It was just a dream, or so I thought. I came back from work, exhausted, and placed my mail and package at the kitchen counter. I’ll see to it tomorrow. I couldn’t wait to see how my surprise journal turned out. I put a pot of tea on the stove while I took a quick shower in my ensuite bathroom. I toasted two slices of bread and had it with my tea. I had no energy to even wash my cup, which I left in the sink without shame. I made a mental note to pick my rug from the washers tomorrow, as I left my sleepers close to bed so I wouldn’t have to walk across the cold floor barefoot. Before my head hit the pillow, I made sure my alarm was set.
I woke up from a vivid dream feeling shaken. In the dream, I saw myself standing in a desolate, ashen landscape, with a figure in the distance calling out to me. I brushed it off as just a dream as I went to put on a robe and my feet touched the cold wooden floor. I remembered I had taken out my rug for a wash. In this cold, I felt like I was being punished as I ran barefoot across the room to my en-suite bathroom. I knew I would find a pair of sleepers in one of the drawers there.
Getting ready for work, I was distracted. There was something nagging me at the back of my head. I shrugged it off as I drove to work. The morning was misty but not as cold as I expected it to be. I pulled up in my parking spot. Our building was one of these fancy glass buildings, part of the new city developments. The city had money, but not when it mattered. I walked in and noted Jenny, our receptionist was not at her desk, which was very unusual. I got to my office and started preparing for my first appointment. Lisa, a lovely young lady, whom life has been unkind to. It has dealt her blows that her young self did not deserve. I admired her resilience and the will to get up every morning and face life.
I kept zoning out and only catching bits from what Lisa was saying. I sort of felt like we’ve already had this session before. Very strange, even with my next appointments. As the day went on, I kept noticing strange coincidences and similarities; I had a lot of Déjà vu moments. When I remembered what I had dreamed of, it seemed really odd that I was seeing or hearing the same things in reality. As a renowned psychologist, a lot of people depended on me and trusted my expertise; that meant being sharp all the time, but gosh, I was distracted.
Days turned into weeks, and things were getting weirder. At this point, I must admit I no longer knew what was real anymore. It seemed boundaries between my dreams and reality were blurring. I had not shared this with anyone, and I was starting to question my own sanity. I wondered if my dreams were trying to tell me something. The scary part was that I was beginning to sound more like some of my patients, which I knew pretty well; most were not very sane. My dreams continued to seep into my waking life; I was questioning what's real and what's just a product of my mind. I was experiencing strange moments where I was not sure if I'm dreaming or awake
I started to experience strange, unexplainable events that made me wonder if I was losing my mind. This was having a very bad effect on my work. My patients needed me sane; they needed me logical to help them navigate their difficulties. I realised that I needed help myself; I could not trust my own mind anymore; maybe I needed to be someone's patient too. Someone logical. I thought who better than my psychologist colleague, Dr. Matthews? I was determined to find the root of my troubles and finally get back to myself. Our offices were on the same floor; however, his office was at the far end of the corridor. I had buzzed his assistant to check if he was in. I knocked once and let myself in, for I knew he had a few minutes to spare before his next appointment. His office was spacious with soft colours and minimal decor, calming.
I caught a worried expression that quickly changed, revealing that charming smile and a spark in his beautiful brown eyes. I took a seat in one of the love seats, loved by his patients, while he sat in his usual chair looking at me. I explained what I've been going through, and he mentioned he noticed I wasn’t myself lately. We could not talk for long as his next appointment was about to begin. I felt better though, knowing we would continue later on over dinner. Walking out, my mind was already on what I would make tonight. I turned to ask him what he would like when I noticed a strange message on his door next to his name. Of course, we all had quotes under our names, but when did he change his? Something stirred deep inside me, and I had that Deja vu moment again. I made a note to ask him about it later.
