by Joey Jameson
“You were found roaming the streets, as if in a daze.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Covered in blood.”
Now, his eyes focused on hers.
“Blood?” he repeated back to her.
“You were picked up quickly and brought in for questioning. They couldn’t get anything out of you. You were unresponsive, completely blank behind the eyes as if in a trance. The officers who picked you up couldn’t get any answers. When they checked your record, they came across the hospital files of your time at the Institut Pere Mata, and a specialist was called in. It wasn’t long before they checked the address we had on file for you. And that’s when they found…” Her voice cracked, as if it hurt her to speak the next words that came out of her mouth. “That’s when they found the body of Lenox Winter.”
“Lenox…”
“He had been stabbed multiple times in the chest and was pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Lenox is…”
“Your fingerprints were all over the body and the blood on yourself was a match to the DNA of the victim.”
“Lenox is dead…Fuck…Oh, Jesus…”
“It’s okay, Lyric. It’s okay.”
“What the fuck do you mean it’s okay? Of course, it’s not okay. What are you saying to me…?”
His whole frame vibrated with fury and his eyes went wide, like those of an animal snared in a trap.
“I was the doctor that was called down to the island to complete a full psychological evaluation upon your arrest. You were unfit to stand trial and were sent here. To the Institut Pere Mata, where you have been a patient ever since.”
She sat back after finishing, braced, as if she understood the effect her words were going to have on him and she could watch their impact play out on his features. His lips moved as if he was speaking but without any words they could detect.
A single tear fell from his eye as the weight of the revelations he had just suffered began to take its effect.
“I’m so sorry, Lyric…”
But her apology carried only minimal sincerity.
“Doctor Powell is here to revisit your case and judge the effectiveness of your current dosage of chlorpromazine. I’ve been hoping we might be able to lower it this trimester, but I’m fairly certain this will be refuted. Your delusions are as strong today as they were when you joined us.”
Her words were like liquid lava, pouring over him and searing his skin. He put his head in his hands and gently pounded at his temples in frustration as the truth of what she was telling him began to sink in.
He grabbed hold of his hair, expecting to entangle his hands in his long dreadlocks.
Only they weren’t there.
“What the fuck?” he shouted as he patted his head in search of his long hair, but was only greeted with a tightly shorn buzz cut. He kneaded his skull and plucked at the short hairs with his fingers, desperately searching for something that wasn’t there.
“My dreads?” he called out, his voice seized with panic.
“Lyric, you had those cut off when you first arrived at the Institute. They were a safety risk to you. We were afraid you might use their length to harm yourself in some way.”
“This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m only here being questioned. I…I need to go home. Right now. Now!” he shouted, panic-stricken and unable to fathom what was happening. His skin crawled and his heart pounded in his chest as his vision blurred and hearing softened, all sounds being dulled to a white noise.
“Lyric…You are home.”
But as he was refuting their apparent lies, his whole body gripped with fear and hysteria, desperate to flee the situation and get as far away from there as he could, something gave way in his mind. A small part of him started to lend itself to the idea that perhaps they might be telling the truth.
Doctor Sanchez reached down into a bag at her side that Lyric hadn’t noticed before and pulled out what appeared to be a small, round hand mirror. She carefully opened it and turned the reflective side so that he could peer into the looking glass.
It took him a moment for his eyes to refocus, but as he wiped at the tears that clouded his vision, someone stared back at him in the mirror that he almost didn’t recognise. He opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words to explain the emotions he was feeling. All he could do was stare in despair at what he saw in the mirror.
He looked so different. So much older. His long, blond hair was gone; shaved into a closely cropped style that was like a shadow circling his round skull. His eyes seemed sunken and his face withdrawn. Even his skin looked different. Older. There were tiny lines around his eyes that he hadn’t had before and the short hair at his temples had started to grey. He angled his face differently as if he was testing the reality of what he was seeing, wondering if the reflection would mirror his movements. As he tilted his head this way and that, so did the stranger who stared back at him. After a moment of silence, he closed his eyes and tore himself away from the mirror, collapsing into his hands and beginning to sob.
“Lyric, we have this conversation almost every week. And every time we reach the end, I have to reveal the truth to you again and again. Lenox, and his murder, and your time here. From what I’ve gathered, your subconscious built up a wall around itself after Lenox’s death, perhaps as a way of protecting itself, or as a way of grieving over what you did. Your mind seems to be on some sort of a loop, living in a constant cycle of denial. It’s as if you aren’t able to process any new memories. There are many documented cases of such an amnesic state occurring to patients after suffering a traumatic loss of some kind. But I must admit, the fact that your subconscious seems to be stuck somehow, repeating the same scenario over and over again, as if in some cyclical state of regression, is disconcerting, even considering your previous diagnosis. Just when I think we’re getting close to a breakthrough, either with your medicines or through our sessions, your brain seems to reset itself again and we’re back to square one. Suddenly, in your mind it’s twelve years ago. As if no time has passed…”
A moment went by and the white noise softened as Lyric calmed down once again, the panic fleeting and his senses returning to normal. He drew in a deep breath and began his counting down from ten, as he had been taught all those years ago. Another deep breath relaxed him further until his hands stopped shaking and his heartbeat slowed. He glanced up at the two doctors before him.
