Manifesting Shadow, #1

by Church K Calvert

  A body bag. I was in a body bag, sitting on a metal autopsy table.

  That was my resting place. I looked around at what appeared to be an empty laboratory with metal beds and medical equipment. The morgue. To my relief, I noticed I was still clothed. I investigated the room, and to my left something caught my eye, another bag. I stared at it for several minutes. I waited for something, that sick feeling, that uneasiness, that despair, that loss, that emptiness. I waited for these feelings to invade my being and incapacitate me. I’m not certain I told myself; that’s why these feelings alluded me. I rolled to the side of the metal table and lowered myself onto the floor. I noticed my shoes were missing, and the floor was cold. I walked toward the other table and stood next to it. I knew what was in there. I reached to the top of the bag and pulled the zipper down.

  My mother laying lifeless in her bag was revealed. I looked, and I looked. Her eyes closed with darkness around them, the color drained from her body as the blood settled elsewhere. I continued to scrutinize her face and reached out to her shoulder and placed my hand on it. I felt no life moving through her veins, no emotions just hollowness. She was truly gone.

  My mother laid there dead in front of me, and I felt nothing. There was no sadness or longing. I stood there for a long time, expecting the shock to wear off.

  In my mind, the only emotion that resonated toward my mother was anger. Anger for what she had done to herself and what she had done to us. Some diabolical characteristic in me wanted to hurt my mother, more than ever before. I noticed how my grip on my mother’s shoulder had tightened as my nails began to dig into her arm. I pulled my hand back and noticed an affliction on her flesh from where my hand had been placed. The skin shriveled and become darker.

  “You coward.”

  I spoke these final words, turned from her body without a second glance, and proceeded to leave the death room.

  I exited the room through two heavy double doors. Immediately to my right was a reception window. A young woman looked up from the phone she had been talking into. It immediately fell to the desk, and she turned white as she saw me. I approached the desk.

  “Can you tell me something?” I asked. She did not respond, she only looked up at me with her mouth partially opened.

  “Is this part of the hospital?”

  She remained frozen.

  “When did I get here?” I asked, more impatiently.

  “ . . . Two hours ago,” she responded.

  “Is this part of the hospital?” I asked again.

  “Yes, let me call a doctor ─ ” she began, and reached for the phone.

  “No, don’t do that,” I said hastily, my voice cautionary.

  “He can come—” she said, reaching again for the phone.

  I reached through the window, grabbed the phone, and rested in the cradle, holding my hand tightly over it. At this point, I was extremely close to her.

  “Don’t call anyone, don’t tell anyone, don’t do anything. Just tell me where the exit is,” I said.

  I attempted to escape from the hospital as inconspicuously as possible. I inspected my pants and saw how much blood had dried on them from when I found my mother. Other people seemed to notice as well. The situation wasn’t helped by my missing shoes. I departed to the outside hastily through the automatic doors. The sun was still out, and my eyes were sensitive to the bright light. I trudged along the sidewalk for miles toward my house. Walking from the hospital had become so common; I knew the route well.

  After nearly an hour of my trek, I arrived on my doorstep and reached for the handle. All along my route, I had not prepared myself for the chaos inside, what to say, or how to react. As I closed the door behind me, I felt the coldness in the air. The foreboding scent of death lingered. It was like a reminder of reality, and I found it undeniably comforting.

  I immediately turned toward the stairs, wanting to escape to my room for solitude, but as I turned I saw my brother sitting at the bottom, gaping up at me. He blinked hard and stood up. He remained silent as he slowly approached me. He put his hand out to touch me and barely brushed my arm before quickly pulling it back as if he had touched a dead body. He retreated a step back and scrutinized me with an expression of absolute bewilderment.

  “Nathan, who’s at the door?” I heard my father’s voice from around the corner. He sounded strained and exhausted.

  “It’s . . . Dani,” he said, barely able to string the words together.

  “Nathan, that’s not . . .” my dad began, as he walked around the corner. His words trailed off at the sight of me.

  “Dani . . .” he choked back his tears as he rushed toward me and embraced me. He hugged me tightly as if I might escape back into the afterlife. He tried to speak as tears escaped his eyes.

  “They told me you were gone . . . I . . . I saw your body. I can’t believe you’re here,” he said in wonder. The happiness seemed misplaced, considering the circumstances, and my mother’s body lying in the mortuary.

  “There . . . was a mistake,” was all I could come up with.

  I stood there with my dad’s arms around me, still hugging me. I wanted to return the relief of seeing him again and embrace him as well, but no affectionate emotion overcame me. His arms around me began to make me feel uncomfortable, so I stepped back to free myself. He appeared slightly put out by this response, but an expression of understanding came over his face.