When I walked out of the building, I had not realized how late it was. Jody, my patient, had an episode and had refused to leave until I called his mother to fetch him. Checking my phone, I saw a message from Dr. Matthews cancelling our dinner plans because of a family emergency he did not care to explain. Decided there was no need to cook anymore, I went straight home. After a quick shower, as I walked across the room, I caught my reflection in the mirror. I saw how tired I looked, exactly how I felt. The strange thing happened; my reflection did not move when I did. Startled, I went back just to confirm. Lo and behold, it just stared lifelessly at me. I wanted to scream but found I could not; then she moved—the reflection, I mean. She left me standing there. No, this did not just happen; it could not have happened; my mind was starting again. I willed myself to move and got in bed. This was just a dream—a bad dream. I would wake up tomorrow and everything would be fine.
The next coming days were like a blur, one minute I plan on doing something only to find that thing already done. I wrecked my brain trying to figure out how in the world I was forgetting things so much. I had not seen Dr. Matthews; apparently, he took leave. My mind felt unscrambled, I could not piece anything together. One of these days, I was told I was spotted in one of these fancy bars, which I've never set my foot in. Apparently, I had a jolly time, and for the life of me I can never remember that no matter how much I tried. Something occurred to me, I was living multiple lives. Someone was doing things for me, or as me, someone was living my life. I was missing something here. And for some weird reason I felt I was not alone in this experience. Was I living someone’s life or was someone living my life?
When I was told more stories of the things I have apparently done or said, my sense of self became disjointed. I wondered which personality was the real me? Was it the confident psychologist or the vulnerable dreamer? What were my true memories? I didn't want to admit that I have lost my mind but I knew something was very wrong and I was terrified. Every time I used a mirror my reflection would stare back at me, different from the last one, as if representing different people.
When I finally managed to get Dr. Matthews, he looked really exhausted, like someone who hasn't seen much sleep in days. I wondered about the family issues but could not ask. We only managed to talk for a bit, he wasn't his usual charming self and something felt cold in him which gave me creeps. However, the conversation was not fruitless. He said why not try hypnosis or journaling or even tarot card reading, he said "Try something Stacy, this cannot go for much longer. You are losing yourself ". I decided to try journaling to see if I could find patterns or clues about what was happening to me.
I went to the shops after work, bought a new journal and some pens to go with. I decided to cook for myself, something I enjoyed and prided myself in doing, but haven’t done in a while. I shopped up a storm and went home feeling a little lighter and started on my cooking. While waiting for my dough, a made a sauce and grated cheese into a bowl. I had a glass of wine and I could not wait to pen down my troubles. While rolling my pastry, I was thinking of the things I've gone throughout, thinking from the beginning. After spreading the sauce, I began lining my toppings and then the cheese. I closed the oven and started cleaning and washing everything I had used. I sat down with an open clean journal ready to begin. By the time my pizza was ready, I had written a page and a half. This was healing, pizza and wine and journaling. However, the more I searched for answers, the more I realized that my memories were unreliable. I couldn't trust my own recollections. My sense of self was very fragile. My own identity, a house of cards, vulnerable to collapse. I realized that reality is a construct. I began to suspect that reality is not fixed, but rather a fluid, ever-changing landscape.
Despite this I promised myself a fighting a chance, that I will not stop until I got something, a pattern or a clue. So, every chance I got, I wrote down my dreams and reality, writing down every detail, no matter how small. I used symbols and colours to differentiate between dreams and reality. Going through the entries, I began to notice some things. Things from my dreams started to manifest in my waking life, often with little differences. This was really confusing and infuriating. I realized that my dreams were linked to unresolved traumas from my past. This one entry caught my attention:
"Dream: I am watching our house burn. Reality: Today we were rerouted because of bush fires along the main road." The theme seemed to be fire here.
I wanted to understand what all this meant, so I called Lynn, my sister. I asked her if she still remembered our old house, where we grew up. I could tell I caught her at a bad time, but she told me where it was. I made a note to check it out after work. As I drove out of the city, the landscape changed, from tall, glass buildings to long grass and trees. My GPS indicated I was still a few miles out, so I played some music to keep myself company and stop myself from wondering what I would find. Celine Dion came on with “Loved me back to life”, and I wondered what could bring me back to life, my old life.
