The Leftovers

Prologue

Prologue: 

When she told me that I was suffering from depression, I responded with a “No shit Sherlock.”

But that was in my head. I really responded with silence. I don’t seem to say anything anymore. Nothing but nothing. The three people who ever deserved my words have moved on. They aren’t with me anymore. Therefore, I see no reason to speak.

I do hold conversations though. However, they’re in my head. I wanted to hold conversations with Jace and Anna, but was not-so-politely declined. Apparently, I haven’t made enough progress to be granted telephones or postal service. I’d like to talk to him, but I don’t know what I’d say. What do you say to the man who helped everything change for the better, healed you, then caused everything you love to be stripped from you?

The real question is: how do you change someone, then leave them? It should be law or something that you can’t.

The voices in my head don’t agree though. The voices that make the sounds of tiny, lisp afflicted Jason and high-pitched Annalee. They say that it’s just life and I need to move on, to forget him, to forget everything.

But I can’t. I am physically and mentally unable to put it behind me. I’ve learned the hard way that when you leave things to die in the past, they find a way to resurrect themselves in the future. Maybe though, that’s the only way I’ll see them again. However, it’s pretty hard to forget the things that swirl about in my mind every hour as the generic clock on the white walls mockingly ticks off every second.

You’d think that people would have more common sense than to place a crazy in a room that seemed to have been designed in her own personal hell to make her crazier.

When she told me that things weren’t as bad as I was making them out to be, I replied by scoffing and rolling my eyes.

But that was in my head. I don’t acknowledge the presence of others anymore. I stare at the blank, pale, cinder blocks and occasionally the annoying face of the timepiece drilled into the brick.

I do stare at other faces though. However, they’re the faces that blur on the damned walls and cringe with me at every tick that fills the empty room. I want to see Anna and Jace’s faces in person, but was again not-so-politely declined. Apparently, I’m not stable enough leave my room, nor am I stable enough to be allowed visitors. I’d like to see him, but I don’t want him to see me like this. How could you make the person who worked so hard to help and heal you look at you when you’re in even worse condition than they found you?

The real question is: how do you notice someone’s brokenness shining through the cracks of the barricades they built up, patch them up, and then leave? I always though that it was in the human hardwiring to be attached to something you pity.

The faces on thrown across the paint don’t show pity. The faces of set-jaw and steely blue-eyed Jason, and high-cheekboned and dangerously glaring Annalee. They have their beautiful features twisted in anger. They’re incredibly pissed at me for putting myself here. They’re even more pissed for longing for his face, when I should forget it and him.

But I can’t. I can’t forget the thing that pulled me from the crashing waves of reality and also saved me from drowning in fantasy. To me, it seems like you’d keep what helps you remain grounded from flying away when you’ve lost the ability to fly with it. Maybe though, that’s how I’ll be set free. However, it’s pretty hard to forget things of beauty as the barren walls threaten to smother me in their nothingness.

When she told me to suck it up and stop being a whiny brat, I reacted by sucking in air.

But that was in my head. I really did nothing. I can’t seem to breathe anymore.

At least, that’s what it feels like.

I suppose that I, Marybeth Smith, should explain why I’m here in the nuthouse.

It’s a bit of a weird story, but it’s my story. It’s the story of how Louis Tomlinson came into my life and fucked everything up more than it already was.