Blurred Lines (13 page)

Epilogue

The nurse was careful to open the door to the room slowly and quietly, even though she knew there was no one inside. She looked around, half expecting some kind of sign that she was not alone, then took a full step inside. She was not afraid, so much as feeling a little awkward. Lauren, the patient who’d spent so much time within the confinements of these four walls, would have never permitted it. It felt like an invasion of privacy. Because of this, she pushed the door closed, but left it open just a crack so as to not be cut off from the rest of the staff at West Heights Psychiatric Facility.

She set about tidying up the room. She made the bed, even though she knew she would need to strip it later. She pushed the chairs in that sat on either side of the small table by the window that faced the courtyard. She looked out at the small square patch of grass outlined by hostas and perennial plants and wondered idly what Lauren must have thought when she did the same.

She was well aware she was stalling. Having to rifle through someone else’s personal belongings was something she disliked doing, and to do such a thing to Lauren, someone who valued her privacy and cherished the air of mystery about her, was even worse. Part of her knew, however, that the dread came from the notion that she would somehow reveal the true identity of Lauren Carrington, the true inner self of the Lauren she had come to know, and that the mysteriousness would be lost. As it stood right now, half the appeal of knowing Lauren Carrington was that you did not actually know her. Or maybe you did and you just didn’t know it.

The nurse sat down on the bed, the mattress sinking slowly beneath her weight. She stared over at the door of the room and saw no one there. The door was just as she had left it, only opened slightly. She turned back to the end table beside her, nervousness creeping up her spine. To the naked eye, she saw only a used stick of lip gloss and a generic alarm clock that blinked as though it had been unplugged recently. The time read two minutes after three, yet it was well past seven.

Stooping down onto her knee beside the bed, the nurse reached for the handle of the drawer underneath the table. It opened easily, revealing a dog-eared, tattered copy of a book and a small gift box. The nurse hesitantly lifted the top off the gift box, but only a collection of colored pens and a few heavily creased pieces of paper were inside.

The papers had been folded and refolded numerous times and had been ripped from a notebook of some kind, the edges ragged and three-holed. On the pages in different colors of ink were a series of words, and the nurse recognized them immediately as the poem Lauren recited constantly to herself and to anyone else who would listen. It was always the same poem, always the same inflection in her voice as she breathed the seductive words.

The reckless robbing of breath and passion of others, the beating heart and boiling blood, halted by the creation of a monster…

The words were the same, but the handwriting in which they were scrawled was not consistent. Some of it was written in Lauren’s familiar hand, but the other lines alternating within the lines Lauren had written were in someone else’s handwriting.

It must be Dean
, she thought to herself. Dean, the young man who showed up almost daily to visit with Lauren, even if she refused to see him.

The entire staff at West Heights knew the story. What they did not know, however, they speculated and gossiped about. Lauren Carrington was also known as Lacey Carring, the author of the novel
Staring Down
. A few of the women on staff had read it, a romance about unlikely lovers from very different backgrounds who overcome the odds to be together. On one of Lauren’s good days, a nurse’s aide had even asked her to sign the paperback copy she owned, and Lauren had happily obliged.

It was known to everyone—the newspapers and various forms of media had made sure of it—that Lauren had been present during the death of her late husband, the co-owner of Carrington Ranch. It was also a well-known fact that Dean had been there as well, and that he had even been tried and convicted of manslaughter, although Lauren would occasionally speak out against this ruling and declare the justice system corrupt.

On the days she spoke of her husband’s death at all, she was vocal about how it was purely accidental and how Dean never meant to kill anyone. He would never do that, she insisted time and time again. Details surrounding what had actually taken place that night were sporadic and unclear. Lauren was never willing to discuss it, not with the staff, and not with the police who tried repeatedly to retrieve information from her. No one in the psychiatric facility had ever been brave enough to approach Dean during one of his visits and ask any questions. After all, he had been convicted of manslaughter.

The nurse tucked the torn pieces of paper back into the box and replaced the lid. She started to push the drawer shut when something caught her eye. She ducked down onto her knees for a closer look. Sure enough, a shiny purple ribbon was poking out from the back panel of the nightstand. She tugged it hesitantly and the panel pulled out into her hand. In its place was a hard covered notebook. Nothing was embossed on the front of the imitation leather cover. As the nurse pulled it from its hiding place, she knew it was Lauren’s.

She sat back up on the bed and peered toward the door. It was unchanged, still only open a few inches. She ran her fingers along the textured cover, debating whether or not to open it. She knew she shouldn’t, but the allure of perhaps holding the key to the questions everyone had been asking for a year was intoxicating. If there were answers to be had about the truth of Lauren’s life, this book held them. When she flipped it open, Lauren’s recognizable scrawl stared back at her.

For my husband. I’m truly sorry.

Love Always, Lauren

The nurse’s breath caught in her throat. This was it, the answers, the full story directly from the tainted mind of Lauren Carrington. She bit her lip and continued to read.

January 27, 2014

If I had known how it would all turn out, would I have done things differently? I would like to think I would have had the strength to take a different path, one that may not have led here. This place, this room, it is not nearly big enough for all that is contained within in it. There is not enough space within these four walls—nor is there within my mind—for the both of us.

I do have to admit that I am now starting to struggle with the concept that she may not be taking over my mind, but that I may, in fact, be fighting to remain in some miniscule part of hers. I can almost feel her tugging me backward into the darkened depths of the mind we share. I can even hear her grunting with the exertion of the ongoing struggle between us as she battles constantly to stay at the forefront.