I took an off ramp and the road turned to gravel and the trees became dense, the grass taller that my car. I could see structures which used to be houses, all in bad shape. I thought I saw a pickup truck in one of the yards but was not sure as I continued slowly and carefully. The road was bad, but at least it was not dusty, thanks to the rain earlier. I could still see puddles of water in the potholes. When I reached my destination, it was getting dark and I questioned my logic. Coming here at this time of day. I kept my senses sharp for I didn't know what to expect. At first glance I could tell no one lived here, and it's been years, but this house never burnt. Couldn’t be the one from my dreams. The door was barely hanging on its hinges. From the front porch I could see what used to be a kitchen and memories of my parents hit me like a wave and knocked me off balance. It was like a film. I caught a shadow at the corner of my eye. I did not need to walk further in to know this was a bad idea, so I left.
When I got home, I sat down at the kitchen table going through my journal, trying to see if I might have missed anything.
* Entry 10*
- Dream: I'm taking a walk, I pass and greet people but no one responds, it’s like I’m invisible and my voice is not coming out. Reality: I walked into the canteen and greeted people and no one responded, people just continued chatting as if they didn’t see me.
I wanted to believe my dreams were sending me a message, but it was difficult not to think of myself as insane. I dealt with these things every day. Convincing my patients every day that their constructs weren't real. There was no motivation behind choosing psychology as a career; I was just always curious about how the mind worked. Yet, here I was, not understanding my mind. I was starting to doubt my journaling. I think it was making matters worse, because now I was seeing things that were not there. I felt like the dream-reality echoes were increasing in frequency and intensity. I felt like I was living in a never-ending loop, where my dreams and reality were converging.
I was intrigued and, of course, unsettled. I knew I had to do something about all this. I felt compelled to uncover the truth about my past and the mysterious shadow I kept seeing. It seemed my dreams were pointing at something. I was not sure if I was even remotely ready to take this step. Things started to appear as if what I knew and remembered about my past was just a fraction of what really happened. I was not sure if what I would uncover would be things I had forgotten or things I never knew; however, I was about to face whatever it was. I could literary feel myself losing grip on reality and as much as I never wanted to admit it, this was my worst fear. I could feel myself standing at the edge of a mountain of reality, and that I could fall anytime. Looking down, I only saw a deep, dark abyss. I could not let myself fall, I feared if I fell, I would never be able to get out.
Investigating my childhood and the events surrounding it was like going through a storm. I saw things I never thought possible. I knew people were capable of evil, but I never encountered it, or so I thought. I was always aware of a shadow, present, lurking, and I felt its fear. It was me; I was there, and I knew what was coming next. I wanted to scream, to warn them and tell them to run, but I could not. I was warned not to interfere. I saw my sister Lynn, taking part, enjoying. I saw her dancing, singing, her clothes soaked with blood, and smears on her face and hair, and she didn’t seem to mind, to care even. I felt her sticky dress as if it were worn by me. I wondered how true this could be. Could it be that Lynn does not remember of all this, just like I didn’t, or did she know, always knew? It was impossible. Lynn was one of the sweetest people I knew. She chose nursing because she was caring, loving, and always wanted to help people. There was no way everything I’ve been seeing was real; this demon child I’ve been seeing was not Lynn; it could never be her. My sweet sister, I shuddered at the thought of what if? It seemed the more I dug at my past, the more my reality began to distort even further, and I continued to question my sanity.
My search for answers led me to deep, dark family secrets. I wanted to ask my sister to confront her and see what she knew; she was older after all; maybe she could shed some light. But every time I brought up the topic of our family, she would shut off and change the topic all together. She has never hidden that she does not like taking about it, but I was becoming suspicious. What did she have to hide? I was in my office when a reminder popped up on my outlook. It was a scheduled appointment for one of my patients who wanted to try hypnotherapy. This gave me an idea; maybe I should do the same. Dr. Matthews said to try everything; I had nothing to lose but my mind. A terrifying thought.
I decided to give hypnotherapy a try. I believed with the right therapist; it just might give me a glimpse into my hidden memories. I called Evelyn’s office to book an appointment; although she and I were friends, I had the courtesy to respect that she has other patients and I could not just walk in and ask her to hypnotise me. I was lucky she had an opening later that evening, which I gladly took. I received a call from her personal number and I knew why. She thought maybe I just wanted to have a chat. She proposed she could come to my house and we could have dinner and catch up. I politely explained that I needed her office with all that it comes with.
