Me & Her

Me

The night after the incident with the glass, I slept okay. No dreams, no nightmares. Just blissful silence. Silence in my own head. Waking up without the taste of blood in my mouth was another welcome surprise. I'm sitting watching TV, Mum having deemed the living room my 'study' while she discusses my next few sessions with Dr. Light. For now, I'm free. From being analysed, from work, from pretending. No. I'll never be free from pretending. I'm not sure what I'm watching – the actions just fade through me like a ghost – but the remote is poised in my hand just in case. Absently, I stare at the bandage on my wrist, hissing as the scrape of the splitting skin pierces through the cloth. I didn't exactly want to wake up this morning, not after last night. The way Dr. Light looked at me – as if I were some experiment in a lab – has rendered me mute. Breakfast was spent in an awkward silence, and lunch is around the corner of an hour and forty-five minutes. I suppose I could try to skip it, but, knowing my Mum, she wouldn't want me to miss eating. Knowing my Mother. I don't. I've only been here a few days, with no memory of our time together before the coma, and yet a I feel I've known her all my life. I guess I have. So, why don't I remember? I remember certain things: the therapy, the accidents and every time she took control and I was left to see the fallout. The semi-static television suddenly starts to growl at me, as if it knows I'm not paying attention. Then I realise my finger has fallen to rest on the volume button. Hastily, I turn it down, risking a glance at the living room door. No one comes. Snuggling further into the blankets, I try my hardest to focus on the TV, but the dialogue hits my ears as distorted rings of resonance with no context. Without aggravating my cuts, I shuffle the remote to my other hand and shut out the voices. The silence is worse. Facing my empty thoughts will always be worse. Facing myself: worse still. Luckily, I don't have to, because Mum pokes her head around the door.

"Are you alright sweetheart? Are you hungry? Lunch is in about an hour, don't forget". As if I could. My mind is a void now, with only scraps of memories to fill it. What could I possibly forget? Mum pauses in the doorframe, smiling.

"What?" I peer around the room as she can't be smiling at me. I don't inspire smiles in people, only stares of disappointment and horror. Occasionally, I don't inspire anything. That's the problem with my condition – it's not something others can see. It isn't visible. Strange to think people knew about mental health since 1623, but still, if they can't see it, it's not there. I'm here though. I should be enough proof. Why do I remember the judgment of others, but not the judgement of the person who matters to me the most?

"You always used to sit in here, reading and watching TV," Mum whispers. I reach my hand over the back of the sofa to clasp hers.

"I wish I could sleep down here" I admit, forcing a laugh from her sunken lips. She looks as if she hasn't slept in a week.

"Don't you like your bedroom anymore?" Quickly, I shake my head. I can't change anything, otherwise I won't be the daughter she loves.

"No, I do. But... I know this sounds silly," I start, unsure of exactly where I'm going.

"What is it?" Mum asks.

"Can I... Can I sleep in your room tonight? I've missed you." Mum stares at me as if I've grown two heads. It isn't... It isn't right, the way she looks at me. I can't explain it, but I know it isn't right.

"Sorry sweetie, but I don't think that would be the best idea. Why? You've slept okay, haven't you?" I have slept okay, better than okay. It's just some distant part of me needs to go inside her room.

"Besides, we can't have your memories coming back too quickly, now can we? Doctor Steele says that wouldn't be good for you" she tells me and my mind bends into alarm.

"What?" She knows? Does she know? Am I wrong? I am, I'm wrong and she knows I'm wrong. She knows I don't remember, knows I'm flawed. Please, I don't want to go back under. Not into that void of white sheets, blank books. Please. Mother stares at me with an abstract smile.

"Oh, Doctor Steele said you might experience some amnesia. Stress induced he said. Being in a coma takes more out of a person than you'd think". Instantly, my walls collapse. She knows, she knows I don't remember.

"I'm sorry," I begin, and she frowns at me.

"What are you apologising for? It's okay. The Doctor warned me you might not be able to remember certain things". Around me, the world dislocates, touch becoming my only source of navigation until her arms scoop me into an embrace.

"I'm sorry" I repeat. "I just want to be the daughter you remember". Mum closes the inch or so between us and I find myself drowning in a happiness I cannot hope to ever truly accept.

"Honey, you're the daughter I love".

It's the first sunset I've seen since waking up. Orange flames of sky mingle with the Canadian summer breeze and fizzing horizon. As the streams of gold duck below my feet, I lean off the sofa to catch the final breath of sunlight. It isn't something my words – or anybody's words – can describe. I am decided. I want to live, to see another sunset just like this. When the clouds interlace among the hues of red, yellow, orange. 

All I want is nothing more than to see it again. 

Maybe tomorrow I'll stay up to see the sunrise. Every joint in my body groans as I emerge from my TV-induced state, creaking even more when I shuffle to the door. 

Dinner was an hour ago, but I'm still a little peckish. Dr. Light didn't speak to me at lunch, not much anyway. He just glared at me from across the t

able like a wild buffalo, ready to break the fence whenever he got the chance. Ready to break me. Well, he won't have to do much. I'm already broken. Mum hasn't come near me since lunchtime. In fact, she hasn't looked at me in hours, and not just because I've been cooped up bonding with the television. It's like she can't stand to be around me sometimes. Perhaps I remind her of everything she's lost, of everything she had to spend three years living without. I can't expect her to understand that I feel the same. That I had to spend three years living without another person's touch, another person's voice. No, I don't expect her to understand that. Dr. Light however, I expect him to at least try. 

Stretching my arms, I head for the kitchen, praying for once that only I can exist within it. Right now, I find just one other person is a crowd. A crowd of a thousand people, begging me to be someone else with no disease, no nothing. In a way, I'm glad I don't remember my Mum or if I have any other family. They'd probably ask when I'm going to get married or have children. They'd probably hate me if I told them the truth. People like me, we're told we shouldn't have families, shouldn't have kids of our own. They tell us it's too high risk. They might as well spare us the lies, the pretences. To them, to the world, our genes are wrong. People say it, think it, preach it so often enough that they might as well be right. 

Lies told often become the truth told once. I shake my head. Now I'm starting to sound like her. 

The kitchen is one of those hardwood ones, with dark countertops and a black oven. A brown fridge leans into the patterned corner, but as I open it, the only editions are a few mouldy onions and half a carton of milk. I swear we had a whole two bottles at lunch. Shutting the door, I rush over to the cupboard on the right, which I am fairly sure contains the cups. If I can't eat, I'll drink. Do I drink tea? Coffee? I can see teabags, but... Something else catches my eye. 

The bag of pills. 

Blood red pills.