“But it feels like only yesterday…”
It was the first sign of any sort of acceptance on his part. His words came out pained and full of strain.
Doctor Sanchez paused for a moment, reaching across the table and taking his restrained hands in her own. The touch of her skin was warm on his cold, numb hands, and he appreciated the change in temperature.
“I know it does, Lyric…” After a moment, her hands loosened on his as the truth began to settle around him. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to centre himself in the room, letting the truth cascade over him like the waves in the sea.
His settled mind, as much as he fought it, at last considered things from their perspective.
“I…I don’t remember…”
“I know you don’t, Lyric. I’m so, so sorry for all of this. It comes as such a shock to you every time. But that is the case with Dissociative Identity Disorder. After your parents died and the attack on Rodriguez Sanford when you were eighteen, you were in a catatonic state. Completely unresponsive to any sort of treatment or stimulus. And you remained in this state for two weeks.”
“Two weeks?”
“I’m afraid so. When you awoke, you were convinced you were Cedar.”
“Cedar…”
“It seemed that you had adopted his personality after the accident, presumably as the brain’s way of coping with the trauma of losing your family. It wasn’t until about a month after you awoke from catatonia that we saw your true self begin to take control again. Whenever Cedar is allowed to take over, he seems to want to pu
nish you somehow. He has been creating elaborate stories about you for years, trying to get you into trouble and make you pay for the way you treated him. He still thinks he’s alive and a completely separate entity to you. You’ve told me before that you and Cedar weren’t like normal twins; sometimes inseparable, at other times vying for attention and acting in a confrontational manner towards each other. When you adopted his personality after his death it was as if your subconscious wanted you to suffer, as if you felt you deserved the pain somehow, and it used Cedar to deliver it. The truth is, Lyric, you’ve never forgiven yourself for the deaths of your parents and Cedar, and these personalities are your brain’s way of coping with grief.”
“How is it that I keep forgetting?”
“Unfortunately, that’s something we have yet to figure out or properly treat. When you were released from the hospital the first time, you were doing so well. Your meds were working and you showed promise of being able to lead a fairly normal life. You were checking into your appointments, and had taken over the running of your parents’ café. Things seemed good. And then, eight years later, around the time you would have first met Lenox Winter, things seemed to get worse again. You went off the radar for a while, not showing up for your appointments as often, not renewing your prescriptions…”
She wrung her hands for a moment and Lyric could detect a slight pain in her mannerisms.
“I blame myself for not seeing the signs sooner. For not detecting that your condition was worsening again. Perhaps if I had, then Lenox…”
But there was no use in finishing her sentence.
“After the death of Lenox Winter, when you were picked up by police, you slipped into this amnesiac state, perhaps due to the psychological trauma you experienced, and despite our efforts to pull you out, your brain seems to revert back each time, resetting itself somehow as a way of protecting the psyche from the truth of what has happened to you. And the truth behind what you’ve done.”
“I wish this wasn’t happening…”
“I know you do, Lyric. Again, I wish things were different for you.”
“Why did you do this today? Why did you let me believe…?”
“I’m afraid this is how most of our sessions begin. Your brain somehow convinces yourself that you’ve been called in for questioning and our therapy sessions continue from there. I’m sorry we had to play along today, but it was the only way for Doctor Powell to experience first-hand the state in which you remain.”
“We believe that it was Cedar’s personality that was present and responsible for the death of Lenox Winter, as well as the disappearance and possible death of another three individuals on the island, whose cases remain open to this day,” Doctor Powell added. “The particulars of all four cases share some obvious similarities; all males under the age of thirty, all disappearing within a three-mile radius of one another and all frequenting the same bar where you had been reported on numerous occasions, as well as where you—or Cedar, I should say—allegedly picked up Rodriguez Sanford. Unfortunately, no bodies were ever recovered from the three previous cases, and due to your apparent amnesiac state, I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to uncover the truth behind their whereabouts. I fear that if things had gone differently, then the body of Lenox Winter would also have gone undiscovered and his case unsolved.”
Doctor Powell sighed deeply, his mouth hardening again into that familiar tight-lipped expression. “I’m afraid at this time we may have to think about exploring a different course of treatment,” he continued, his gaze turning towards Doctor Sanchez.
The doctors both stopped for a moment and exchanged yet another expression between themselves before Doctor Powell pushed his chair back. He looked to the camera on the wall, nodded his head in its direction, and stood up.
“I think that’s enough for today.”