I left my office later that afternoon with purpose in my strides, wanting to believe I was close to a breakthrough. We exchanged pleasantries, and I told Evelyn everything I’ve been experiencing—how I was recalling fragmented memories from my childhood, which seemed so unreal, and wondered if we could find the root and maybe a way to correct them as I still believed them to be untrue. Eveyln was a trusted friend and colleague. I felt safe and calm in her office, something I have not felt in a long time. She asked if I was really sure I wanted to do this because she knew my take on hypnotherapy. I told her I trusted her as a professional as well as a friend.
She believed our minds are powerful and that they started storing memories even before we were born. She believed hypnosis has the ability to open all those compartments and archives in our minds to retrieve all the answers we seek. I needed her to assure me that everything I will see in there will be true and accurate, that it would not be just another construct of my mind. She promised as best as she could; for her to believe in this so much is because she has done it herself multiple times. I tentatively sat on the bed, slowly lying down. She spoke in a soothing voice; she told me not to freak out; she would use verbal cues. She told me she was taking my shoes off, and I felt her cold hands touching as she unstrapped my sandals and she moved my feet to sit comfortably. She continued talking in that same tone, telling me what she was doing. She asked me, where is my comfort zone? Where would I go in the world where I would find myself free, comfortable, and not afraid—that one place where peace reigns? Slowly I felt myself being transported to my bedroom, my king-sized bed with my white sheets, pillows, and comforters. I walked in and sat on the bed. I took off my shoes and moved myself to a sleeping position. In the background, I could hear Evelyn telling me to be comfortable. I turned to my bedside drawer and took my favourite book. I felt its worn pages in my fingers and still could smell the fragranced ink I used to scribble my name and a heart. I smiled and settled in. Evelyn’s tone changed; it was no longer coaxing, no longer gentle but authoritative, instructing me to open my eyes and walk through the door.
I saw a car pulling up in front of this big house. Doors opened, and two little girls came out running. The parents followed, laughing and telling the girls to slow down. They walked up the front steps, which were shiny black. They walked into this massive, black-painted room from floor to ceiling. The chandelier was like crystals. We were moving to this place; we were all so excited, although I could not remember where we lived before, but in that moment, it did not matter. Everything was happening so fast. A little me walked into my parents’ room, and I could not believe my eyes. My dad was on top of my mother; she was facedown, and he straddled her. Their clothes were on the floor, and he had a small knife in his hand, dripping with blood. I thought he was killing her. I couldn’t scream. Frozen with shock, I heard her say, “Cut a little deeper, Joe." I ran out.
This was just the start of the horrors I saw in that house. I went to find Lynn so I could tell her what I’ve seen. There she was, a knife of her own, cutting this little black cat she had in her hands. Things started out fun; we went hunting together and brought back game, from little squirrels to whitetail deer. The nightmare began when these animals we brought home alive were tortured. I was told how to skin, how to cut, and how deep, while everyone watched. Everyone got a chance to showcase their cruelty, and everyone was having a blast and could not wait till the next hunting trip. Then we were left behind on this one trip; we told them they would be bringing something special for that night.
That something special turned out to be a man, naked and hung by his hands, dangling in the air, all bruised and crying. My dad told me that I could do anything I liked with him, just like we did with the animals. When I turned, I saw excitement in both my mother's and my sister’s eyes. I could not believe this, and I spilled my guts out on the floor, and everyone just laughed at me and said it was my first after all and that I would get used to it. The nightmare continued, all the same; the difference was the faces, the gender, and the size of bodies. I still could not participate, but I was always somewhere in a corner looking, terrified, and sometimes crying, begging them to stop. When that did not work, I saw myself sneaking in, trying to help them escape, failing, and sometimes just mouthing warnings, which never helped anybody.
