Schasm (Schasm Series) (4 page)

I’m wondering the same thing.

As my eyes meet his, he lifts up his arm and points his palm upward, gesturing for me to stand. I ask who he is, but it seems as if he can’t hear me. My discomfort is turning into fear. I know screaming will be my only hope of creating enough erratic brain waves for the monitor to pick up. Hopefully, the doctors will yank me from whatever state I’m in if they think my brain isn’t functioning properly.

I feel ice-cold compresses sloshed onto my face, startling me into hyperventilation. I rip the plugs off of my head and demand to be released from the chair. I should know better, that reacting this way to anything in a facility like this will not end well. But I’ve had enough today.

I was right. I feel the straps tighten over my wrists and ankles, followed by a voice telling me to calm down or they’ll have to keep me restrained. I do what I’m told. The last thing I want is to be confined to this chair any longer.

 The doctor calls it quits for the day and informs me that we’ll pick up where we left off next time. I know all too well that the doctor needs to compile a report for my mother before I can be released.

I know what the report will say. It’s been the same thing every time. In absence of a definite diagnosis,
Chloe’s mental state can be most closely compared to mild schizophrenia and should be considered and monitored as such
. I’m bright enough to know that my symptoms don’t even come close to schizophrenia. But that’s the best they can do.

I don’t think anyone has any idea what’s going on with me.

The doctors are good at reminding me repeatedly that my circumstances could be a lot worse than they are, and I should be
thankful
they aren’t. Thankful or not, the doctors have made it clear to my parents that I’m incapable of functioning on my own because my episodes are too unpredictable.

That’s the real kicker.

This particular doctor has apparently become very adept at fabricating reports for my mother. He’s always saying that I’m making great progress. I can't help but to wonder what kind of progress he thinks I have made. I’m guessing he’s just giving her hope so she’ll keep bringing me back for my next appointment. I have no idea what he thinks he’s accomplishing with that.

I watch as the doctor and a nurse comfort my mother with whatever data they have now. She responds to them with her usual sobs until the doctor pulls her in for a hug. He’s always hugging her. It’s like the appointments are about her more than me.

CHAPTER FOUR

JOURNAL ENTRY

THE CAR BOUNCES AROUND
as it rolls from the street and up my driveway. I hear the parking brake slammed into gear and yank the door handle. I slide the heavy door open. The second my feet hit the pavement, I’m commanded to report to my room until called for dinner.

I try to make the best of time alone and write in an online journal that I’ve created. It’s someplace for me to document all of my drifts. It also helps me keep track of where I’ve been and where I want to go. It’s not like I have much of a choice in the matter, though. I go where my mind takes me, and that’s all.

The cursor on my blank screen blinks eagerly, waiting for me to spill my truth. The blinking speeds up. My eyelids get heavier. I try to focus on the keyboard, but I can’t seem to do it.

My chair flies out from beneath me, and I fall through the floor…

Every wooden plank breaks on the way down. The fall feels endless. Finally, I reach a familiar spiral tunnel of darkness, but this time it’s illuminated by millions of colorful pixels.

The digitalized world I’m tumbling through causes my head to feel loose. My ears join in on the torture, becoming funnels for a blaring noise that sounds like an obnoxious alarm clock from the eighties. I wince and cup my hands over my ears to block out some of the sound.

The free-falling subsides, and I open my eyes. I’m lying in a bed now. It’s not mine, but it’s comfortable. On the other side of the room, I see an old alarm clock with large red digital numbers that read 7:00 a.m.

I peek out over the sheets toward the end of the bed. I’m covered with a hot pink comforter plastered with large purple and yellow flowers. I catch a glimpse of a familiar piece of furniture. It resembles a newer version of my vanity. But this one is wrapped in a bow.

In a moment of enlightenment, I realize that it
is
my vanity, but it’s brand-new. I glance around the bedroom and see that the vanity isn’t the only thing that’s mine. This entire bedroom is mine…only it looks the way it did twelve years ago.

