Experiment in Terror 05 On Demon Wings (29 page)

forehead slowly, like I pained him just by speaking. “You

were in love with a man, he broke your heart. You end up

pregnant by him without even knowing it, then you lose the

baby in a traumatic miscarriage. I hear what you are saying

but you are missing something very obvious and plain

here.”

“Such as?”

He sighed, getting visibly frustrated with me. Good.

“You have gone through a terrible, heartbreaking event

and you haven’t been able to deal with it. It’s al manifested

into this delusion of yours, that you’re possessed, that

you’re being haunted. There’s no one else in your head,

Perry. It’s just you. You’re haunted by the very feelings you

haven’t addressed yet. You’re grieving and hiding it and

when you try to hide grief, it can come out in the most

peculiar ways.”

For a split second I believed him. I thought it was total y

possible that it real y was al in my head and that my

subconscious was making it al up as a way to face what

was real y going on.

But that’s what he wanted me to think. I was smarter than

that.

“I didn’t even want a baby,” I told him, trying to think of

something to refute it with. “It would have ruined me.”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t mourn the loss. That

would have been the last tie you ever had to him.”

For some reason, that phrase dug into me: the last tie.

I’d gone from thinking we’d always be connected in some

way, that we were the same person separated a long time

ago, to having no ties at al . I was here, going through hel ,

and he had absolutely no idea. He real y was cut and gone.

But he had nothing to do with anything and I was

suddenly furious that the doctor tried to turn my broken

heart into some emo cry for help. Who was I, Taylor Swift?

“I think you’re ful of shit,” I snarled.

He nodded as if he agreed, and I wanted to punch him.

He sensed me tensing up and quickly scribbled down on

his pad and said, “I’m going to recommend you come in

once a week from now on.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I can’t make you. You’re an adult. But I’d hope you’d do

it for your family. They love and care about you.”

I snorted at that and got up.

“Meanwhile,” he said quickly as he ripped off a

prescription pad, “start taking these two pil s.”

Remembering what Creepy Clown Lady said, I took the

paper from him and eyed the chickenscratch suspiciously.

“I can’t read this. What are they? Do you think I’m schizo

now?”

“No,” he said plainly. “And schizophrenia is a real deal,

not to be taken lightly. One is to help you relax. You need

rest and relaxation more than anything. The other is to help

you deal with your grief.”

“And if I have no grief?”

He gave me a terse smile.

“Perry, we al just want to help you.”

That’s what they always said. Everyone always wants to

help but no one ever wants to believe me.

I’d been down that highway so many times, they might as

wel cal it the Perry Expressway.

I was so livid and defeated when I left Doctor Freedman’s

office that I couldn’t remember what happened afterward.

We must have dropped Ada off at school, we must have

gone to Walgreens to fil the prescription for me. But I

couldn’t recal any of that. My memory was wiped.

I was just suddenly in the passenger side of my mother’s

car, my hands smel ing like vinegar salad dressing, the

clock on the dashboard indicating at least two hours had

passed.

We were leaving downtown going over the Burnside

Bridge, the river water below reflecting the dul , colorless

sky above.

I was hit with a wave of nausea, fol owed by another

wave, a warning, that something extremely terrible was

about to happen. A feeling of absolute dread. I looked at

my mother like it might be the last time I’d see her. She was

driving cautiously, her hands gripping the wheel so hard her

bony knuckles protruded. She had her sunglasses on even

though it was frighteningly dark for the late afternoon. She’d

looked exhausted lately – I knew it was because of me. Tiny

lines had a permanent home at the corners of her pinched

mouth.

“Mom,” I said careful y. Scared.

She jumped a little, then covered it up with a quick smile.

“What is it, Perry?”

“I don’t feel wel .”

And it was suddenly the world’s biggest understatement.

The most revolting, violating feeling flushed my insides. I

wasn’t alone in my head. Someone else was inside me

with me, waiting, perched just out of the corner of my eyes.

They were in me, watching me, monitoring these very

thoughts.

Then my world stretched forward in a horrific display of

tunnel vision. I was thrown back, back into oblivion, but only

my mind, not my body.

I watched as I raised one hand in the air, waving it slowly

in front of my face. I wasn’t doing it. I wasn’t in control. I

wasn’t the one in charge.

Mom!
I shrieked.

But I was only screaming in my head, not out of my

throat. I didn’t have control over that anymore. My throat

wasn’t mine.

I was being held hostage in my own body.

And at that realization, something inside churned with

anger.

The arm I was holding in front of my face, which was now

drawing a curious glance from my mom, suddenly shot

across to the wheel, gripped it and swung it violently over to

the right, toward the cars in the other lane.

Toward the barrier.

Toward the edge of the bridge.

And the river far below.

My mother screamed as the car careened into the other

lane, nearly clipping a BMW. There was a horrid

screeching in surround sound and the smel of burning tires

and my mother’s screaming and the screaming I was doing

in my own head. With every bit of strength I could

concentrate on, I pushed hard and felt a pop inside my

chest and suddenly al feeling rushed back to me like I was

being brushed with pins and needles.

I let go of the wheel and braced myself on the dashboard

and my mother got the car under control seconds before we

slammed against the barrier. If we had hit, we would have

flipped and gone over.