Since the Sanders moved here, things were different, and people were scared. I walked into a heated argument between my parents; my dad was saying people were onto us and we should move again. My mother was telling him to stop being ridiculous; that there was no way people knew it was them responsible for any of this, and she loved it here. I agreed with my father, but my opinion did not matter. In the end, dad listened to his wife, and we stayed. I had seen enough of the horrors in my house; I wanted to see something normal, something beautiful. I took a walk. I was little; people did not pay me any mind, but I did. I heard things, plans people were making about the black house and the people living there. I heard how people were learning self-defence, carrying guns or other weapons for their own protection. I shared this with the family on my return home, and they laughed it off, saying I watch too much television and trying to scare them. And then I saw them, dark shadows moving outside, surrounding the house. I heard voices, loud and angry, chanting all words you can think of describing our actions. Murders, slaughterers, destroyers, slayers—you name it.
Then there was glass shattering and a big flash of light. In an instant, the fire was everywhere. My mother’s face turned red. How dare they try to kill her and her family? She instructed my father to take out the guns, shouting that she was not dying alone today; she was going to take as many of them with her as she could. Lynn and I were told to go hide in the basement; I could not, not the basement of horrors. Lynn was frozen. I took her hand and led her through the back door. I expected to find people there waiting with guns, but there was no one. With that relief, I found myself sitting down, not letting go of Lynn, who was just a statue next to me; she followed my lead and sat down. Together we watched our house burn to ashes, the sound of gunshots stopped and the sirens were loud, yet not enough to make us move.
I heard Eveyln’s voice again, and I was back in my bedroom, under my white covers, with a book in my hand, and I felt that peace I’ve always associated with my bed. She coaxed again and told me to open my eyes, and I did. I was strapped in the bed in her office; she had a concerned look on her face; my body stopped trembling; I was unstrapped; and she helped me sit up and gave me a glass of water. My hand shook, and she held it, assisting me to take a sip. Slowly, I came back to myself. Evelyn wanted us to talk about everything I’ve seen, but I could not, so I left her office as if I were being chased. I could not believe all this. This was a lie; I could not have gone through that. How could I not remember all these things? So much horror and terror? I thought our parents died in a car crash. Lynn and I grew up in foster care but were fortunate to never get separated. I remember starting school; apparently, I was late and had a lot of catching up to do. Why did this match with the fact that we never went to school when we lived in that black house? Whose house did I visit on the outskirts of the city? The black house burned down to ash; there was nothing left but rubble and dirt. This hypnosis nonsense made things worse.
After that day I avoided Evelyn like a plague. Things were not adding up. The shadowy figure lurking at the corners of my vision was back. Could this be me? As a child or the adult who went back to see and experience childhood horrors? Was it possible that my memories were somehow removed or buried so that I did not have to live with the horror for the rest of my life? If so, why was it coming back now? Why was I reminded of these terrible things? Was it my punishment for never having done anything to help all those people I watched suffer and die tragically at the hands of my family? Were all those victims haunting me for not reporting all that to the police?
I had to take leave of absence from work because I was making things worse for my patients. How could an insane person counsel and guide people? It was Friday night when I decided I had just about it with this life. I was drained, a shell of my former self. I could not even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I was having nightmares every moment of my waking and dreaming life. I was attacked by violent, vivid images of what hypnosis had revealed as my childhood.
I checked my medicine cabinet to see what I had. What I had was not enough to even knock me out. I had to think of something else. I went to my bedroom, not missing the beauty of white that had given me so much peace in the past; now I could not bring myself to lay in that bed for fear of dreaming. Although it was of no use anymore because I did not have to sleep to dream, nightmares were everywhere. I took a piece of paper and a pen to write my final goodbyes to Lynn, my sister. I thought of how she hasn’t been reachable as of late. I could not help but think she was tired of me; she did not want to answer any more questions from me. I wrote:
Lynn
My only sister. I have never doubted your love for me, just like you have never doubted my love for you. You can never blame yourself for the confusion I found myself in, consumed by. You have a beautiful life, a beautiful self; do not lose that. Do not question things beyond your control; do not face the shadows.
Love, Stacy.
I folded the paper and placed it on my bedside table. I went out in search for a rope. Opening the drawer, looking for a knife, suddenly the hair at the back of my neck stood. I felt a chill run down my spine. I slowly turned, knife in my hand. I saw her, finally in human form, not a shadow anymore. I noticed how pretty she looked—flawless skin, long, shiny black hair. Her eyes were intense, drawing me in. I went closer to her, and as I did, I started to notice bruises. She went from beautiful to horrifying in an instant. I moved back, shocked, and dropped the knife. From there she changed faces, bodies, and ages; all the faces I had watched get slaughtered when I was a child. I thought to myself, this is it; this right here is the reason I’m ending my life today.
