He frowns disapprovingly. “Maddie, you know as well as I do that every time you lie, it makes it harder for me to believe you.”
“Maybe that’s what I want.”
“No, I think it’s your way of avoiding the truth and what you’re most afraid of.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say calmly, despite the fear within me. Did he finally discover my secret?
He gives me a sympathetic look. “I know it’s hard to think about, but it has to bother you—the fact that you may never truly remember anything before the accident.”
I relax, but try to appear heartbroken on the outside because that’s what he expects me to do. “But the idea that I might scares me.” I press my hand to my heart, like it aches to speak of, when really I feel nothing at all. It’s so hard to explain what it’s like. Not knowing anything about yourself, yet I’m supposed to be at a point in my life where I’ve got it all figured out. I don’t have anything figured out. Not even my name. Sometimes, not even who I am…
He nods understandingly. “That’s an understandable fear. I’m sure anyone in your situation would probably feel the same way.”
Oh, I doubt anyone is feeling how I feel most days, except for maybe serial killers. And maybe a dominatrix. “So what do you suggest I do?” I ask, lowering my hand from my heart and sitting back in the chair. “To help calm the fear?”
“Talk about it,” he suggests, thrumming his fingers on top of the folder. “It’s what we really need to start working on during these sessions. Talking and communicating.”
“You say that all the time, yet we never get anywhere,” I mutter. Sometimes I wonder why I keep coming to these sessions, now that I’m an adult. The only reason I ever started was because my mother made me after the accident. She was worried about my heath due to the trauma I’d been through, even though I can’t even remember most of it. “But how am I supposed to talk about things with someone I don’t trust?”
“You don’t trust me?” he asks. “After all these years?”
I look at him. Eyes so full of concern. So nice. Polite. It seems perfectly reasonable that I’d like and trust him, but Lily won’t allow it. “You have to earn trust, just like you said and so far I feel like you haven’t.”
He sits up straight in the chair. “You can trust me. Anything that’s said in here is strictly confidential.” I swear it’s like he’s waiting for a confession.
“I know that.” I scratch at the back of my neck. Yeah, you say that now, but I’m sure the feeling would change the moment my real thoughts spilled out of me.
He opens his mouth to say something but his eyes skim over my face and he must see something that makes him hesitate. I wonder what it is. My facade. Lily. What does he see in me? I wish I knew. Understood. What’s living inside me? The thoughts of harming people. Killing them. The way Lily controls me at times and how sometimes I just want to give into her because fighting is physically and emotionally draining.
“How about we switch to a hypnotherapy session?” he says, setting his pen and folder aside on his desk.
“We’re really going to do that?” My expression sinks at the idea of being under and having no control over myself—over Lily. “I thought you were joking when you suggested that last time.”
“Why would I joke about that, Maddie?”
“Because it never worked when you tried a few years ago, so there’s no point in trying it again.”
“This method is a little different than then the one we used a few years ago,” he says, rolling up his sleeves like he’s preparing to fight.
“What’s your different method? Beating me up?” I joke to distract myself from what’s about to happen.
He gives me the fourth look of disappointment for the day. “No, Maddie. I’m not going to beat you up.” His voice is tolerant. “Look, if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to—you don’t have to do anything in here that you don’t want to. You know that.” He pushes his chair back from his desk. “But I’d really like it if you did.”
I consider what he said with hesitancy. “You really think it might help bring my memories back?”
“Possibly. There’ve been a few recorded cases that this particular hypnotherapy has helped patients with memory loss.” He begins rummaging around in his desk drawer, digging around through countless amounts of pens and neon sticky notes until he finds an iPod.
Optimism. It’s something I don’t have when it comes to my memories returning to me. My amnesia didn’t come from just a bump to the head. I have Psychogenic Amnesia, which more than likely means there was some sort of stress factor that played a part in why I have no idea who the hell I was before the age of fifteen.
I shrug and get to my feet, being tolerant with Preston because I know if I don’t do this, he’ll just bug me until I do. It’s been done a handful of other times to me and he never can get me to go under. “If that’s what you think will help, then I’ll give it a go.” I amble toward the leather lounge chair in the corner of the room and he follows me with a notepad and pencil in hand. “But I’m a total pessimist that this—or anything else—will ever work.”
“Pessimism isn’t going to help you improve either.” He sits down in a chair and places the notepad on his lap, close enough now that I can smell cigarette smoke on him. “Let’s try to think positive.”
“Wow, you really are a Ken doll today, aren’t you. All perfect and positive,” I mutter, lying down on the lounge chair on my back. I overlap my hands on my stomach and stare up at the ceiling. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” I say in a false cheerful voice. Then I glance over at him. “Was that optimistic enough for you?”