She is all about control. Did I ever even have control? Sarah may have been a character I created on paper, but can I be certain she did not exist prior? Perhaps Sarah is not so much a figment or product of my imagination, but more a part of me, a part of my mind. Come to think of it, it is difficult to remember a time when Sarah did not exist within me. The notion that she is actually a part of me and always has been frightens me more than words can explain. Maybe it is the fact I didn’t realize it that scares me the most.

I have taken to writing things down as any words that Sarah utters cannot be taken at face value. She is deceptive, manipulative, and unbelievably cruel. However, she is powerful, and I despise myself for succumbing to her strength. Evidently, she has won, or else I would not be confined to this generic, sterile room. Everything she has done and been witness to has been made to fuel her energy and strengthen the power she has. I know now that I can no longer win against her, therefore, I must write fast while I can still tell my story.

While I would give anything to blame Sarah for Michael’s death, I know I cannot. I am unable to even blame Dean, though his hands physically played a part in it. Michael’s death is solely my fault, and for that I will spend the rest of my life regretting the Russian roulette I played against Sarah and lost.

As I stood there and watched in horror as Michael fell backward from the momentum of Dean’s fist, I felt something inside me shift at the same moment Michael’s head hit that table corner with such a sickening crack. Never will I be able to clear that unforgiving sound from my mind.

That sound marks the moment I lost it all, including myself.

The nurse stopped reading, quickly flipping through a few of the pages to see how long the entry was. Sure enough, paragraph after paragraph followed, a testament of blood and tears. She did not care that she was due to end her shift soon. Other staff members would come looking for her soon, wondering why the routine task of packing up a resident’s few personal items was taking so long. It did not matter, she felt an overwhelming pull to the journal in front of her. She had no choice but to continue reading it.

Looking back on it now, the inner struggle between Sarah and I began long before I knew what it was. She was there each time a phrase or tone was used in my voice that did not quite fit my personality, when words that surprised even myself left my mouth, and each time I did something without the conscious knowledge of deciding to. That sounds like an excuse for the actions I have taken, I know. But I am fully aware of the mistakes I have made and I take full responsibility for my choices.

I am forced to live with the regret of them every day for the rest of my life. It is the little things I am referring to, the things that came out of my mouth and the voice within my mind making decisions without my approval.

There is no other way to explain it. Sarah was there all the time, and in those moments where I said or did things that were odd and out of character for me, it was moments when Sarah had bubbled to the surface of my mind and had her first real tastes of strength and power.

Sarah’s true strength was shown on the day that rendered me weakest, the day that Michael died. Something within me broke, leaving a crack in my mind large and deep enough for Sarah to finally take hold of me and break through to the forefront.

From then on, I was no longer me. My personality became secondary to the one that Sarah possessed, the one she exhibited while essentially possessing me. Just like that, there were two of us within my body. My moment of sheer weakness was her moment of absolute power.

The trial and court proceedings were proof of what she was truly capable of. I was called to the witness stand on two separate occasions, both times being disasters that ultimately sealed my fate. Dean was up on murder charges and his attorney called on me hoping to show that Dean had, in fact, acted in self defense.

Such a testimony had been my plan. In no way did I want Dean to go to jail for the accident that occurred over months prior. He may have been fighting with Michael, a battle of wills and hurt pride, but neither of them expected such a result. Accidents happened. Accidents changed lives forever, and accidents ended lives. After the consequences of the trial, I began to wish that Michael and I could have traded places. I would have done that for him. I still would.

As I took the stand, adjusting the microphone before sitting down to stare nervously into the eyes of Dean’s lawyer, I felt the nudging, the pulling, the fight to remain me. Dean’s lawyer began to question me, simple things at first, eventually working his way to more complex questions that I needed to think through.

The truth should be easy to tell, and I began to paint the picture of the husband I had lost, the man I had loved. The man I still loved. I weaved through the story of how we had both been unfaithful, and how I would take it all back in a heartbeat if I had the chance. Eventually, though, I felt Sarah tugging harder at me, my mouth moving to enunciate the words she spewed.

I fought hard against her, but Sarah made sure I was labeled as crazy. The words I announced to the courtroom began to contradict each other, and I began to bounce back and forth between speaking in the first person and speaking in the third person.

One minute, I could feel my grief stricken me, threatening to overwhelm me to tears. The next, I showed no remorse, so nonchalant about the entire ordeal that I could have been discussing the weather. On numerous occasions, I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut so tightly I saw stars behind my eyelids, giving myself a moment to try to achieve clarity between what I wanted to say and what was coming out of my mouth.

Doing that had always seemed to work before, allowing me to focus all my strength on pushing Sarah away from me. The shift of perception within the courtroom was almost palpable. I saw and felt the moment when I realized that the judge, jury, and other people within that room began to question my ability to give such a testimony. After only a few minutes of cluttered, confusing answers, I was asked to step down from the stand. My eyes were wide as I saw the look on each of their faces that yelled at me loud and clear: You’re crazy.

It only took a matter of days for the courts to subpoena me to consent to a full psychiatric assessment and deem me mentally incompetent as Sarah wreaked havoc on my mind, poking and prodding at me from the inside, unwilling to let me sleep, rest, or even calm down.