She looked down at the flyer in her hand. It had all sorts of information about a post-traumatic stress disorder group therapy held at the church down the road from her parents’ house. It was held every Tuesday and Thursday nights at seven in the evening. Trish was debating on whether or not she’d go when her father interrupted her thoughts.
“We’re almost here. Are you sure you don’t want us to know what’s going on? Then more we know, the more we can help you,” her father said as he looked at her in the review mirror.
“This is something I need to do on my own,” she responded as she leaned her head back against the backseat.
“As much as I’d love to know everything, I think she is finally getting it,” her mother said as she leaned over and squeezed her father’s shoulder.
~~~
They arrived home after her psychiatrist’s appointment with a prescription for Seroquel. Trish didn’t want any medication but the doctor insisted. He knew that Trish was lying about her symptoms and went ahead and prescribed her schizophrenia medicine, or antipsychotics as he called it. She had another appointment in a month to go over the dosage and see what was working and what wasn’t. Not that it bothered her. She wasn’t going to take the medication anyway.
“Let’s order take out tonight since all you’ve had is hospital food,” her father said as he grabbed a stack of flyers.
“What are you in the mood for, honey?” her mother asked.
“Maybe Chinese food?”
“Sure thing,” her father.
“How do you take this medication?” her mother asked as she opened her prescription bag and read the bottle. “Hmm, it says to take with a full glass of water in the evening,” she looked over at Trish as she was sat on the plush black loveseat. “You’ll take this after dinner,” her mother commanded.
“I know,” she responded.
Her mother walked over and sat next to Trish on the couch, careful not to touch her arm in any way. She placed a hand on her thigh. “I know you’re having a hard time adjusting to us being a constant presence again. And we both know that you’re an adult, but your life will be a lot easier if you just do as we say. It will make your recovery time go faster, and you’ll be back in your own place helping animals again in no time,” her mother said as she kissed her cheek.
“I know,” she replied, trying to restrain a sigh.
“Good! Now, let’s see how long this food will take.”
~~~
After dinner, a meal of chicken fried rice and egg rolls, her mother filled her a large glass of water, no ice. Trish hates drinks with no ice in them.
“Here, drink up,” her mother commanded as she handed Trish a pill and her glass of water. Trish pretended like she was taking the pill by mimicking her dropping it into her mouth, but in reality, she slid it between two fingers, a trick she learned as a teenager. She then gulped down the luke-warm tap water, her mouth filled with bitter-tasting metallic. She coughed as she drank as the water went down the wrong pipe. She tried to catch her breath, but her mother forced her to keep drinking.
“We’re not stopping until the cup is empty,” her mother commanded as she grabbed the cup and pushed it against Trish’s lips, hard. She whimpered in pain but finished it. You should drown her in the bathtub, the entity's voice said in her head.
“Are you okay?” her mother asked.
“Umm, yeah. Just went down the wrong hole,” Trish said.
“Open wide,” her mother commanded. Trish opened her mouth and moved her head so that her mother had a better angle. She lifted her tongue, and her mother stuck a finger into Trish’s mouth and scraped along inside it. Trish gagged, and spit dripped out of her mouth and onto her mother, but she wasn’t fazed.
“Good, thank you for taking your medicine, honey,” her mother said as she walked off. Trish nodded. Dumb bitch, she thought to herself. She had forgotten how terrible it was to take pills with her mother. She stood up, walked to the bathroom and peed, dropping the pill into the toilet when she flushed.
~~~
That night, after the house was quiet and everyone has gone to sleep, Trish awoke to a whisper. It floated in the room as if it were carried by the wind. The voice was soft but deep. The room smelled as if it had a dead body in the closet. Trish sat up and looked around, her throat dry from drooling on her pillow the majority of the night.
“Patricia, you are home now,” the voice spoke.
“Yes,” she whispered. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.
“Patricia, I have missed you greatly. Have you missed me?”
Trish didn’t answer. “I know that deep down you have as I am your only friend.”
“You aren’t my only friend,” she said.
“Oh, you mean James? He is not your friend. You will never be able to rely on him like you can me. I am apart of you now and forever, Patricia.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“Good. Now that we are alone, we should have some fun. What do you think?” the entity questioned.
“How can we have fun when I don’t even know who you are or what you want?” she asked. Her voice cracked as the smell of decay wafted to her over and over, it’s rolling waves penetrating every pore.
“You know exactly who I am.”
“No, I don’t.”
The entity was quiet for a few moments. “You can call me Xavier. Is that a nice name?”
Trish sighed. “I guess so.”
“Good. My name is now Xavier. You now know me. Now, let me get to know you a little bit better. You see, for me to know you in and out, I need to not only know what is on your mind but what is inside of your body.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. Her body now wet with perspiration, and her lips chapped.
“Go into the kitchen,” Xavier commanded.
Just like in the cave, Trish had a lack of control over her own body. The pressure on her grew heavy, her breaths shallow, and her mind blank. She felt herself remove the blankets and sheets from her body. Her legs swung out. Her body left the bed and walked towards the bedroom door. She opened the door and walked down the hallway and into the pitch-black kitchen.