I look in the mirror, not entirely shocked to come face-to-face with the reflection of my seven-year-old self—bright eyes, shiny long brown hair, and rosy cheeks. I look healthy…so healthy, it brings a tear to my eye.

If only I could start my life over and hide the fact that I have the ability to dream in a way that others can’t, maybe my mother would be different. Maybe my
life
would be different.

Am I getting a second chance? Were the last twelve years of my life actually a daydream from my seven-year-old self?

Maybe I’m just now waking up.

I race down the stairs to greet my parents. They’ll be thrilled to see what they think is their healthy seven-year-old little girl. I’m elated at the thought of having no more doctors, no worries. No restraints.

I search through every room of the house, desperate to find my parents, but I don’t see either of them. No sign that they’re even living here. I head back to the kitchen, all hope lost. I find a few dishes in the sink, cobwebs hanging from the appliances, rust forming on everything with a metal finish. It looks as if nothing here has been touched in years. Like nothing electrical is running except for the ancient clock on the wall. It’s ticking away as it always does.

I open the front door, finding nothing other than utter staleness.
Am I in some sort of time warp?
There is no grass on the ground, no leaves on the trees. No people, no cars, no wind. No sound. All I see are vacant homes and dirt roads.

I start walking down the road, trying to figure out where the world went. It takes me a few minutes to reach the center of town. I find an empty ice cream shop with a sign dangling from one nail, and a small café with broken glass windows. The only structure around here that isn’t vandalized is an old brick-covered elementary school.

Disappointment sets in. I turn in a circle, taking everything in before I head back to my abandoned house. Of course, the one time I have free rein to go where I want, there’s nothing to see or do. It looks as if the world ended here.

And I have no idea why.

Maybe I should be more worried than I am. Maybe in my mind, my world ended twelve years ago? Maybe everything is just catching up to me.

I take a couple of steps back in the direction of my house, but I see a peculiar movement out of the corner of my eye. Without thinking, I sprint toward the movement, but come to a sudden stop when I hear gravel being scuffed.
Footsteps.
My eyes search for the source of the noise, but I don’t see a thing. A slamming door echoes from behind me, a metal door crashing against more metal. My eyes fix on the school. The noise has to have come from there.

I see a figure…who is that?

There’s a young boy standing on the front step of the abandoned elementary school. The school is still more than a hundred yards away from me. It’s difficult to make out any details of who he might be, and I'm not sure if I want to approach him at this point. Maybe I should just leave.
What do you have to lose, Chloe?
I think.

I make my approach. As I close in on him, I leave only a few feet in between us. He looks like he must be about seven years old too. He has blond wavy hair flipping out from underneath a red baseball hat. His olive skin is covered with freckles. He’s dressed in pajamas. I study him for a moment, and he stares at me with the same lost look I'm giving him. He looks somewhat familiar.

“Hey?” I call out to him. “Who are you?” I try to sound as non-threatening as I can.

After a few more cautious steps in his direction, I see tears running down his freckled cheeks. His face becomes despair, and he turns around and walks back into the school.
Did I make him cry? Did I scare him?
He disappears even faster than he appeared.

I follow him…I have to know who he is. I grip the cold metal door handle. All that lies in front of me is a long and dark hallway with no end in sight.

“Hello?” My voice echoes down the hall. “Are you okay? I won’t hurt you.”

I move cautiously through the darkness. Every hair on my arms is standing up. I make my way through the hallway, but I don’t find the boy. Disappointed, I leave the school and retrace my steps back toward my empty house. My nerves are frazzled. I stumble over my own feet and fall to my knees. I push my palms into the gravel, trying to peel myself off the ground, but I can’t move. There’s a sudden pressure pinning me down.

Darkness descends upon me…

I shake my head until my eyes focus. I’m here again, in my room. In the now. Staring at the cursor blinking on my computer screen. I guess this imprisoned life wasn’t my daydream after all. I’m not sure I’m unhappy about it. I would have never guessed my life could
actually
get worse.

