A Fractured Echo

Prologue

The second hand of an ancient non-descript plastic clock echoed into the silence of the room that had become my safe haven over the last few months. While everything about my life raged with uncertainty and confusion, this tiny little space had provided comfort and sanctuary from the bits that didn't make sense.

Faded yellow wallpaper was peeling away in places, either of its own volition with the passing of time, or perhaps thanks to the nimble fingered assistance of others. Residents seeking focus to help survive days of confinement within the bricks and mortar of this protective bastille. With limited options in terms of keeping yourself occupied whilst here, I too was guilty of attempting to strip back the layers.

A desperate metaphor for what I'd spent numerous hours struggling to do with my own thoughts and emotions. Sadly to no avail, which just added to the inconsolable frustration felt.

My existence had morphed into a sadistic waiting game, one with an outcome unknown. Ironic given that someone in my situation struggles with patience, particularly when seeking details and explanations for questions that nobody could provide with any certainty. At least not according to the information provided to me. A stray thread on the cuff of my cardigan provided new temptation, meaning the wall coverings were safe from idle fingers once more. Instead, frayed deep blue fibres begged to be unravelled.

Apparently it was a subconscious desire to maintain control when faced with situations where I had none.

Chuckling humourlessly at how once again I'd resisted the compulsion before shifting into a seated position, there was one last item needing to be packed. Not that there were many belongings to take with me.

I'd arrived with nothing but a silver necklace, a watch that was thoroughly broken yet I couldn't bring myself to throw it away, a single brass key on a cheap plastic keyring and two hundred pounds inside a little beaded cloth purse. My clothes had been destroyed in the aftermath, cut from broken and bloody limbs before being bagged as evidence.

Every garment and item contained inside the cheap black holdall on the floor and the small cardboard box at the end of the clinical looking bed had come from the kindness of a few strangers.

Leaving created a bitter taste coupled with an edginess that refused to abate regardless of the unavoidable reality. It was the proverbial full stop on the one chapter that would forever be tattooed in my mind, replacing details that should be effortless to recall. The trepidation still managed to creep in intermittently, chipping away. It fed the question of whether it was possible to move on regardless of how exhaustively the professionals had worked, encouraging me not to dwell on the uncertainty that threatened to infiltrate my subconscious. Focussing on the positives they'd urged; I was still here.

I'd bounced back incredibly well according to their expert opinion.

At first glance, there was nothing specific that would indicate why I had spent almost six months in this building. Look a little closer though, and the 'tells' were definitely there. The slight limp in my gait, the weakened grip of my right hand, the scar that ran along my hairline, a general unease around unfamiliar faces, along with how quickly my concentration could lapse.

Indeed, those who'd been part of the task force assigned to my case had been extremely positive about the progress I'd made in spite of the odds that had been stacked against me. This was why they had decided upon my readiness for this following phase.

I'd laughed in the therapist's face when he'd used the word 'journey' to describe my rehabilitation. The very notion of the word implied there was a destination to aim for, but without a map to navigate, it seemed all the more difficult. The details were set for the next step, it wasn't as though I was simply being cast loose to fend for myself, I just had no clue what I wanted to do, or even what I was capable of doing.