“Bow,” Xavier commanded.
Trish fell to her knees and flung herself onto the ground, her body hitting the tiled floor with a thunk.
“Bow.”
Her body raised up and flung itself to the ground again, her nose smacked the floor.
“Bow.”
Blood splattered the floor as her face hit the tile once more. The nub of her arm throbbed as the stitches threatened to bust open.
“Bow,” Xavier commanded. His voice took a deeper tone and bellowed throughout the kitchen. Trish did as she was commanded to.
After a few beats, she stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter. Her nightgown was covered in the blood from her nose.
“Let me see what you have inside of you, Patricia,” Xavier commanded.
Trish opened a drawer and pulled out a steak knife. She slammed the drawer shut, the silverware within it clanked around. She pulled her nightgown off and sliced her stomach right above her belly button. Blood pooled out around her as the air within the kitchen took a mix of death and metal. She went to cut herself once more when the light flicked on. All at once, she came to her senses and dropped the knife.
“What’s going on?” her father cried.
“I…I don’t know…I woke up…and…” Trish sobbed as she fell to the floor. Her mother came running into the kitchen as well, wearing red pajamas.
“Patricia!” her mother screamed as she ran towards her daughter. Her father picked her up and carried her into the bathroom. His white shirt was now red. She stuck to him like glue as her blood adhered to his body. Her mother and father tried to clean her up as best as they could. Her father placed her into the bathtub. He grabbed the bottle of rubbing alcohol from under the sink.
“Dad, please no…” she cried, but he dumped it onto her stomach. She howled out in pa
in. Trish thrashed her bloody body around in the empty and cold bathtub. Her mother reached over and pinned her shoulders down.
“My arm!” Trish screamed, but her mother ignored her.
“Stop, please stop…” her mother cried as her father poured more alcohol onto her wound. Trish kicked at her mother but missed. Her father grabbed a black rag from a drawer and placed it onto her wound. She wailed as he pressed down hard.
“Do you think she needs stitches?” her mother asked.
“No, it’s not very deep,” her father answered.
“What happened to her nose? It looks like someone punched her,” her mother cried as she let go of Trish’s shoulders and placed a hand on her cheek.
“I don’t know. Maybe someone broke in?” Her father asked, but they both already knew the answer.
“Grab her a shirt, please,” he asked his wife. She pulled out a black nightgown and dressed Trish. She groaned but was still fast asleep.
“I’m going to give her another pill,” her mother said.
“Is that safe?” her father asked.
“I don’t care at this point. It’s obvious she needs it,” her mother said as she left the room. Her father sat next to her on the bed. Sausage waddle in and jumped onto the bed with Trish, laying his head on her feet.
“Lift her up, please,” her mother asked. She walked into the room carrying one pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Trish’s father pulled her mouth open as her mother dropped the pill into it. She then poured some water into her mouth.
Trish gagged and coughed, but her mother held her mouth shut. Trish was quiet once more, her breaths deep and slow. Her parents walked out of the room and shut the door, both completely baffled by what just happened.
Chapter Ten
T
he next morning, Trish awoke to a banging on the front door. She groaned and sat up, her head pounding, her arm screaming, and her stomach burning. Sausage sighed when she sat up. He yawned loudly and stretched as far as his fat little body could stretch.
“Good morning, baby,” Trish whispered as she pats his head. He licked her hand and then jumped off the bed. He walked over to the bedroom door and clawed at it. Trish stood up and walked to the door, and opened it. Sausage bolted out and ran into the living room. She walked behind him.
“Trish, the detectives are back,” her mother said. Trish looked at her tired mother’s face and sighed. She could smell Detective Smith before she saw him. Both Detective Smith and Detective Vannatti looked like they hadn’t slept in a week.
“I don’t have any more information for you,” Trish said.
“We’re not here to ask questions,” Detective Vannatti snapped.
Trish bit her lip and looked at her parents and the detectives. “Are you here because of what happened last night?” she asked.
“What happened last night?” Detective Smith inquired.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” her father snapped as he glared at Trish.
“Would you guys like any more coffee or a pastry? I made some yesterday,” her mother asked.
“No, thank you, this isn’t a social call,” Detective Smith answered. Her mother sighed and folded her hands on her lap.
“We’re here because we have some news,” Detective Vannatti answered.
“What news?” her mother asked.
“We have a couple in custody who we believe are the ones who attacked Patricia,” Detective Smith answered.
“Who are they?” her father asked.
“We’re not at the point of releasing their names yet, but once we have a concrete case against them, you will be the first to know,” Detective Vannatti stated.
“Thank God and praise Jesus!” her mother yelled as she tried to hug Detective Vannatti. She stepped away from the crying woman’s reach but patted her shoulder softly.
You should grab her gun and shoot her in the head. Give the blood a lick, see if you like the taste. Xavier said in her head. Trish shook her head and grunted. The detectives and her parents looked at her. Trish shrugged.
“We wanted to tell you this in person before you heard it on the news,” Detective Vannatti stated.