  “I’m so sorry, Dani . . . your mom,” he began.

  “I know,” I said abruptly, “ . . . it’s fine.”

  I headed back toward the stairs, tentatively making my exit.

  “I’m just really tired . . .” I said, trailing off and started upward. My brother quickly moved out of my way. I reached my room without another word being spoken, and without an explanation given or asked for. I locked myself in. I had no inclination to be disturbed by their emotions. I sensed a distance from my family, a disconnect. It felt like they were actors portraying this tragic story, and I was an unconvinced audience.

  * * *

  “With you, it’s like you became a completely different person. When you became the person you are today,” Dr. Joy began at the end of my story.

  “I lost it. Not my mind. No . . . something much worse. I lost my ability to connect and my ability to forgive. I never cried for my mother after she died. I still haven’t to this day.

  “Although, over time, many emotions have returned to me at least in part, I’ve never felt close to complete since that day, and now I just feel like the time to grieve for her has passed. I feel so guilty about not being able to be there for my family when she was gone.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t expect that from you, Danielle, you were only eighteen,” said Dr. Joy.

  “I expected it from myself. I could tell they knew I was different after that day. They kept their distance, and I kept mine. Sometimes they would try to connect with me, but as much as I wanted to seek that connection, I was unable to. For a long time, I didn’t want anything to do with them. It was like living with strangers. Who would have ever thought that the pain you feel when you lose someone close to you is something that you would want to feel, something that you need to feel? Most people would give anything to relieve that pain they feel when they lose a loved one, but I would have given anything to feel it. It was impossible for me to experience those emotions. At times I couldn’t help but think I wasn’t supposed to feel that way, and they were weak because they did. The only emotion I was able to embrace was anger.”

  “You should have stayed,” she said.

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “Maybe if your soul had taken the time to heal, it would have been different, maybe if you hadn’t left right away . . .”

  “But that’s not real . . .” I said. “That was my imagination creating an illusion.”

  “Something you need to understand about the mind, is that when the mind is broken, the person is broken as well. If your subconscious is under the impression
that something is one way, the body will react physiologically to what the mind believes to be true.”

  “I guess that makes sense . . .” I admitted, still a little confused.

  “That’s all the time we have today, but I’m curious as to how this story ends,” she said.

  “You’ve read the journals, you know what happens next.”

  “I think there’s more to it than what I’ve read.”

  Chapter Twelve: Provocations

  I spent a lot of time in my room reviewing the conversation I’d had with the doctor, and something wasn’t adding up, although, I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what. She wound up canceling our next visit. I hated it so much when she did this. It was always when I was prepared to discuss things, and I felt we were close to achieving answers when she interrupted the flow by canceling our appointment. My mind started growing fuzzy, and I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. I would see something one way, then remember that I didn’t necessarily see things how they are, but in some skewed perspective, and I would wind up dismissing every thought I had.

  Rachel, the same female medication dispenser, entered my room. I was so lost in the words inside my head, the door opening startled me.

  “You look like you were deep in thought,” she said, pushing her cart of medicine into the room.

  “Yeah, kind of . . .” I answered, attempting to recapture my train of thought.

  “What were you thinking about?” she dismissed her duties and leaned against the wall.

  “I don’t remember,” I said, reclining back onto my bed, trying to hide my irritation.

  “Well, maybe if I leave, then come back in, it will return to you?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said.

  She walked over and sat on my bed. I didn’t move, but shifted my eyes to look at her. She leaned back on her elbows the same way I did. The bed was small, so she seemed to be sitting annoyingly close to me. I felt her knee brush the side of my leg. I sat up.

  “These beds aren’t so uncomfortable,” she said, pressing down on the mattress.

  “Try sleeping on them for years, you might change your mind,” I said, not looking at her.

  “Perhaps.”

  I looked over at her questioningly.

  “What goes on inside of your head? It seems like it’s so loud in there.”

  “It can be.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why do they keep you separate from the other patients?”

  “What is it about the answer to this question that intrigues you? I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

  “I have heard the stories. I heard them several times with many variations. In this place, it is not unusual to hear crazy or unbelievable stories. It is truly our day-to-day job to deal with such situations. However, when patients or staff tell me what happened with you, they seem like they believe something that’s impossible. They talk of the day as if they had seen the devil himself. They blame you for what they did to that patient. They think you’re possessed or evil.”

  “Can’t say I blame them for thinking that. It was better in the jail, they knew better than to put me among other people.”

