Greeting Insanity

chapter eleven

  Recovering from torture was undeniably lengthy. Emma had begun to worry at the absence of Reyna's natural happiness. The blonde girl could walk into any room, only for it to catch her contagious warmth. Laying down, staring at the swirling ceiling, Reyna breathed. In and out. In and out. In and out, continuous, repetitive, in and out. Days prior, Reyna had been strapped to a plastic table, cut from the outside in. Doctors, reaching for her insanity, hoping to forcefully remove it from her frail freckled body. After the agonizing hours of blade to skin, she had been transported back to her plastic cell, only to pass out from blood loss. Immediately she was healed, saving her from the unquestionable inevitable, death. Afterward she had been expected to thank the "teachers" for sparing her life, the audacity. She had refused, of course, leading her to now, under lock down. Following the demand for thanks, large amount of disrespect was spat toward the awaiting latex covered hands. The very same hands, leaving a beat red imprint on her right cheek, it still stung. Thrown back in her self-dungeon, Reyna returned to her previous spot on the white bed. That's how they always trapped her, in the white. They said she was getting better, she didn't question, with the constant checkups and multiple vials of ointment that were applied to her pink scars. All the marks had closed leaving a tangerine color, littering her pale canvas. It was now Tuesday, Reyna's dark notebook lay beside her, contrasting greatly against the white sheets. Releasing a large sigh, Reyna raises herself from the mattress. Halfway through her lift, she halts, a grimace adorning her face. Reyna's body felt heavy and unmovable, but she fought the battles in her brain. She always had. Grunts escaped her chapped lips, causing her to lick over the flakes of skin, finally reaching a seating position. Moistening her lips again, she slid to the right, angling her feet to dangle off the edge. Mounting her knee caps, she attempted to stand, stumbling backward onto her rear end, a yelp tumbling out from the sudden jerk of sore muscles. Reyna sucked in a labored breath, regaining equilibrium before raising much slower to her feet again. A smile graced her mauled lips, wetting them again, her knees shook but beside the single discouragement, she felt over the moon. Her progress had surely improved, being her first step in several weeks. Lifting her hind leg, she took in a hurried wisp of air, propelling her leg past the other and toward her plastic desk. Planting her foot on the ground her knees swayed, oxygen rushing to and from her lungs. Releasing carbon dioxide into the colorful jail, she repeated the action. Stepping closer, closer, closer still to the plastic rectangle. She was so close. Her hand stilled over the hard matter of the chair, she was there, she had made it. Finally. Time seemed to slow, shoving her perspective into slow-motion. Her last step, her foot hitting the ground. Her calf screaming. Her knee giving. Her thigh twisting. Her midsection rising and lowering at rapid rates. She thought she was getting better, that's what they had said. She was, wasn't she? Her hand slipped from the top of the chair and to the ground next to where she sat now. The room shook, the door to her left flying open, revealing doctors. They flooded the room, adding white to the already too white atmosphere. Reyna hadn't even noticed that she was screaming. Now with the presence of onlookers, she felt the familiar ache in her throat. Her vocal cords complained wildly, roaring for release. Her hands scratched, begging her blood to spill through her previous wounds. She was getting better. She was supposed to be getting better. Why wasn't she better?! Why? She wasn't getting better.