“Thank you for swinging by. We really appreciate everything ya’ll are doing to bring our daughter's attackers to justice. I really hope that it’s a slam dunk case,” her father said as he flashed his million-dollar smile.
“Us too. We will let you know when we get any updates. Thank you for your time,” Detective Smith said as he led Detective Vannatti out the door.
Her father shut the door behind them and looked over at Trish. “Are you okay?”
Trish took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“What happened?” her mother stood up from her place on the couch and walked over to Trish.
“Do you want the truth or for me to tell you what you want to hear?”
Her father shook his head. “You don’t have to talk about it, but it won’t happen again, understand? If it does, we will be making some phone calls,” he said as he reached over and gave her a hug.
“What phone calls?”
“The same ones we had to make when you were seventeen,” her mother answered. It took everything in her to not burst into tears. She hated being reminded of the time she was committed for six months. She had run away with her grandpa, and the police had found her with him in the middle of the woods. The doctors believed that they’d both had a schizophrenic break. The police had found both of them naked and wandering up and down the trails. Why do they always have to throw this in my face? Why can’t they let me move on? It was just a large misunderstanding, Trish thought to herself as she looked back and forth at her parents.
“Well, Dr. Hughes said she thinks that I could benefit from group therapy,” Trish said.
“That would be great for you, honey,” her mother answered with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.
“When is it?” her father asked.
“Tonight, around seven. I’m going to need a ride.”
“Fine.”
~~~
Trish walked into the old church, one of twenty in this small town alone, the glass door creaking loudly as she opened it. A small sign with an arrow drawn on it pointed to the room where the meeting was being held. She thought she might’ve been late as her dad didn’t feel like driving anywhere this evening, but he dropped her off after she promised to call when she was done. The room was small and only had approximately fifteen chairs in it, aligned in three rows. The walls were painted white, a cross hung at the front of the room, and religious paintings adorned the walls. It smelled strongly of coffee. There were ten people there already, a few of them mingling with others as a few were standing off to themselves. Everyone seemed to be about middle-aged, with a few elderly people. She seemed to be the youngest one there.
She saw a small white plastic table off to the side with various refreshments of coffee, water, lemonade, cookies, and donuts. She walked over and grabbed a Styrofoam cup and placed it under the nozzle, and then pulled it, hoping that her cup didn’t fall over as she couldn’t hold it down and pour the coffee at the same time because of her injury. She was embarrassed enough about her arm. She had also caked makeup onto her nose tonight to try to hide the swelling and bruising. It hadn’t gone well. She felt blessed because she got her coffee without even a drop of a mess. She picked a chair in the back and sat down, placing the cup on the ground next to her.
Within a few minutes, everyone had sat down. The stand was a small podium that was chipped with white paint. The tan wood underneath poked out of the haphazard paint job. The low murmur of conversations died down as a man in a black t-shirt, and khaki pants took the stand. His balding hair was grey, but his eyes screamed youth. He smiled at everyone and clapped his hands together.
“Good evening everyone, I’m Joaquin, and I’m glad ya’ll could make it once again. I do see some new faces in the crowd, so let’s go ahead and give them a warm welcome,” he said as she cl
apped again. Everyone followed suit, except for Trish.
“Now, for all ya’ll new folks out there, people volunteer to come up here and tell their stories. It can be about the traumatic experience itself or things that happened before or after. We offer no judgment here, only peace, love, and comfort. Everyone in this room is hurting somehow, and we’re here to help build each other up to who we were before the experiences that changed our lives. Now, who all wants to go first?” the man said, his voice deep with a twinge of an accent.
Trish sat as one by one people volunteered to get up and tell their stories. She heard stories of war, domestic violence, car crashes, and rapes. She listened intently, trying to figure out if she’d be able to trust anyone here. Everyone seemed so much older than her and she wasn’t sure that she could relate to them at all. They’re all dressed neatly and business-like, which was the complete opposite of Trish as she just threw on what was clean and comfortable. Her hair was a mess, but she tried to brush it as best as she could. She felt bad that she couldn’t offer them what they needed, and she regretted going.
That is, until James took the stand. He was tall, stick thin and lanky. His ginger hair matted to his head with sweat, and his green t-shirt clung to his body. It’s not hot at all, why is he sweating? I feel bad for him, he must be embarrassed. Trish thought to herself as they sat in the air-conditioned room.
“Everyone, please welcome James. He is a veteran here and has been coming for a while now, but this is his first time speaking. Remember, no judgments, only love. That’s what Jesus commanded,” Joaquin said as he left the stage and gave it to James. James cleared his throat, his grey eyes darted around the room quickly.
“Hi, everyone, I’m James,” his voice light and airy trembled.
“Hi James,” everyone but Trish repeated.
“I’ve been coming here for a couple of months now, and I decided that tonight would be my time to tell my story. Since we are gathered here in a church, I hope that you guys know that I am speaking the truth and to please pray for me,” he said as he scanned the room. The crowd nodded, and a few said, “Yes!” or “Of course!”
The Cave Page 8