This is the second chapter of my story, The Devil Inside Us, inspired by Albert Camus's The Stranger. Warning: this story is kind of dark, and touches on difficult topics such as mental disorders. My last intent is to glamorize suicide or mental disorders. Do NOT read if you have been conflicted with suicidal thoughts in the past. With that being said, for those who decide to read it, let me know what you think!
Harper:
“Who am I talking to today?” Dr. Foster asks me. I hate that she has to ask that question. It is the reason I am here.
“Harper,” I say, rubbing my clammy hands together.
“Is there anything you want to tell me today, Harper?” Dr. Foster asks. I begin to feel a lump in my throat; tears are welling up in my eyes. I take a deep breath and begin to talk.
“It was 2:00 pm when I heard the news. A knock on my apartment door, and my brain immediately fell into an endless pit of paranoia. I quickly got the shotgun out of the closet and looked through the peephole. I was relieved at first that it was just my mother, but then I noticed a particularly solemn expression in her eyes. I opened the door to greet her and asked her if everything was alright. She glanced at me and asked me how I was feeling today. I stood, confused.
"Fine," I said. She noticed the shotgun.
"Anxious?" She questioned. I could sense why she asked that.
"I’m Harper, mom.” I replied. “Not Mary. Can you answer my question now?” She sighed and I could hear my heart beating faster in my chest. I could sense that it was going to be something bad. But the ever so tantalizing question was: how bad? I braced myself.
"Your sister..." My mother started, as my heart dropped to my stomach. After what felt like ages my mother spoke again.
"She was killed in a car accident." My mother immediately began crying, but no amount of tears could match the sadness I felt at that moment. Words failed me. I stood in shock, my face blank, my mind in complete chaos. At that moment I knew that this had been Mary’s fault. My body became full of guilt and anger. It was Mary who never came to her wedding, Mary who never told my sister about her condition, and Mary who got into the argument that caused the accident.” When I finally finish the story I am bawling. The floor around me is littered with tissues. Dr. Foster looks at me with pity.
“Are you aware that this story is completely different than Mary’s account?” She asks. I then realize my mother must have had to tell me the news twice. I can’t even imagine how hard it was for her to say it just once. I am disgruntled, but I bottle up my anger and answer the question.
“No, I am not aware.” I reply truthfully. “But I know she exists. And I know she isn’t aware of our disorder.”
“She? Our?” Dr. Foster questions, “You talk about her like she is a different person.” I become defensive.
“She is!” I shout. “She isn’t me! She doesn’t have emotions like I do, she doesn’t understand sadness or happiness or anything that makes life worth living.” I finish out of breath. Dr. Foster replies in a calm voice.
“So do you remember anything about being Mary?” I think for a moment.
“I can recall flashes of events, like our argument. Most of all I remember feeling empty and lifeless inside.” I say. “But that’s it. I can’t control anything she says or does.” This thought haunts me. I continue explaining my situation to Dr. Foster, “Mary isn’t self aware. She does what she is told to and that’s it. She doesn’t question anything, she doesn’t even question why she is coming to you, and she only comes here because my mother told her to.” I look up to see Dr. Foster madly taking notes. She finally spoke after she was done writing.
“So why does your mother not want to tell her about her condition?”
“She tried,” I responded. “But Mary just forgets about it the next day.” Dr. Foster looks at the clock and disappointedly tells me we are out of time. I go home, take a shower, and collapse on my bed with a pool of tears beside me.
Click here to go to Chapter 1
Picture: Taylor, Taro. Dark Days Are Coming. 2008. Wikimedia Commons, Sydney, Australia.