Other cars sped past us, honking, waving their fingers,

mouthing swear words, while mom slowly, gingerly applied

the gas. She was shaking and her Kung-Fu grip on the

wheel was the only thing keeping her from bouncing out of

her seat. We crawled down the bridge and at the first

opportunity to pul over, she did.

Acting like she was in a dream-like state, she flipped the

car into park, turned off the engine and turned in her seat to

face me. She lifted up her sunglasses to reveal smudged

mascara and blue eyes magnified by tears. Her expression

matched that unforgettable look I saw in my father’s face as

he hauled me up from the roof. But there was something

else. Almost an understanding, like she was recognizing

me for the first time and seeing the monster I real y was.

“Perry,” she breathed.

“I said I didn’t feel wel ,” I told her glibly.

Then I pitched myself into uncontrol able laughter that

lasted most of the car ride back home.

~~~

The minute I burst through the front door, I rushed to the

downstairs bathroom to puke. I keeled over the toilet and

brought up everything until my throat burned raw. It turns out

I had salad for lunch. That explained the salad dressing

smel earlier.

When I was empty and exhausted I looked at myself in

the mirror. My heart dropped in my ribs.

I looked like a different person. No, not different. I looked

like I was barely even alive. My cheekbones jutted out of my

face, the circles under my eyes had spread. My lips were

dry, cracked and bleeding. My eyes themselves were ful y

dilated into black holes. My neck was red and teased with

scratches that I knew led down into my chest. I wondered

how Doctor Freedman could chalk up any of this to a

measly broken heart. I looked like I should be locked up

and put away, like the asylum ghosts at Riverside Institute.

I couldn’t look at myself anymore; it was making me sick

again and I didn’t have any food left to throw up. A piercing

pain jabbed at my temples instead. I turned off the light in

the bathroom and stepped out into the hal way.

My mom and dad were in the kitchen talking to each

other in hushed, frantic voices. Three guesses as to who

they were talking about.

I stood in the doorway and they shut up with nary a guilty

look on their faces.

My mom waved me in.

“Come sit down, pumpkin,” she said, and poured a

glass of water for me. I wondered how she could stil cal

me such an endearing term after I tried to kil her.

The tea kettle on the stove boiled over and the piercing

whistle made me wince in pain, exaggerating the pain in

my head.

“Sorry,” she said, and quickly took it off the burner.

“Perry, I heard what happened,” my father said. He

looked down at the cuffs on his red and white striped shirt

and started smoothing them out. “I can’t stress the

importance of these pil s that the doctor gave you.”

My mother smiled forceful y and plunked a pair of yel ow

and pink pil s beside the glass of water. I eyed them wryly.

“I’m not taking these,” I said. Before anyone could

protest, I rushed on, “Doctor Freedman said I could make

my own choices. I’m twenty-three. You can’t force me to be

medicated.”

“Not yet,” my father said.

I raised my head sharply at that.

“That’s OK, Perry,” my mother cut in. “You’re right. You

don’t have to take them. It’s just...you need them. You’re not

wel . The doctor said so himself, and I think you know it

yourself. In the car…I…”

Feeling a bout of shame, I looked down at my hands.

The scratches seeped clear fluid. It didn’t even faze me

anymore. I was becoming someone else and there was

nothing anyone could do about it. The pil s would be futile

except make it easier to give up. If I wanted to go, I wanted

to go in my right mind with every fighting ounce I had left.

“If you don’t care about us enough to take them, think

about your sister. Or think about yourself. Your self-hate

can’t run that deep.”

My chin jutted out defiantly and I met her eyes. “I don’t

hate myself. I hate what I’ve become.”

“Become?” my mother said with a hint of irony in her

voice. “Pumpkin, you’ve always been like this.”

Then she shrugged with false carelessness and gave

me a cup of rooibos tea.

“Anyway, your choice. Here, have some tea. I put extra

honey in it. You look like you could use something sweet.”

My throat did burn after the vomiting and I was feeling a

bit on the dizzy side. I took the hot cup in my hands and

slowly sipped it. It tasted surprisingly sweet – she went

overboard with the honey.

My dad sat down on the bar stool beside me and placed

his hairy hand on my arm.

“You’re not alone in this, OK, sweetie?” he said. The

tenderness in his voice, so rarely heard, made me want to

cry. But I nodded and swal owed hot gulps of red tea to

keep the emotions away. I was tired of losing it and afraid

to let go.

And I real y was tired, too. Like suddenly, irrevocably

tired
.

My head swayed and I pushed the cup of tea away from

me.

“Whoa,” I said with a bit of effort.

I looked up at my parents. The room began to spin

around them but they remained motionless, watching me

very, very closely. My eyes glazed and unfocused.

“I...”

“Perry, you should go to bed,” my mother said quickly.

She hurried over to me and tugged at my arm, trying to get

me out of the bar stool. I awkwardly got to my feet and she

immediately started leading me toward the stairs.

My feet felt like lead. What was going on?

“Mom?” I questioned, but it came out in a slur.

Suddenly my dad was beside me with a stranglehold on

my other arm. “Come on Perry, up to bed.”

It’s 3p.m.,
I tried to say, but my mouth wouldn’t move. It

came out in a mumble.

They led me to my room and I fel onto the bed just as my

feet lost al feeling.

“This is for your own good,” my mother said as she

swiped the covers out from under and tucked me in.