“I guess so.” He’s getting irritated. I wonder if he gets this way with all of his patients. Leaning over to the side, he extends his arm toward a package of matches beside a candle. He strikes a match and lights each one, then moves his finger to an iPod dock on a nearby shelf. He scrolls through the list of titles then ultimately clicks on a tune that sounds like rain pitter-pattering against a surface. I hate the sound of rain, the smell of it. I think that’s why he chose this one—because it was raining that night—and I don’t appreciate him going there. I don’t like the sound of rain and everything it represents. My loss of everything.
“Can’t we listen to something else?” I squirm in the chair. “Maybe something a little less naturey?”
“Listening to this it’s an important part of the treatment.” He relaxes back in his seat, eyes on me as he puts the end of his pen up to his lips. “I’m trying to take you back to the day of the accident—to the day you lost your memories.”
“But I hate remembering that day,” I say. It’s the most vivid memory I have. I can still feel the coldness of the rain. The blood soaking my hair. The pain in my body. The way my heart thrashed in response to the fear. The car in the street; the car that hit me then took off. Everyone said I was lucky to have such minimal injuries on my body, considering I’d been hit on a highway where the speed limit is sixty-five. I don’t call it luck, because part of me doesn’t fully believe I was accidentally ran over. What happened though is a mystery. Maybe I threw myself in front of the car. Maybe I wanted to die. Maybe I’d gotten into some trouble with the strange man. Or maybe I just wanted to forget whoever I was. Maybe this disgustingness that’s inside me now was in me then and I just wanted to get rid of it.
“Maddie, relax. Take a deep breath and try to clear your head,” Preston advises, taking a deep inhale and exhale himself.
Clear my head? Impossible. How can I, when someone else is living inside it? But I shut my eyes anyway.
Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. The rain from the speakers flows and surrounds me until it gives me a headache.
“Just relax,” Preston says softly through the rhythm of the rainfall. Now he’s giving me a headache. “Breathe in and out.”
I suck in a breath of air and let it out.
In and out.
&
nbsp; Over and over again.
Pitter-patter…. Pitter-patter… Pitter-patter… the rain is falling… through it, there’s a spark of light. I’ve seen it before. Heard the voice that whispers help. Seen the flames. Burning… burning… burning. And burning me along with them.
Chapter 2
Maddie
“What just happened?’ I open my eyes and rub them with the palms of my hand. I’m still lying in the lounge chair, the sound of rain flowing from the speakers, this strange sense of lost time floating around inside my head.
Preston is staring at me with a quizzical expression, pen in hand, the tip pressed to the paper. “I think you fell asleep.” He scratches his head then reaches over and silences the rainfall sounds. “Do you feel different? Remember anything at all?”
I shake my head, pushing myself up into sitting position, swinging my legs over the edge of the chair, and planting my feet onto the floor. “Nope. My minds still as blank as ever, although I’m tired as hell.” I pause, rubbing my eyes again. God, I feel like I’m hung-over, my head is throbbing, and my eyes feel like they’re on fire. Glancing at the clock, I notice my session has ended. I push to my feet. “Well, this has been extremely great, Preston. Seriously, the powernap was great, but it’s time for me to go.”
“Wait. Are you sure nothing happened at all?” he asks as I pick up my bag from off the floor beside the door. “You didn’t see anything… maybe something you thought was a dream?”
“Nope, other than I got a good dreamless nap, zilch happened,” I lie as Preston gets up from his chair and wanders back over to his desk. “How long was I out for?”
He checks his watch. “About ten minutes.” He lets his arms fall to the side. “Although I’m extremely disappointed, I have to say I’m not surprised. The studies I read through said in the beginning a lot of patients simply got drowsy. Hopefully next time we can progress further into it.”
“Next time?” Sighing, I turn around and face him. He’s standing behind his desk, loosening his tie as he gathers papers on his desk into a stack. “We’re doing this again? Really, Preston? I thought we decided a long time ago that hypnotherapy was not the way to go.”
“I know, but this way is different and I’d like to keep trying it, just for a little while.” Flicking the top button of his shirt, he undoes the collar. His finger must snag the button, though, because it ends up falling off and onto his desk. He doesn’t seem to notice however, taking off his tie completely and setting it aside. “But only if it’s okay with you.”
I want to say no, but I’m distracted by the button. Pick it up. Pick it up! A sickness of mine. The need to pick up every single fallen one. “I guess so,” I mumble, sliding the handle of my bag onto my shoulder, trying to ignore the compulsion to pick up the button. Pick it up, Lily entices. No fucking way, I reply. I already told you, it’s crazy to do that.
Everyone’s crazy in their own way.
“Good, I’m glad you’re on board with this,” Preston says, turning around to search through a stack of papers on the filing cabinet behind the desk while I zone in on the button.
Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up.
Shaking my head at myself, I quickly reach over the desk and snatch up the button before he can turn around. I stuff it into my pocket, as always wondering why I do it, but never being able to stop myself.
