15. Ophelia
OPHELIA
The medication my new friend gave me has done the trick.
I still feel woozy, but I’m conscious, at least. I wonder how they thought I was able to take part in group therapy if I was sound asleep. Or maybe they prefer it that way—we’re less likely to cause a disruption if we’re out of it.
The drugs they’ve given the other patients must be working, too, as no one causes any drama as we file our way into a large hall.
We’re like a line of zombies, shuffling along, heads down, eyes glazed.
I wonder what everyone else has done to end up here.
We’re a mixture of all kinds—young and old, male and female, black and white.
The only thing we share is the aura of defeat that surrounds us all.
I can’t let the staff realize I’ve taken something I shouldn’t, so I keep my head down and my eyes half shut as I shuffle along.
A circle of chairs is placed in the middle of the room, and bodies fill the seats.
Obediently, I take my place, too, and sit with my hands in my lap, with my chin down.
A skinny boy who can’t be much older than me sits to my right, and a middle-aged woman sprouting a moustache is on my left.
Someone has bad body odor, but I can’t pin down who. Maybe it’s one of the staff.
“I see we have a new face today,” the large female nurse with the wheat blonde hair says brightly. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”
My stomach sinks as I realize she means me.
I don’t want to talk, but I get the feeling she wasn’t really asking. “Ophelia,” I manage to say around a thick tongue.
A dozen glassy gazes turn in my direction.
“Speak up, dear.”
The way she says ‘dear’ doesn’t feel like it’s meant with any affection.
“Ophelia,” I say a little louder, lifting my chin.
“Tell everyone why you’re here.”
Is she serious? My face burns. The last thing I want is to tell these people my life story.
“You are expected to talk openly about your feelings and struggles during these sessions, Ophelia. How can you get better if you won’t open up to the people who will understand you the most?”
I don’t believe these are the people who will understand me the most. I had those people in my Preachers, and I was taken from them.
But I don’t expect anyone here to empathize with that.
Anyway, they’re my only consolation in this awful place, and I don’t want to share the magic with anyone. Instead, I offer something else.
“I hear a voice,” I mutter. I sink lower in my seat, wanting to vanish. “The man who kidnapped me when I was a child. He won’t leave me alone.”
Don’t tell people about me, the Prophet’s voice hisses from somewhere behind my right ear.
I can’t help myself, I jerk my head around, and the moment I do, I realize I look like I’ve heard someone speaking.
It makes me more self-conscious. Why haven’t the drugs worked to silence him this time?
They normally do. Is it because of the upper I’ve taken?
Panic hits me at the idea that the drugs might not work any longer.
Without the Preachers here, I’ll be doomed to hear his voice all the time.
What have my parents done? I blink back the tears, determined not to let them fall here,
“Thank you for sharing, Ophelia.”
Like robots, all the patients around me echo in monotone, “Thank you for sharing, Ophelia.”
The nurse gives me a tight smile. “During these sessions, we’ll discuss coping mechanisms, and how to deal with anxiety, and building trust between yourself and the staff and your fellow patients.
I’m sure you’ll find it very useful. The idea is that as you get accustomed to the medication, they will help even out your emotions and moods, and the therapy will help dig deeper into the causes of your distress. ”
I find it impossible to believe I’ll trust the staff here any time soon after the way I’ve already been treated.
From what my new friend said about Carter, I doubt the abuse of the patients is a rare occurrence.
I’m confused as to why our family doctor sent me here.
He’s worked with us for a long time, and I’m not sure he’s done his research on this place.
All I can think of is that it simply came up as a high security facility, and both he and my dad panicked.
Either that, or this is my dad’s way of punishing me for leaving that letter for Daisy, but I don’t want to believe he’d be so cruel.
I need to try to contact my mom somehow.
She will be horrified when I tell her what goes on here.
The woman moves on from me and starts asking questions of the other patients. To my surprise, I find myself interested in their stories.
Do others in this room also hear voices? That’s because they’re unwell, too, though, right? Why do I think I’m any different?
I listen to an overweight man in his fifties talk about how he believes the universe is trying to tell him what his greater purpose is, and how he sees meaning in everything, from the pictures on the walls, to the programs he watches on television.
The universe is communicating with him, but he doesn’t understand what it’s saying yet.
We may be the ones in an institution, but aren’t we all a little crazy in this world?
We all have beliefs, it’s just some of us have more intense beliefs, or shout about them louder than others.
Why do we knock on wood,, or panic if we break a mirror, or wish when we blow out our candles?
We tell ourselves that everything works out for a reason, but what do we base that on if not some mystical faith in the universe, just like this man?
I think of my Preachers, and in particular Roman, with his belief in old gods and ancestors and Mother Nature. Why is it that when some people claim they hear voices, we build them a church, while others, like me, get locked up in places like this?
The meeting continues around me while I’m lost in thought.
I wonder what the Preachers are doing now.
Are they hanging out at the water tower?
Roman might be in one of his history classes.
Malachi could be writing a song on his guitar.
I imagine Cain at the gym. Have any of them given any thought to me?
I wish I had more faith in our relationship, but everything happened so fast between us, and the longer I’m away from them, the more I’m starting to doubt what we had.
It's my nature to doubt things. I can’t even trust my own reality.
I was snatched from the only home I’d ever known, then raised in a society where one man controlled the narrative.
He dictated the books we read, the music we listened to, and the education we received.
Even though I had memories of my past life, it was impossible to cling to that world when I was so completely submerged in a different one.
Then I ran, and I was once again told that my understanding of the world was wrong.
Everything the Prophet taught me, the world has tried to erase.
Is it any wonder my head is a mess?