I awoke with an intense pain in my neck and a pounding headache. As I stand up from the bed, my eyes follow the smears of dried blood on the chest of my shirt. My reflection catch’s my attention in the bedroom vanity. Bruises align my face to my collarbone. I audibly gasp and the man that I did not notice in the bed bed sits up, rubbing his eyes. Panicking, I quietly shuffle into the bathroom down the hallway, I close and lock the door. I don’t know where I am or whose house I am in. A knock on the door makes me squeal and I freeze, unable to make any response. “Are you okay?” A man asks. “I waited for you to come home last night. Your phone was off and I was worrying like hell.” What does he mean by “come home”? My mind begins brainstorming justification as to why I’m in this strangers house. The bedroom looked very feminine. Maybe he is mistaken me for his girlfriend? I open the door and the man looks at me like he has seen a ghost. We stand within a foot of each other without a word before he wraps his arms around me with a loud sob. “What happened to you last night? I need to take you to a hospital!” Agreeing that I need medical help, I follow the stranger to his Honda. Walking to the rdesk in the Emergency Room, still covered in blood, the receptionist asks me for my name with wide eyes. I hesitate, realizing I don’t know my name. “I don’t know,” I say as a matter of fact. The man behind me reaches for my shoulder with a surprise on his face. “Her name is Madeline.” He knows me. I tell him I don’t know who he is or what is happening and he orders me to sit down in the waiting room. I can faintly hear him talk to the receptionist. “Her name is Madeline. She came home late last night after a girls night out. I don’t know why she doesn’t remember her name. She looks like she was mugged and has a concussion.” I didn’t wait long to be ushered back to a room in a wheelchair. A nurse asks me to confirm my name and wraps a “fall risk” bracelet around my wrist. “Do you know where you are?” She asks with a concerning tone. I deny knowing where I am or my name. “What month is it?” She continues to ask questions. “March.” I respond. The man perks up from his chair, “Honey it’s February.” The nurse asks me what year it is and I answer “2012”. The nurse corrects me, “Darling it is 2013. Worst case scenario, you must have suffered a brain injury but with time your memory will resurface.” She shines a light into my eyes and explains that I will undergo tests by the doctors orders to find evidence of a concussion. Explaining that intense amnesia is usually not related to a brain injury, she consoles me that I will be taken care of. Hours later I am greeted by a man who introduces himself as a neurologist. His face is solemn as he explains my scans have shown severe brain death in my hippocampus. I lower my gaze in disbelief and focus on the ring on my finger. The doctor continues to explain to what I assume is my husband that I will be admitted for observation.
First Day in Hell.
Dear Satan, I thought you would meet me at the door.. I had the impression that I would meet a grand entrance to hell with the burning flames and whatnot. I walked for hours in darkness until I found myself here, except I don’t know where “here” is. If I’d have to guess, I think I’m in St. Louis. I’ve passed this familiar arch three times now and I’m starting to believe this city is infinite. When I’m near the edge of the city, I seem to respawn on the other side. The traffic here is horrible. How many times will I get hit by angry drivers and not die? I’m getting tired and I think I’m going to one of the dives downtown and grab some food.
Second day in Hell.
What the hell Satan? Sorry.. is that derogatory? I walked out of a restaurant and found myself in my parents old basement. My old twin mattress sitting under my tapestry and Christmas lights makes me cringe. This was such a disgraceful setup. Is that why I’m in Hell? Anyway, I can hear my dad’s obnoxious dog run across the entire floor plan of the house. Between pauses, I hear my mom screaming and my dad throwing kitchenware. Satan, I think living in my parents basement was hell enough.
Third day in Hell.
Satan, am I ever going to meet you? I’m starting to wonder what it would be like being put on a spit over the flames of hell. The stairway door opened and I walked into my college math seminar. You must be a comedian, Satan, because this was on my list of reasons for offing myself. The lecture has been going on for hours and it seems there is no end to this nonsense. I’m starting to daydream about burning in the depths of hell.
Satan, are you there?
It had been fifteen years since the sun had last risen. Fifteen years of hiding in the shadows and staying out of sight from the Alive. Fifteen years of loneliness and isolation. Mitch had survived much of the first year after the start of the apocalypse. Fighting on the frontlines, he helped build the first haven in what used to be North America. While foraging an abandoned city, he was bitten by the Unalive and was left alone to turn by his fellow soldiers. Except Mitch didn’t die. His skin grew grey and his eyes bloodshot but his mind was sharper than before. He did not crave flesh like the others yet they accepted him as one of their own as long as he didn’t fall out of line with their primal instinct. For fifteen years he snuck around empty cities scavenging food and clothes without being seen. Surviving on his own, until a large army swept back through their city. He overheard a soldiers radio commanding to purge any stragglers. Heart beating out of his chest, he ran. Ran through alleys, through empty building to the edge of town. He knew no one would take a second to understand him, they would shoot first and ask questions later. As he jumped the fence in an alley close to the edge of what was once a suburb, he caught the eye of a female soldier. She froze in fear as he fell to his knees, accepting is fate. Shocked by the emotional response of an Unalive, she lowered her weapon. Mitch looked up, nearly blinded by the sunlight that he has avoided for years. He spoke and was surprised by the sound of his voice. “Don’t shoot me please.” Dropping her gun and reaching for her radio, the soldier called for backup. Men and women began surrounding Mitch in awe at the realization that they have found someone who has immunity. Riding back into his city with his adrenaline running and a smile on his face, Mitch knew he was making history.