Writing a journal entry is not the best idea tonight. My anxiety is reaching an all-time high. Maybe it’s because I’ve broken through some kind of barrier by interacting with others in my daydreams. I can’t help but think that everywhere I go and everything I see has some greater significance. All I can think of is that poor little boy.

Why were we the only two people who seemed to be there and alive? Why would he be wandering through an empty school…and where did he end up going? My mind is spinning, and I know I won’t be able to rest until I learn more.

I need to see the school. Without the daydream.

Maybe if I can convince my mother to bring me to the elementary school tomorrow, I’ll be able to see if anything sparks an image or a memory?

It might be worth a shot.

***

Seven in the morning doesn’t come soon enough. I’ve been sitting up all night researching the history of the school. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find that would tell me anything significant. Regardless, I’ve found nothing.

My mother yells for me to start my daily ritual. But I’m already dressed. I’ll need to suck up to her this morning if I’m going to have any chance of convincing her to take me to the school.

In the kitchen, I sit at the table and cross my hands over my lap. I know there’s no reason to drag this out.
Here goes nothing…

“Mother?”

She hardly even acknowledges that I’ve spoken.

I clear my throat. “There’s a night class offered at the elementary school down the street…a continuing education thing. It’s an art class that…I think might be a good opportunity for me.” I twist around in my chair to face her. “It would allow me to do something other than drive back and forth to see the doctors every week. Do you think you could take me down there this morning so I could sign up for the class…maybe?”

She folds her arms over her chest and purses her lips. Her eyebrows pull together. “I don’t think so,” she says. “I don’t like the idea of you being in a classroom with other people who might take advantage of your…
disability
.”

So now it’s more than a condition.

I figured her response would be something like that.

“How about a compromise?” I try to sound like I’m letting her have her way. “What if you wait in the parking lot during the class? It’s only an hour long. I’ll call you if I run into trouble. Okay?”

“No,” she says. She doesn’t even think about it. “It’s not something I feel comfortable letting you do.” She is so condescending when she says that.

Maybe guilt will work. “Mother,” I sigh. “Please let me go. You have to know that keeping me locked in this house could be considered a form of abuse.” I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to consider what I’m saying. “The doctors would call this healthy for me, and I’m sure they wouldn’t be happy to hear you’ve been keeping me locked up like a prisoner, even after they’ve spoken to you about it so many times.” I’m totally manipulating her. And I’m fine with it.

She bites the inside of her cheek as her jaw shifts back and forth. “Okay,” she huffs. “This one time. I hope we don’t regret this.” I don’t see how we could. “I want you to be ready and in the car in ten minutes. Do you understand?”

I nod. “Yes. Thank you.” I throw it in for good measure.

I’m in the van in less than five minutes. I wait a couple more for her to get in. It’s only a two-minute trip, but I need to make sure I don’t fall into a drift during the ride or I’ll have no chance of even making it out of the van. To keep focused, I force myself to have an uncomfortable conversation with my mother. I try to keep it casual

“I like your coat, Mother.” I try to sound interested. “Is it a down jacket?”

“Yes,” she says suspiciously. “You’ve never commented on my clothing before, Chloe. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Everything is fine. I was just trying to have a conversation with you.”

“I was hoping for a little peace and quiet on the ride, actually. I never get a second to think for myself anymore. It’s always about you.”

Wow. “Sorry,” I snap. “I didn’t know it was a sin to talk to my mother.” There is just no way for me to control my attitude with her, no matter how hard I try.

She’s done speaking to me. And here it comes…the uncomfortable silence is creeping in. At least I can see the school in the distance.

We approach the last turn onto the street of the school, and I notice something I haven’t seen before. In between two pine trees near the turn we are taking, there’s a large rock with an inscription engraved into it. As we pull closer, I read the etched writing.
In loving spirit, we wish you health and happiness, little boy.
Sad. I wonder who it’s for.