I picked the knife and looked up, and I saw a different woman with short brown hair. She smiled warmly, and it felt familiar. Then she spoke, “Do you know who I am?” I shook my head no, and she continued, “I know you; I know your deepest fears and desires. And right now, you desire death. Let me help you get rid of that notion right now. Death is not a solution; trust me, I know. I’m talking from experience. If you die now, you’ll just take everything with you—the torment, the nightmares, and the worst part is you can’t end death, so this will be your forever." I was still stuck on the part where she said she’s talking from experience; was I now talking to a dead person? How was this possible? She continued, “I can help you navigate this, if you want, of course.” Oh yes, I was desperate, even if it meant talking to a dead person. She convinced me to have us sit down.
She told me her name was Harper and that she was just a friend. She said she has seen how I have been suffering alone, not understood, and she knew how that feels. As someone not living in this world, she has seen and heard things that I couldn't, and she had answers. She then told me that the life I was living was not my own, that it had been scripted for me, and that my memories were false. She said the reason all this was happening was because I had a resilient spirit, that I wanted to break out of this prison, that I wanted to take charge of my life again. She said my puppeteer would not let me go that easily, and a lot of people around me have been influenced and were now working with the puppeteer. As hard as this was to believe, some of the things she was saying made sense, like how my sister was suddenly too busy for me, how she never wanted to answer any questions about our parents, and also how Dr. Matthews has been pretending to help me all along, only to pass information to this master.
She told me I have been manipulated and controlled for so long that I had deemed it normal, that all the decisions and choices I made were not my own. All this was created to keep me trapped and ignorant about the people surrounding me. I was torn between believing Harper’s words and dismissing them as mere manipulation. But she was very convincing, and those few days spent with her, I began to feel better and to think better, like I was getting back to my normal self. However, her theories were rooted deep. When I returned to work, I could not help but be suspicious of everything Dr. Mathes did. I was convinced he, my trusted colleague, was involved in my nightmare. I could tell he also noticed a shift in my demeanour, and he tried to reach out, but I could see through his fake smile and charm.
When I had just had about enough of his pretence, I decided to conform to him. I told him I knew what he was up to and he should confess and end all this nonsense. He pretended to be confused, and that just made me furious. As if I could make up something like this. I wanted proof of his innocence, but guess what? He had nothing. I could feel my voice rising as I told him off, that I would find the truth and expose him. I left his office feeling betrayed. Gosh, I trusted this man!!
Dr. Matthews was left shaken. He suspected that someone was fuelling Stacy's paranoia and doubts. What just happened was something he never could have seen coming. Stacy was a very calm woman; no matter how angry she became; she never raised her voice. He wished he could have done something about this sooner. He thought he could still try and help. He decided who would better help Stacy than her sister. He flipped through his phone book and found her number. Explaining who he was and what the concern was, Lynn agreed to meet with him. They met, and he explained the situation and everything he’s noticed, including the paranoia and accusations. Lynn agreed to intervene and that she would convince Stacy to get professional help. She knew she had been too busy to pay attention to her sister, but she had no idea how bad things had become.
On her way to seeing her sister, Lynn could not help but wonder about Dr. Matthew’s involvement and if he was telling her the whole truth and if he's somehow involved in Stacy’s situation. Lynn was not sure of what to expect, but she did not expect to find her sister looking like a hobo. Her sister prided herself on aesthetics; what was this? Her sister’s paranoia had reached a boiling point, and she was convinced that everyone was against her. When she tried talking to her, Stacy accused Lynn of being part of the conspiracy. Lynn was shocked to discover that Stacy believes she was in league with Harper and Dr. Matthews. She refused to listen to reason and became aggressive, refusing to hear her concerns or pleas for her to seek help.