The crisp air whips across my smooth tights and the sound of metal grinds against ice. My adrenaline builds as weeks spent repeating and choreographing my program. Lace layered on silk moves with the wind as I land the jump at the climax of Vivaldi. I stand alone in pride as the only girl in my division that can successfully land a triple axel. I suppress the urge to smile as I keep my composure graceful. The crowd erupts in applause with my finishing Biellmann. Watching my old programs through the screen of my IPhone is bittersweet. My days of competing have come to an end as it sit alone in my hospital room. Less than a year ago I won my third national first place metal and today I am told that I may never skate again. My primary test results show that I have a rare form of inflammatory rheumatoid arthritis. Today is my first dreaded day of ambulatory. I question the importance of learning to walk again if I have no purpose at the end of the finish line. Sitting in a hospital bed for months while doctors fought to lower my fever and inflammation had forced me to live in doubt of my future. Now my purpose is redirection as I leave my life behind.
“Did you ever mean it?” “Once, yes. But only once.” The gripping rubber of my socks rubs on the metal framing of the hospital bed. I look down, knowing the doctors is looking straight through me. He asks again. I try to drown out his interrogation. “You were released last week. We asked your parents how you were feeling and we were reassured you were doing well.” I lied. I was put on new medications after I was committed. They eased the pain for a few days, until I started doubling the dose. Then tripling it. After a dose presumably too high, I woke up here. I reached up to itch the burn on my chest but my arm is tethered to the bed. “My mom asked how I was feeling every morning. When I got home, I was high from the pills. I told her I was happy. I came down the next day so I took more. I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” as the last words left my mouth, I knew I was lying. The doctor knew too. I knew there was a possibility I wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t care. “We believe it’s in your best interest to be committed for a longer observation. Our hospital doesn’t offer the treatment you need but your parents have signed legal permission to have you transferred.” “I am a legal adult, my parents can’t-“ The doctor interrupted, “Due to your inability to make decisions, we have given your parents the legality to have you committed.” A nurse opens the door, one hand holding a syringe and the other holding the door for my parents. A disgusting look of concern displayed across their faces. The doctor pats the bed before he silently slips out of the room. The nurse explains she is administering a drug called “Hadlol” before they start the process of transferring me to the loony bin. “This will calm you down and maybe help you sleep,” her voice sweet and concerned, making me feel like a burden. My dad clears his throat stepping in front of my mom as usual. He has always had the habit of seeming above her. Quieting her. My eyes begin to feel heavy. “We will call every day. We care about you and we are doing this for you,” my dads voice is cold. They are doing this for themselves. Shipping me off to be someone else’s problem. Before I can open my mouth to make a sarcastic comment, the sedative takes over and I fall asleep.
I awoke, startled from a dream. Sitting up against the headboard of my boyfriends bed, I immediately reached for my journal and began scribbling down the details. The location, the names, and the cause of death.
“Another nightmare?” he asked in his husky voice as he awoke. “Sorry,” I whispered “don’t worry, just go back to sleep hun.” He persisted. “This happens every other night, do you need to see a doctor? Why do you need to journal your dreams every time this happens? Is there something you’re not telling me?” “It’s nothing,” I reassured.
His persistence that I’ve been hiding things from him was stronger than ever as he began raising his voice. I drew in a deep breath. We have been together for four years. For four years I have been making excuses for my sudden road trips with my father. For four years I haven’t told him the truth about my dreams. My visions. Tonight will be the night I tell the truth. .
At the young age of 13, I was introduced to my family business. In early teenage years, normal kids would begin to discover the world around them. I inherited an alternative upbringing. My father called me into his personal office, the one room in our house that he previously demanded was “out of bounds”.
I took a seat on the dark leather sofa parallel to his cluttered desk. My eyes darted around the room to overflowing bookshelves of journals, newspapers in various piles, and a map covered in pictures of strangers pinned to various locations. “Am I in trouble?” I asked with a shaky voice. I have always been an easy child. Always obedient. My father praised me for my unusual intelligence for my age.
