ANATHEMA

chapter nine: where did we go

"Liiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa," a voice pierced through my subconscious.

I knew who it was. I was surprised it took them this long.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping they would just leave me alone.

No luck.

"Liiiiiiaaaaa, wake up now," the voice said, louder than the first time. I could feel their presence leaning over me, their hot breath cascading over me like wind in a tornado.

"Please, leave me alone," I whimpered.

They just laughed, and said, "You know it was a matter of time before I bring you back."

"No, I don't want to go there again," I cried, wanting to keep my eyes shut. If I opened them, I'll be there.

"Toooooo laaaaate."

When Strings said this, my eyes shot open.

I regretted that.

What I was dreading was true; I was in String's Hell.

I was no longer anywhere near Metropolitan State Hospital, nowhere near help.

'No,' I thought. 'I know I'm still in my room. I'm just imagining this. Nothing can hurt me. I am fine.'

To prove this to myself, I reached behind me. Sure enough, the wall that my bed was pressed against was there.

I don't what I was planning on doing, but I stood and kept my hand planted against that wall. I walked along it, staring down at my bare feet.

Eventually, I came to the corner of the room. Before I could keep moving, a high-pitched wailing pierced my subconscious, causing me to press my hands against my ears.

No matter how much I tried to ignore it and keep walking, the screaming kept getting louder, sending chills down my spine. I was paralyzed with fear, like a deer in the headlights of oncoming cars. The problem was that I couldn't find my car coming to mow me down.

"Ophelia? Is that you?" I heard a familiar voice call out to me. I couldn't help myself; I looked up.

My mother was standing in front of me. It wasn't the same one that came with me to California, however. No, this was the one from years ago. The one who looked paranoid constantly and jumped at every little sound. The one who's hair became frizzy and dirty from not showering for weeks on end, the one who's eyes sunk into her skull, the one who's skin became yellow and thin. The one who loved her pills more than her daughter.

Appearing next to her was the man that terrified me throughout my school years. The man who always smelled like alcohol and cigarette smoke and sweat. With a single movement of his hand, this man could make me flinch like somebody was holding a gun to my head. The man who made Strings.

My mother and father stood next to each other, each staring at me with a swirling whirlpool of emotions inside their eyes. Hate, anger, sadness, and guilt were some.

As soon as I tried to open my mouth to speak, my mother opened her own and screamed. It was the same as the crying from before, yet it didn't sound like it came from her. Her mouth fell open and widened, becoming bigger than humanly possible. Her mouth showed no teeth, no tongue, nothing, just an inescapable abyss of blackness.

After what seemed like forever, my father swore. A half-drank bottle of an amber liquid appeared in his hands, only for him to throw it to the ground and shattering it. My mother collapsed to the ground, still staring at me with now all-black eyes and her mouth still wide open, stooping over to collect the pieces of glass.