Experiment of Madness

30-Reflections -Aerra

As my eyes open, I am immediately reminded of the pain in my chest cuts.

There are  cuts on my chest ?

I find myself confused, wondering why the cuts are on my chest. The realization of the fresh wounds on my skin, the cuts, adds to my surprise and confusion.

I look over to see Dag sitting on a chair next to my bed, his presence unexpected. His words reach my ears, his voice soft and matter-of-fact. "You should've slept a bit more,"

I take a moment to glance around the room, my eyes falling on the waffles and chocolate on the desk.

The question of when he came into the room and how long I've been asleep fills my mind. Did I fall asleep while he was here? Has he been there this whole time while I was unconscious?

As I recall the cuts on my chest, a pang of concern and confusion arises. The sight of fresh wounds on my body makes me wonder about their origin.

Despite my internal turmoil, he softly speaks, his voice comforting and reassuring, his words a gentle but firm command, "Don't overthink too much,"

He stands up, walking over to the desk and picking up the plate of waffles and chocolate. He carefully hands the plate to me, offering the chocolate.

I watch silently as he hands me the waffles and chocolate, a hint of confusion and worry in my eyes. The question of what happened, how I ended up with cuts on my chest and the absence of memories, leaves me yearning for answers.

I voice my unanswered doubts, my voice barely a whisper, "What happened to me?"
He responds firmly, his voice gentle yet reassuring, "Don't think about it too much, you're fine,"

His response leads me to a conclusion, my mind filling in the blanks. The realization hits me - I became that girl again, the one lost and unstable, succumbing to the overwhelming emotions and thoughts that consumed me.
The guilt and shame wash over me, a mix of emotions that come with this revelation. I feel vulnerable, aware that I lost control, surrendered to the dark thoughts, and became someone I dread being.

I'm acutely aware that I became someone I never wanted to be, a version of myself I don't recognize or want to be. It's a painful reminder of the turmoil within me, the person I try to reject and escape from.

I extend the plate with the waffles back to him, my tears welling up in my eyes.

He gently insists, his voice filled with care and concern, "You should eat." The words are a gentle reminder to nourish myself despite my emotional state.

As I touch my hair, the harsh reality hits me - I chopped my hair again.

I am unable to hold back my tears any longer as they start to fall, streaming down my face, a visible representation of my inner turmoil and pain.

I whisper the words, my voice a mix of sadness and frustration, "Not again," the tears continuing to fall, my emotions overflowing.
His response is gentle and comforting, his voice soft as he says, "It's okay," attempting to console me, to offer some reassurance amidst the painful reality.

The conflict within me becomes evident as I acknowledge the tears, recognizing the bittersweet nature of the situation. My hair was growing, a sign of progress, happiness, and change. But the pain of cutting it off, the act of self-destruction, makes me question why I'm crying over just hair. It's not just hair. It's a representation of my struggle and loss of control.

I blurt out the words, "I'm ugly," my voice filled with sadness and hopelessness, my self-worth plummeting as I look at my choppy hair, feeling unattractive and flawed.

From the inside and outside.

The thought resonates within me, a bittersweet yearning - at least wanting to be good from the outside, to hide the inner turmoil through appearance. I can't change or fix the broken parts of my inside, but I can attempt to hide them by presenting a false exterior, even though I know it's just a facade.

He reaches out and holds my hand, his grip gentle and comforting, a comforting gesture amid my sadness and despair.

He gently encourages me to stand, his hand gently guiding me up, helping me stand, offering support, and a sense of stability in my emotional turmoil.

He gently guides me, his voice soft, "Come," beckoning me to follow him, the invitation inviting me to move forward, to go with him.

As he leads me, I brush away my tears with my hand, trying to compose myself, wondering what he's planning or what the next step will be.

My eyes dart to the scissors he takes, noticing the smears of something that could be blood. The sight of it on the scissors adds to my confusion and unease. "Is that blood on them?" I ask, uncertainty and discomfort creeping into me.

What is  he doing? Is he going to kill me?

He walks towards me, positioning us in the center of the room, the suspense building with each step he takes, our eyes meet, and my anxiety grows.

He maneuvers me with gentle yet decisive movements, turning me around so I'm no longer facing him. I can no longer see his face. His intentions left uncertain, the anxiety in me rising.

I feel his hand holding my hair, the gentle yet unsettling process of him cutting my hair begins, the sound of scissors slicing through the ends of my hair fills the air.

Confusion and uncertainty fill me as I feel him cutting my hair. My mind races, trying to understand his intentions, wondering why he's doing this.

The realization dawns on me - he's cutting the chopped hair, the broken and uneven strands, the evidence of my self-destructive impulses.

He methodically, with care, continues to cut the chopped hair, the sounds of the scissors cutting through the air, the sound of my broken hair being snipped off, filling the room.

As he continues to cut, each snip sounds loud and distinct in the silence, my hair slowly gets shorter, the snipped-off pieces falling to the floor, a symbolic representation of what's being cut away.

He pauses, his movements cease, the sound of the snipping scissors coming to a halt, leaving the room filled with an unsettling quiet.

Is he done?

Looking in the mirror, I see my hair is cut straight above my shoulders, the uneven, choppy strands are gone, replaced with a cleaner and neater look. It's no longer choppy and broken but a straighter and more even length.

I glance at him through the mirror, his presence behind me, his expression giving no indication of what he's feeling, his intentions still unknown.

He whispers a single word, "Beautiful," the syllable hanging softly in the air.

His single word sends my heart skipping a beat, the significance of his compliment resonating within me. I'm surprised at the impact it has on me, my pulse quickening in response.

I look in the mirror again, my eyes searching for any changes, but I see the same reflection, the same face staring back, despite his compliment. Nothing has changed, and yet, some intangible feeling lingers in the air, the atmosphere between us charged.

"I want waffles and chocolate..."

He responds to my waffle request with a small but genuine smile.

The words of thanks slip out, a mix of gratitude, vulnerability, and something deeper. "Thanks, Dag,"

The eye contact through the mirror holds a silent conversation, our eyes meeting, communicating a mix of emotions that words can not fully capture.

The intensity in our locked stares through the mirror speaks volumes, a silent and heavy exchange of emotions.

Dag finally breaks the silence, softly whispering, "I'm here, you know that, right?"

I can't help but smile back at him, a small, warm smile. "I do," I echo softly.

30