  “They beat him senseless with metal batons and turned his brain to mush during an altercation you two had. They were unable to control the situation and took unnecessary measures. I hardly see how that could be considered your fault. I know there is something peculiar about you. I don’t deny that. I felt it, that terrifying chaos. There was so much darkness . . . so much guilt,"

  “What happened to that patient is exactly what I wanted to happen to him,” I said, “You’re right, I have a darkness inside me, caged up like a rabid dog. Should you ever encounter such a creature, heed my advice, the last thing you should ever do is –”

  “Provoke it,” she finished.

  “Exactly,” I gave a devious grin.

  Rachel inched her leg away from mine.

  “I’m surprised they let you come in here alone,” I said.

  “Well, they said since they’ve segregated you from the other patients there have been very few incidences. However, I am equipped with a very shiny whistle in case of emergencies,” she said, pulling out a necklace with a purple whistle attached at the end,“ Apparently self-defense devices, sharp objects, including sedatives are not allowed. They said I stood the best chance if I just called for help.”

  “Does that make you feel safe?” I inquire.

  “You don’t make me feel as scared as I know I should.”

  “I see that.”

  “So, then tell me, Danielle. What provoked you that day?”

  * * *

  As the memories of that day lined up like dominoes waiting to be knocked over, my mind returned to that day. Coming to the mental institution was easy. I had cut my ties with all the things that bound me emotionally to the outside world. Every person I excised from my life was a burden lifted. My inability to connect turned the loss into emptiness rather than pain. When I first arrived, I thought I was completely void of emotion. I was wrong.

  “Okay, we’re almost done with the intake process; I just have a few more questions. Then, afterward we will take you to the cafeteria, and get you something to eat before your meeting with your doctor, then show you to your living quarters,” said a man sitting in the chair across from me in a tiny office with no windows. He was an older Hispanic male with dark hair and a five o’clock shadow just starting to gray. He scribbled on his clipboard as I answered each question.

  “I understand.”

  “Excellent, tell me, have you ever seen a professional before regarding any mental health disorders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you, or do you know if you have been diagnosed with any mental health disorders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what they are?”

  “Bipolar II.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been prescribed medication for this?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of medication have you taken?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Are you currently taking any medication?”

  “No.”

  “Is there any history of mental illness on your father’s side of the family?”

  “No, not that I know of.”

  “What about your mother’s side of the family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how or what they were diagnosed with?”

  “My great-grandmother was also diagnosed Bipolar II later in life.”

  “Okay, anyone else?”

  “My mother had depression . . . I believe.”

  “You believe? Do you know if she saw a doctor or had an official diagnosis?”

  “I’m not sure, but she . . . committed suicide earlier this year,” I said, hurrying the end of my sentence.

  I could hear the doctors writing halt momentarily. He looked up at me over his glasses, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  I did not respond, he appeared to have almost a sense of relief that I did not immediately wish to explore the topic further.

  “I want you to know that although this is a long-term facility, it is our intention to provide medical care, counseling, and the tools needed to reintegrate you back into society. Rarely do our patients stay here more than a year. You seemed to have experienced a great deal of trauma in your life, and we plan to work with you to start the healing process. How does that sound?” he said with a smile.

  “It sounds fine, I guess.”

  “Good, now let’s take you to the cafeteria and get you some food. I will have the orderlies escort you. Then, after you eat, you will have a meeting with your doctor. At that point, she will prescribe any medications she or he feels like you might need or benefit from.”

  “Do I have to take medication?”

  “Medication is
part of the treatment process, so yes it is very likely that you will be prescribed one or more medications.”

  “It’s just I’ve taken medication before, and I’m worse off now than when I started taking it. I’m not saying it doesn’t help, but there is no cure for what I have, so why do we receive medical treatment?”

  “We are not trying to cure your mental health disorder, we are trying to cure the temporary disorder in your life that your condition has caused. Regular treatment, counseling, as well as the various other tactics we use here, can make your disorder manageable,” he said, getting up from his chair. He opened the door and motioned for the staff to retrieve me. I took this as my cue to get up.

  “It was very nice meeting you, Miss Blake, and I wish you the best of luck,” he said, shaking my hand, “This is Ryan, he will be your escort to the cafeteria. As a protocol for new patients who have not yet met with their doctor to ascertain their risk level, we require wrist wraps. These will make it difficult to eat, but I expect after your meeting with your doctor they will no longer be necessary.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, sticking my wrists out as to be handcuffed.

  “Just put your hands about six inches apart with your wrists facing the ceiling,” said Ryan.

  Ryan was a smaller guy, even shorter than me. He was young, probably in his early twenties. He had black hair arranged in a messy fashion and dark eyebrows. He had a kind face and friendly disposition. I found interacting with him pleasant.