Wednesday 10 – Tuesday 30 November 2010
I very much wanted to write this story, but it gave me trouble from the start. It took a long time to form before I even dared to commit words to the page, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely happy with how it turned out. Now, having thought about it, I never imagined this as a short story, which is where I believe my dissatisfaction with it lies. In my mind, this was always meant to be a short film, and I probably would have been more satisfied if I’d written it as a script. However, that being said, here it is regardless, complete with my dissatisfaction.
She could feel it slowly ebbing away. She was finally relinquishing the tenuous grip she had on reality. The aural and visual hallucinations were becoming more real every day, and she no longer had the strength to fight them. She could see them everywhere, hear them at night: coming for her.
‘Molly? Molly, where are you?’ The same voices calling to her in the darkness.
This morning found her in the same way as every other morning: curled up in a corner of the room, knees pulled up to her chest, face buried in her knees, collar pulled up around her neck. Her neck. The one place she felt vulnerable. She slept with the bedclothes pulled right up to her chin. She had done since she was a child, even in the middle of summer. Molly hated having her neck exposed in the dark. She could feel them there.
She would keep her eyes closed until the dawn light filtered through the blinds, cutting the room in two. In this corner, she would be bathed in light, and when that happened, she would open her eyes, and set about her daily business. Until then, until the light made its way to her, she would repeat the mantra told to her by Doctor Hart.
‘You live only in my imagination. You’re not real. You live only in my imagination. You’re not real.’
* * * * *
Lee, despite the feelings he now held for Molly, was at wit’s end with his wife of twelve years. She was nothing at all like the woman he married on the beach in Fiji. She was no longer happy and carefree. Fear had replaced the happiness. Her sanity was being destroyed by irrational fears and psychosis. He hated seeing her this way.
He’d spent endless hours trying to convince her to seek other professional help. He didn’t like Doctor Hart. She was a woman who knew too much, who had too many ways of finding out secrets. He was afraid she’d see him for who he really was. No, he didn’t like Angela Hart at all. The way she looked at Molly, how she spoke to her, the things she told Molly to do to combat her fears, the drugs she prescribed, none of which worked. The good doctor was decidedly off, and just a little bit sinister.
Lee had done some research on Doctor Hart. The woman had impeccable qualifications, and a list of respected admirers a mile long. She had allegedly helped hundred of patients. There seemed to be no one unhappy with her work. No one except Lee. He knew exactly what he didn’t like about her: she was over-ambitious. That made her dangerous. And then there was the fact she gave him the good, old-fashioned creeps.
She presented an image of perfection, and in his mind, this was completely unnatural. The woman worked with people who had serious mental problems, many of whom were insane, and she looked picture perfect every time Lee saw her. It was simply not right. And she was quick to prescribe experimental drugs. Lee did not like that at all.
He also suspected that her success rates were enhanced. Almost every patient that she had seen had made a remarkable recovery. From what Lee had learned about mental health issues, this was an anomaly. No doctor, no matter how good, had an almost perfect success rate. Patients slipped through the cracks of society, they stopped taking their medication, and they had relapses. Yet, here in the world of Doctor Hart, the majority of patients made astonishing recoveries, but not Molly. Lee knew she never would.
. . . To be continued . . .