My father lifted his head from the book he seemed to be buried in. His lips curled into a soothing smile, then he sighed. “I take it that you’ve been experiencing nightmares more frequently lately.” I felt paralyzed. Whatever this was about could not be good. “Is there something wrong with me?” I questioned. “There is not something wrong with you. There is something different about you. Different than kids your age. I believe you are old enough for the truth. Your dreams are visions. Have you been having dreams of people dying?” How does he know that? My response caught in my throat. I gulped as I nodded. “Welcome to the family business,” my father said with wide eyes. .
This was the beginning of learning my purpose in the world. Following the hours of conversation with my dad, we took our first trip together up north to a small town on the border of Montana.
My father had a dream of a girl by the name of Adeline. He took note of the street name, her appearance, and the cause. She was going to be mugged in an alleyway near her apartment. After an hour of scoping out the town, we parked near the alleyway accompanied by the street sign familiar to his dream. A few hours passed until we saw a young college girl walking toward the alley, presumably leaving the bar around the corner. As she stumbled around the edge of the building, my dad caught a glimpse of a man wearing all black stalking toward her.
“Stay here,” he demanded as he carefully shut the door to the car. Running silently, avoiding being seen from the streetlights, he stood adjacent to the alleyway against the brick of the building. As the girl turned the corner, the man in black reached for her. He was too late. My father tackled him to the ground, pinning his arms to his back as he told the girl to run home and lock her doors. Within minutes my father had him tied to a light pole before he walked back to the car.
“This is our family business. We save lives. We see innocent deaths before they happen and we stop them.” . As I finished telling the naked truth to my love of the past four years, he reached for his phone and bag.
“You’re insane!” He yelled. “You have got to be joking right? This is all some weird joke.” As soon as I began explaining myself, I stopped. I should have lied. I shouldn’t have told anyone. I broke my father’s only rule: shut up. My boyfriend shut the door to my apartment before I could plead. My heart sank.
For most people, it is simple to choose between the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other. Given my karma, I’m forced a lacking of moral sense. This is where I tell the naked truth. I exist without a soul. Living with the curse of (almost) never escaping the devil is something I was forced to come to terms with. It takes form as my literal shadow, only vanishing in absolute darkness. A castigation resulting in endless days isolated in my dark room. I think of it as my panic room. My only haven where the world is safe from me. Existing with my own antagonist whispering in my ear has me constrained. Fighting the constant urge to destroy all of the goodness in my life. Not only does my shadow cause the tendency to self-destruct, it also takes form of animosity and irritation and of course, endless depression. Questioning why I deserved this is pointless. I had it coming. In my early 20s, I hurt people. I thrived to create drama from those around me. My greatest pleasure was creating conversation into argument; creating fights with those who loved me felt like bliss. I have ruined every relationship in my life. Every friend I’ve had now loathes me for my many acts of betrayal. I have estranged myself from my parents in the hope to allow them to live happy lives without my presence. I of course caused their divorce, yet alienating myself was my first attempt to become a better person. It would be a lie if I said I didn’t try to help myself. When the realization of how destructive my behavior was becoming, guilt became a feeling heavier than a mountain. Righting my wrongs became my only purpose until I received my curse. The god of nightmares spoke to me in a dream. I was in my favorite shop of refurbished antiques, looking at a mirror with beautiful framing of sworls of gold. Taking pleasure in materialism as usual, I knew I couldn’t leave without it. As I took a step toward the glass, the world around me turned into infinite darkness with my reflection just visible. My hand reached out to touch the mirror but to my shock, my reflection did not move its arm and instead smiled with unnerving intent. “The time has come,” my apparition spoke. My heart began racing, adrenaline increasing so fast I felt faint. “I have been watching as you have been living a life of selfishness. The intensity of your egoistic lifestyle makes you irresistible. Your failed becoming has caused me some hesitance, however, I am not keen to patience. Broken souls like yours are the most valuable. I understand it’s quite a paradox.” I opened my mouth yet my words catch in my throat. My usual cynicism ceased. “Today, your well-deserved karma is being delivered. For too long, I have been yearning for a soul like yours. Your lack of remorse is greater than your attempts to become a person you know you will never be. There is no escaping me until the moment your insignificant life ends.” I turned and began to run but the darkness weighed me down as if I was running through water. I know that I am dreaming but I could not seem to wake myself. “Running is pointless” the voice reached the endless void “From this day on, you will live your life without the choice to do good. I will take the form of your shadow and feed on your soul as I strip your autonomy. You have no other option but to submit.” I awoke to the blinding sunlight peaking through my bedroom window, the intensity making my head throb like nothing I’ve experienced before. Sitting up in my bed, my hands shaking as I opened my curtains. I reach for my bottle of anti-anxiety medication as I hear a faint voice belonging to my shadow that was cast onto my headboard. “This is only the beginning.” My hands shake as I open the bottle. I must be delusional. “Take the remaining pills,” it demands. A weeks left of my prescription pours into the palm of my hand. I have fought against abusing Xanax for a year now - one of my many attempts to become a better person. With the handful of Xanax, I swallow my pride.