And with that he nodded towards Doctor Sanchez.
Lyric looked up at the same time as he stood, unsure as to what was happening. Doctor Powell passed Doctor Sanchez a piece of paper, which Lyric assumed had his diagnosis scrolled across. She took it, scanned it quickly, and nodded, not once making eye contact.
“Thank you, Doctor Sanchez. Lyric…” Doctor Powell nodded in his general direction, although he avoided Lyric’s stare.
After a moment, the door was unlocked from the outside and an official-looking man in uniform escorted Doctor Powell out of the room, leaving Lyric and the head psychotherapist alone for a moment.
She stared him straight in the eye, her arms folded neatly on the table in front of her. She let another moment pass in silence before she attempted conversation again.
“Lyric. Do you need more time?”
He almost laughed out loud at the question.
“More time. More time for what?”
“To process. To think. To remember…”
“I’m not sure I want to remember anything more.”
“I understand.”
It was her turn to clear her throat and signal to the camera on the wall that she was through. She stood abruptly, gathered the envelopes from the table, and moved towards the doorway before turning back once more to face Lyric who remained seated, small and insignificant at the table.
“Lyric, I’m going to process Doctor Powell’s diagnosis and we will commence a new course of treatment tomorrow morning. I will have Dickens escort you back to your room, and I will see you for our next session next week. Do you understand?”
Her voice had changed once again, from soft and kind to formal and sterile. The door opened with a jarring sound and with a final nod to Lyric, she disappeared down the hall.
Lyric was alone now, with nothing but his disturbing thoughts to comfort him.
His eyes remained fixed on a spot on the table until the aforementioned orderly made his way into the room and put a heavy, strong hand on his shoulder.
“It’s time,” was all he needed to say to let Lyric know he was able to return to his cell, or room, as they called it.
He stood and followed the orderly out of the room.
The hallway was white, with blindingly bright fluorescent bulbs lining the way. A sterile smell of bleach infiltrated his nostrils as he shuffled slowly along the cold, white-tiled floor. As he walked, he noticed the soft slippers that adorned his feet and the grey sweatpants and sweater he wore on top. He let his hands find his head once more, running them softly over his shaved head and silently missing the comfort that his long dreadlocks used to provide.
Things in his mind were becoming clearer now as the details of his life returned to his consciousness. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to hold on to them this time, but for the time being he let them all wash over him.
After a few minutes of walking along winding hallways and passing nurses and doctors, each nodding hello in Lyric’s direction, they reached a large grey door with a small gilded window and large slot in the centre.
The orderly took out a hefty keyring that was attached to his belt and found the appropriate key with which to unlock the heavy padlocked door. The deadbolt slid back and the door creaked open. He motioned for Lyric to lift his wrists. Once he had, the orderly unlocked his restraints and stepped back for Lyric to go inside.
Epilogue
LYRIC STUDIED THE room around him. Sitting on the small, single bed he listened carefully for any noises, but was greeted with a surprisingly comforting silence. The four white walls were slightly padded and the only furniture was the bed and a simple desk and chair. Red, dying tulips sat in a plastic vase filled with dirty water in the centre of the desk, alongside a small black notepad and pen.
A small south-facing window with iron bars across it was the focus of the far wall, and it let in the bright afternoon sunshine. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt the warm rays on his skin.
When he opened his eyes, they drifted to the half dozen or so pictures that were taped to the padded wall above the desk. Standing, he went to investigate.
Each photograph was
a picture of his family. His parents. One of Cedar on his own when he was younger. Another of him and his brother down on the beach, arms around each other and enormous grins plastered across their faces. Then a couple of the whole family.
Together. Alive. Content. Safe.
Happy moments captured in time. As he gazed over each, taking in the details of the pictures and feeling the emotions that rose as the memories surfaced, he was filled with an odd sense of ease. If he closed his eyes now, he could still hear his brother calling his name like that day on the beach. He could still feel the soft embrace of his mother when he was sad and needed comforting, and he could still hear the strong, hearty sound of his father laughing as he enjoyed the sight of his boys playing nicely together. He ran his fingers over the photographs, and stayed there in their memory for as long as he could bear until the tears blurred his vision and he started to sob.
About the Author
Joey Jameson lives in Brighton, UK; a world of decadence, glamour, and intrigue. He believes life is better when drizzled with naughtiness and drenched in layer upon layer of sparkling glitter. His work is best appreciated with a hard drink and the lights down low and will leave you wondering just what goes on in that twisted little mind of his.
He is the author of Candy from Strangers, Blackout, Twisted, Interview with the Porn Star and Dirty Talk.
Stay tuned for more scintillating work to come your way soon…
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.joeyjameson.com
Twitter: @joeyjameson
Facebook: www.facebook.com/joeyjamesonauthor
Instagram: @joeyjameson
Other books by this author
Dirty Talk
Also Available from NineStar Press
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