She had a crazed look in her eyes and hurled a vase at Lynn; fortunately, it missed her and shattered on the wall. Lynn was taken aback. Stacy continued throwing whatever she should find at Lynn. Lynn tried to defend herself while also attempting to calm her sister down. However, Stacy’s anger was uncontrollable, and her fists hit Lynn repeatedly while unleashing a torrent of insults and accusations, blaming Lynn for her situation. After a few minutes of this Stacy became catatonic, refusing to respond to Lynn’s attempts to comfort her. Lynn was crying by now, not knowing what to do, when Stacy curled herself on the couch, looking like an injured animal. Concerned about her mental state, Lynn she called for emergency services. Stacy was taken into custody; she was deemed a danger to herself and others.
I woke up in this white room; this was not my bedroom though, and this white was chilling, not calming. Pieces of last night came back bit by bit; I could see my sister’s pained look as the ambulance doors closed on her. The next minute Harper was standing next to my bed, a victory smile on her face. I could not understand why my being here would make her happy. I did not need to be told where I was; I’ve been here so many times to see people who looked just like I look now. I kept seeing Harper everywhere now—the staff, the other patients, always wearing her victory smile. It hit me that this Harper I trusted so much was the enemy. She convinced me that my sister and Dr. Matthews were the bad guys, just so I could ruin my relationship with them and be in this hell hole alone, isolated. I wondered what purpose my isolation would serve her. I realized that my sister was genuinely trying to help me. Regret ate me up. I requested one of the nurses to contact Lynn and ask her to visit, hoping to make amends. Harper’s smile continued to haunt me. I was again doubting my own sanity as I wondered if I was truly seeing Harper or if it was just paranoia.
When Lynn arrived, I broke down in tears. She listened as I narrated everything from the beginning and how Harper came about with her manipulation. I had a weird feeling about this place I was kept at; it still felt like one of Harper’s games to me. Lynn agreed to investigate this place, and she came back with the most shocking news. This place was not even registered. It was not a legitimate psychiatric hospital but a secret place people were dumped at—people no one wanted to “deal” with. We realized that we must find a way for me to escape and expose these people.
We had no plan really other than Lynn sneaking me in some clothes to change into and walk out the front door and hope not to be noticed. I was surprised they still allowed people to visit. We made sure to evade the facility's security, little that was present, as we made our way through corridors. It was surprising how such an institution could be unguarded, solidifying our findings of it being a fraud. We reached a point where we had no idea which door to open; what if the one we choose will get us caught? While debating on what to do, one of the doors opened, and an old man peered out and waved us over, mouthing "hurry." We asked no questions as we followed him.
He told us he was waiting on us and would lead us outside. He gave Lynn the car keys and told her the car was parked just by the exit. He looked familiar and friendly; he was in a janitor’s uniform. His knowledge of the facility's layout and secrets aided our escape. I thanked him warmly, and we were out of there. Somehow, I think this was a trap; it was too easy. Draped over the mirror was a silver chain with a dog tag. I took it in my hand, and it read "Bob Sanders." I looked at Lynn for confirmation. Wasn’t our grandfather Bob Sanders? How was he here? How did he know I needed him? I felt tears fill my eyes. I had just trusted this stranger with our lives; here he was, my guardian angel.
We barely said a word to each other on the way. I guess we were both deeply in our thoughts. When we walked into my sitting room, the first thing I saw was Harper, legs crossed in my white chair and a cup of tea in her hands. She smiled and said, "Welcome back." Welcome back? Really? I turned to Lynn, wondering if she could see and hear Harper or was she just a construct of my mind. Lynn was frozen. I tapped her shoulder, and she said, "Mom?". I was confused; was Lynn seeing things too? Because our mother long died. So, I decided to bring her back to the presence and told her that this was 'Thee Harper'. She said, "This is our mother, Stacy." I was like, "Georgia?" All blood drained from her face, and she sat down and said, "No, this is Bernice, our birth mother."
My mind was reeling. How come I never knew Bernice? I knew Gorgia, the woman who died in a car crash with our dad. I looked at this Bernice woman, and it hit me like a bullet. "CUT A LITTLE DEEPER JOE." It was her; I felt a rush of heat and nausea attacking me. This was the woman who burned in the black house, the woman who swore to die with as many people as she could. The way she smiled; I could tell she knew I was remembering. My question was, why had she been feeding me lies and manipulating me if she was my mother? Her smile disappeared; she told me how I rejected her as my mom and that I never loved her because of her choice of "sport." She called slaughtering people ‘sport’ and wondered why I rejected her. She said ever since she died, she has never known peace because we have forgotten her; she was ceasing to exist because we considered Georgia our mother. The woman who adopted us after we were found sitting down, holding hands, and staring at our house burned down...
