

The blood is stubborn, but eventually I manage to scrub it off, leaving huge patches of bright red marring my pale skin. I rinse off the rag, watching the blood drain away. When it finally does, I beam triumphantly, wringing the rag out one final time for good measure, then exiting the bathroom and strolling down the musty halls, taking two lefts, then approaching the second door on the right side, and sliding two fingers into a hole in the side of the door frame. My fingers flail about for a few moments, searching, before finally landing, just barely, on cold metal. Placement is instinctual, embedded in my psyche. I seem to know all I need in general terms. It’s the small things, that of so-called common sense and precise location, that seem to escape me. This is my flaw, the chink in my armor, but one I hope soon to patch with an impenetrable steel.

I pull out the small silver key, wincing as the end digs into my sensitive skin. I insert it, and try to turn. Nothing. D****t…

I insert it again, eyes narrowing and prior thrill evaporating. I will make this work.

This time I turn it the other direction and the door clicks and pops open ajar.

I slide the key back into the hole and then press my hand to the door, pushing it open lightly. The door swings inwards at my slight pressure and I sidle into the room, pressing it closed behind me, fingers twitching downwards in an automatic gesture to lock the room. I turn to look around myself.

There is a low bed perched beneath a wide window with petal pink curtains billowing. A small desk sits in a corner of the room, all aged wood and mothball stench. Two notebooks sit side by side on the desk’s surface, and, approaching, I note each has a name on it. One of dark pink says Mia in all caps. The other, a dark sea-blue, is captioned Cecilia. I scowl.

Next to each notebook is a pad of paper, entitled “To ________”. I pick up the sheaf of papers stating “To Mia” and scan the cursory scrawl, interested despite myself.

                  Why should I Go easy on them? Give me one good reason. That gramps of yours nailed me in the head with a plank of wood. When I’m in control, this is my body. I don’t give a f**k what you want. When you’re in control you can be as much of a doormat as you want but if its my turn, its my turn. Im not going to be nice just becuz you want me to. Ther not my family. And I personily think that its fun to fuk with them. So sorry but no I will not go easy on them. Its not like im beating them up or anything im just messing with ther heds. Im forced to stay locked in this house so wat the hell else do you want me to do? Sorry prinsess but im gonna have my fun weather you like it or not. Dont bother trying again. Im sick of your notes.

P.S. you can shove your bible up your a*s for all I care about it.


Go to Hell B***h.
-Cecilia


I snicker. If Cecilia were of another physicality I have a feeling she’d be my best friend. Curiously I pick up the other pad of paper. In Mia’s measured, loopy scrawl it reads:

Look, Cecilia, if you are going to keep taking control, then please, at least respect my family. When I regained awareness Kara was furious with me and Emily told me you’d been harassing her about the thing. I told you about that only in the hope that you’d be nicer to her. Please, I’m begging. I’ve said it a million times I’ll say it again. It’s my body! It’s my life! And you can’t keep messing with it! I will find a way to get rid of this condition and someday I will have you back in Animus Tantum. I swear I will. But-in the meantime- please, please, clean up your act. Maybe you can read my bible again?

I roll my eyes, putting the pad of paper down again. Mia was so obnoxious. I cast my gaze around the rest of the room. It’s mostly empty, sparsely decorated, with ballerinas twirling in a line mid wall.

 I’ve just perched myself upon the smooth pallet on the floor when a wriggling sensation crawls into my awareness and my hands lift automatically to my skull as a tremendous agony seizes me, throttling me from my core. Bile rushes up my throat and bursts, scorching, from between my lips, covering the floor at my feet and splattering the sheets. Mia is worming her way out. I can feel her exultant, glittering grin fighting to lift my lips. Somehow, she is stronger. Stomach acid mixed with thick, smarmy blood spews out once more. Tears make their way down my cheeks of their own volition. Why won’t it stop? My stomach is convulsing; my chest is heaving; my ears are ringing. My body is waging a war upon itself, with my numbers being swiftly overwhelmed. I am absolved in the desperate urge to escape, to get out of here. I want to go home, I want something familiar to me, not to-  

It hits me then and I stagger up horrified, puke mixed with cocky-crimson still dripping from my lips. Mia’s sudden strength abruptly makes sense and the ballerinas I had only moments ago been  mentally deriding, ballerinas that were so pathetically innocent it was revolting, now I see with clarity; They smirk as they spin upon the petal-pink and creme décor, oozing malevolence from their pointed toes to their perfect buns and dripping it down from their diabolically tilted chins. I bolt to the door, the world tipping disturbingly from side to side and throw myself into the hall, the splintered portal to a universe of Mia and a world of pain slamming shut behind me. I fall to the floor, trembling with gut-wrenching sobs. What right has she to do this to me? It is my body! Mia does not exist! She is no longer real! It’s my turn to be real again- how dare that b***h take that away from me! This is not her body to use for attacks like the one she just did. It’s all mine. All mine. I hate her.

It seems like much later that I am calm enough to clamber to my feet and continue through the house. There is but one thing on my mind now, as I meander the dust-ridden halls. I am not Mia, but Thea…and Thea needs her own room.



© 2010 LunalitSol


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Added on October 22, 2010
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Author

LunalitSol
LunalitSol

IA



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Now a twenty-something mom, wife, employee, and student- still chasing that same dream. Still a writer from the inside out. more..

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