“This hypnotherapy is a little controversial,” Preston continues, oblivious to what I just did as he faces me with a paper in his hand. “But I think at this point in your recovery, controversial methods might be the only options.”
“Whatever you think. You are the doctor after all.” I point to his PhD on the wall, black bold letters with his name on it. Nonchalant as can be. Like I didn’t just steal a button like a psychopathic button kleptomaniac. “Or at least according to that you are.”
He offers me a small smile. “I’ll see you next Tuesday, Maddie.”
I wave as I walk out the door, keeping a neutral expression until I get outside and into the open. Then I breathe for the first time today, because soon I’ll be at work and I won’t have to try so hard to hide Lily anymore.
Chapter 3
Maddie
I once spent an entire day doing research about “voices in my head.” The findings where alarming. Psychosis. Schizophrenia. Multiple Personality Disorder. I’m sure if I told Preston, he’d crack open my head and give me a diagnosis but, that would mean living with the results. I’d no longer be able to hide the insanity—I’d have to accept what was wrong with me. So I try to keep Lily locked up the best that I can, only letting her out when I know it won’t harm anyone. Like when I go to work.
After my therapy session, I go home to watch the channel nine news at 6 o’ clock, a habit of mine that started while I was in the hospital. It’s the local station and living in the small town of Grove Wyoming, not too much goes on. Fire at the old millhouse, lost bike, found bike, car accident down on 5th Monroe and Maple drive. No injuries, just damage to the cars, which is causing traffic to back up. Alternative route suggestions. Then a quick clip on how to make pumpkin spice cake. Laughs, smiles, laughs. Yeah, get on with the good stuff, Lily whispers. The brief five minutes when the station gives a section to a more global headline, the brief insight to the grimier stuff, well usually anyway. Today ends up being a brief update on the disappearance of a girl, but there’s no details other than she’s been gone for a week and is still missing. “Keep an eye out everyone and if you have any information at all call this number.”
“Maddie, would you turn that off,” my mother shouts from the kitchen. “I hate it when you watch the news. Please, find something else to watch.” She says this every day. I’m not sure what bothers her about it, but for some reason she seems dead set on me not watching the news.
I click off the television halfway through the clip. It’s nearing five thirty, so I decide to go into my room to change into my go-to-work uniform. It’s a little early for work, but if I leave now I can make a much-needed extra stop on the way.
My room is a very stressful place. My mother decided to put up every single photo of me she could find, hoping it would spark my memory. All of them were taken before the age of thirteen because I got really camera shy when I hit my teenage years, something revealed to me in one of my mom’s stories she loves to tell about me. There are some of just me, some with her, and none with my father. Some of them are torn, like she ripped someone out of the photo. All the photos feel like pieces of paper to me, nothing more. And it makes me uncomfortable that I have to stare at multiple versions of myself every time I step in there, always feeling like I’m being watched by myself.
I turn on some music and then rummage through my dresser for something to wear, occasionally glancing over the walls and ceiling, cringing at how happy I look in most of the photos, all sunshine and rainbows, like there was no bad in the world. But there is. Just turn on the news. Just live inside my head for five minutes. Sometimes the girl in the photos doesn’t even look like me when I stare at her long enough. Like she’s just someone who shared the same face but had different thoughts and values.
After selecting an outfit, I close my dresser and start getting dressed. Slacks and a button down shirt, done up all the way to my chin. Black hair combed and gelled into place, so it’s plastered straight at the side of my defined cheekbones. Minimal makeup so my freckles are visible. No jewelry. Hideous loafers. This was how I dressed before the accident, I was told. And the dresser full of stuffy and boring attire confirmed this. That this is who I am. Maddie Ashford. Boring. Simple. Preppy. Conservative. I am Maddie and I look like a banker.
You were a good girl, Maddie.
You always did what was right.
Always followed the rules.
Never got into trouble.
I glance in the mirror, seeing the girl my mother described to me after I’d woken up and asked who I was yet at the same time not seeing. Honestly, I look confused—always do. Like I’m trappe
d behind a face I don’t recognize.
I am hiding behind a mask.
I’m hiding behind my amnesia.
I’m hiding.
Lost.
Lost.
Lost.
Drifting.
Part of me wishes I could be that girl she described, but most of me knows that I can’t be that person. Sighing at the thought, I pick up my discarded pants and reach into the pocket, retrieving the button I stole from Preston earlier today. I hate that I do it—in fact it makes me sick—that every time I see a stray button, I have to collect it. Not any fallen button, just one’s off people’s shirts, like some sort of strange OCD habit. It’s not a new habit either, something I discovered one day going through my old boxes of stuff. I came across a wooden box one day that was full of buttons in various colors, shapes, and sizes. I thought about asking my mother why I had it, but quite honestly, it’s something I feel like I should keep a secret. Crazy, like Lily.