Georgia took care of two broken little girls; she nourished us and made us normal children. After her death, we then went into foster care. Bernice was fuming at how Georgia made us forget her, how all we knew was Georgia and the life after. How had Gorgia made us forget? She prided herself on coming back to remind us who we are and who we really are. Lynn quietly went to the kitchen and came back, tears streaming down her face and a knife in her hand. "You should be grateful Georgia made us normal. You made us little demons who were supposed to destroy everything we touched. You failed; the community killed you, and this time I'll kill you. You are not taking away the life that I've built for myself." Lynn's voice was rising with each word. I wanted to stop her, but I also didn't.
She lunged at Bernice and lodged the knife deep in her heart. I saw shock cross Bernice's eyes as she fell down. She smiled, and for an instant I saw that beautiful woman who was excited to move into a new house with her husband and kids. And I wondered where the urge to kill people came from. "It's useless to kill me because I'm already dead. Although it pains me that my own, my pride and joy, Lynn, you are the one getting rid of me. I thought you'd be happy to see mom. I thought you'd be happy. I reminded you what gave you so much joy as a kid. I guess I was wrong." Lynn was trembling, crying, saying she already made her kill again and that her presence was never good for any of us. We sat there crying for a long time, and I watched Bernice slowly dissolve into mist. I saw her mouthing an apology and a good-bye. And before she was completely gone, I swear I heard her say, "It's over." The whole scenario was a cathartic experience for me; it allowed me to release all the pent-up emotions. I felt at peace, like it was really over.
I am woken up by my alarm, irritatingly loud. I reached for it thinking, I haven't used the alarm in a long time. I felt last night’s exhaustion still lingering and remembered that I did not even wake up one bit to pee during the night. I slept like a log. I’m the type that does not remember what I dream of, but this morning something was nagging at the back of my mind as I prepared for work. I checked the time to see how long I was sleeping as I realized that everything was a dream, the images still vivid in my mind. It felt so real and so long, like a whole lifetime. I put on a white suit, hoping it will brighten my mood. I walked into the kitchen and saw the package that came for me yesterday. Long awaited and anticipated, the excitement came back as I tore open packaging.
This was supposed to be a fun surprise, but why do I know this journal? Because it looked exactly the same as the one, I used in the dream, it slipped from my fingers and dropped on the counter as shock travelled throughout my body. When it fell, it scattered the mail. I picked it up, and a stamp on a letter caught my attention. I picked the journal with my left hand and the letter with my right. It was addressed to me. The return address seemed somewhat familiar. I did not like the idea I was having, so I grabbed my phone and put the address on Google Maps. A building I know too well. The institution I was committed to is in my dream. My mind reeled as I tried to process the similarities between my dream and what was happening now. I tried to shake off the feeling, and my attempt to convince myself that this was just a coincidence dismally failed because the vivid memories still lingered. And the fact that this was exactly how the dream began as well. I stood in my kitchen longer than I intended to, and I braved it out and opened the journal. The first page written:
‘IT WAS JUST A DREAM- by Stacy Sanders’
I knew I ordered this but I felt a chill run down my spine. This was supposed to be fun, it was supposed to be a journal where I wrote all my dreams and goals and then go back once they’ve been achieved to mark them off as ‘It was just a dream, until I made it happen’ My eyes fixated on the words, my mind raced with the implications. I felt a creeping sense of doom, As I walked out, I shook at the thought of my mother dead, and I made a mental note to visit her later. My mother, Georgia, was still alive; and I was not adopted. I remaindered myself these things as I tried to shake off the feeling, but it was too late. The world around me dissolved, and I was left with only my thoughts, echoing in the darkness: "Was this the beginning, or the end? "Was I waking up, or falling asleep? Was I trapped in a never-ending cycle of dreams within dreams?"
THE END.
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