Divided Shadows_2

Part 2

11 months ago

The cold gates clanged shut behind her, a hollow echo that sent a chill down Lotta’s spine. She hugged herself tightly, her jaw clenched in stubborn silence. She hadn’t wanted to be here, and she certainly didn’t belong. In her mind, everything she’d experienced was as real as the walls surrounding her now, no matter what anyone else claimed. Her truth felt solid and immovable, and no sterile walls or condescending doctors would take that from her.

An orderly walked beside her, rattling off the “features” of the institution in a monotone that grated against her nerves. The linoleum floors, a faded gray under sterile fluorescent lights, stretched endlessly before them, each step echoing like a countdown. Lotta kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, resisting the urge to look around or acknowledge him. She was only here because they’d forced her hand, calling her “traumatized,” “delusional,” and worse—labels that hung over her like a cloud, whispered from every corner. But she knew what she’d seen, what she’d lived. And no amount of patronizing reassurance would make her forget.

Orderly: (gesturing to a dim room) “This is the intake area. The doctor will meet with you shortly.”

She gave him a barely perceptible nod, refusing to show any more acknowledgment than necessary. She’d already resolved not to play along. The less she engaged, the sooner she’d be free.

Inside the intake room, Dr. Whittaker sat behind a sleek, polished desk, her expression a blend of calm professionalism and distant sympathy. Lotta took the chair across from her, crossing her arms tighter, a defensive wall between her and the world.

Dr. Whittaker: (coolly, leaning forward) “Welcome, Lotta. I know this transition might be uncomfortable, but we’re here to help.”

Lotta: (her voice sharp, unwavering) “I don’t need help. I’m not confused about what happened.”

Dr. Whittaker’s expression remained composed, her pen tapping rhythmically against her clipboard—a practiced gesture, perhaps, meant to appear sympathetic.

Dr. Whittaker: “I understand that’s how you feel, but for now, let’s focus on keeping you safe and helping you feel grounded.”

Lotta: (coldly) “I’m not sick. The  people who are making sure no one believes me are the ones who are trying to bury the truth.” Her fingers dug into the chair’s armrests. “Why won’t anyone listen to me?”

The doctor studied her for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing Lotta’s words for signs of deeper “symptoms.”

Dr. Whittaker: “We’re here to provide a safe environment, Lotta. That’s what matters most.”

But Lotta caught a flicker in her eyes—the same flicker she’d seen in countless faces before: doubt, dismissal, disbelief. She looked away, jaw clenched, refusing to let this woman chip away at her conviction. They weren’t here for the truth; they were here to smooth over whatever didn’t fit, to hide her away until she gave up. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

---

The orderly returned, leading her through another maze of identical corridors before stopping at a narrow door.

Orderly: “This will be your room.”

The door swung open, revealing a tiny space with a narrow bed pressed against one wall, a small grated window, and a stark, white ceiling with cracks that seemed to stretch like veins. Lotta dropped her bag beside the bed and sat down, barely aware of the mattress’s thin, unyielding surface beneath her. Her gaze drifted to the small window—her only view of the outside world. From here, it was little more than a sliver of sky, framed by cold steel bars.

The orderly lingered, as though waiting for some sign of gratitude or acknowledgment. Lotta ignored him, her attention fixed on the gray clouds visible through the window. She knew the pattern by now: watch, report, label. Everything she did would be scrutinized, twisted to fit their version of events.

He finally left, and the room was silent again. Lotta sat motionless, her mind retracing memories of long, late nights piecing together fragments of her life, every moment of horror and truth, hoping someone would eventually understand. Every article, every note she’d gathered was supposed to add up, to expose the reality that no one else seemed willing to acknowledge. And this? This was her reward: a prison disguised as care.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the quiet click of the door. A woman with kind eyes and a gentle, practiced smile stepped in, wearing the clinical white scrubs of a nurse.

Nurse Bailey: “Hello, Lotta. I’m Nurse Bailey. I’ll be checking in on you while you’re here.”

Lotta didn’t bother to look at her, her voice laced with defiance. Lotta: “You can stop pretending. I don’t need to be ‘managed.’”

Nurse Bailey: (keeping her cheerful tone steady) “We’re here to support you, Lotta, not manage. If you need anything, just let us know.”

Lotta: (her tone icy) “What I need is for people to start listening.”

The nurse’s smile faltered briefly, and she exhaled, her hand hovering over the doorknob, hesitating as if choosing her next words with care.

Nurse Bailey: “Sometimes, when we’re hurting, we hold on tightly to things that may not be… entirely real.”

Lotta: (her eyes flashing, her voice sharp) “Don’t patronize me.”

The nurse’s gaze softened with something resembling pity, and without another word, she slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Lotta alone again.

---

That night, she lay awake, eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling, tracing them over and over as if they held answers she’d overlooked. Sleep wouldn’t come; her mind was a storm of thoughts and memories, fragments of events that no one else would believe. They could call it delusion or trauma—all the labels in the world wouldn’t make her doubt what she knew to be true. She’d lived through it, risked everything, and now… now, they wanted her to believe it had all been a fabrication.

The quiet hum of the facility was constant, pressing down on her like a weight, each sound amplified in the silence. She could feel the walls around her, a suffocating reminder that she was trapped in their version of reality, isolated and alone in a place where even her memories were questioned.

As dawn crept through the barred window, Lotta’s resolve only strengthened. She would find a way out. She wouldn’t let them rewrite her story, not while she still held onto her truth.