She didn’t question—anything. Claire understood her only access to the fresh breeze or the sun on her skin was when she was accompanied by another person. She didn’t always know the person beside her, but she did know accessing the refreshing outside without someone else was against the rules. She knew all about rules and how to follow them. Oh, it was true that, in the past, she’d made mistakes—used poor judgment—or made poor decisions—decisions that resulted in unfavorable consequences. That’s what Tony taught her—behaviors had consequences.
Claire preferred positive consequences. Yes, more than once she’d disappointed him. With each passing day, she vowed to not let him down—again. After what she’d done—she wasn’t sure it mattered; nonetheless, since it was all she had left—she wouldn’t let go—she wouldn’t disappoint.
During her days, people with different faces and different voices came and went. Their words weren’t real, and sometimes the food they delivered wasn’t either. Oh, it looked real. She could even smell the aroma as they entered her room, but if it were real, she’d be hungry. Most of the time, she wasn’t.
There were people who helped her shower, dress, and fix her hair. At first, she fought their assistance and intrusion; then with time, she chose to accept their help. In a way, it was comforting. She’d been taught the importance of maintaining appearances, and since day-to-day activities were too overwhelming, the assistance of these faceless hands helped her fulfill her responsibility.
Under no circumstance did she want to disappoint Tony. Sometimes the tears overwhelmed her. After all, she had to live with the reality—she surely disappointed him. Why else would he not make his presence known to everyone? Occasionally, people would tell her he was gone. Claire knew better.
She knew he was there. Even if the faceless people couldn’t see or hear him—he was there. When he came to her she could truly sleep and dream. She lived for his touch—it took away the suffocating ache that filled her otherwise empty life. Yes, there had been times when they were together that there was pain; however, it was nothing like the pain of not knowing when he’d return; therefore, when they were together, she’d compartmentalize that pain away. While he was there, she’d refuse to show her misery. It would remain her private agony—after what she’d done—she deserved it.
Claire remembered every word—every syllable he’d ever said. He told her the offer of a psychiatric facility was to protect her. Now, whether she deserved to be or not—she was protected.
Sometimes people asked her questions. With each inquiry, she’d hear his voice, “Divulging private information is still forbidden...”
She no longer questioned what constituted private information. Whether it was her memories, their history, or what she wanted to eat, she wouldn’t divulge. In an effort to refrain from revealing anything she shouldn’t, Claire chose to not speak. With time, that decision became easier and easier—the faceless people’s words rarely penetrated her bubble.
Then without warning, the people before her would morph into other faces, and she’d forget her vow of silence and speak. After all, it was so exciting to see long-lost friends and faces, yet as fast as they’d appear—they’d fade away. Most of the time, it didn’t matter—whether real or imagined—the people with her rarely understood her conversation. Whenever this occurred, she’d remember her disobedience. The overwhelming sense of shame instigated an internal turmoil that according to the voices threatened her well-being.
That internal turmoil would manifest in ways Claire couldn’t control. She wanted to stop—to behave—but sometimes she couldn’t make her body do what she wanted it to do, and then the faceless people would restrain her. So many images would race through her mind—she hated restraints. The faceless voices would tell her the restraints were for her own protection—so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Claire would still fight—after all, she’d never hurt anyone—but wait—she had.
Her history of violence had been well documented, and since she had the capability, it was better to be safe. Then when things seemed lost—when she least expected it—relief would come.
Claire would hear his voice.
She couldn’t predict when it would come; she couldn’t encourage it, or even beg for it. No, Tony appeared on his own schedule and of his own volition. His voice would come in—a word, a whisper, or a long rambling speech. The deep baritone melody could soothe her like no drug.
Claire preferred positive consequences. Yes, more than once she’d disappointed him. With each passing day, she vowed to not let him down—again. After what she’d done—she wasn’t sure it mattered; nonetheless, since it was all she had left—she wouldn’t let go—she wouldn’t disappoint.
During her days, people with different faces and different voices came and went. Their words weren’t real, and sometimes the food they delivered wasn’t either. Oh, it looked real. She could even smell the aroma as they entered her room, but if it were real, she’d be hungry. Most of the time, she wasn’t.
There were people who helped her shower, dress, and fix her hair. At first, she fought their assistance and intrusion; then with time, she chose to accept their help. In a way, it was comforting. She’d been taught the importance of maintaining appearances, and since day-to-day activities were too overwhelming, the assistance of these faceless hands helped her fulfill her responsibility.
Under no circumstance did she want to disappoint Tony. Sometimes the tears overwhelmed her. After all, she had to live with the reality—she surely disappointed him. Why else would he not make his presence known to everyone? Occasionally, people would tell her he was gone. Claire knew better.
She knew he was there. Even if the faceless people couldn’t see or hear him—he was there. When he came to her she could truly sleep and dream. She lived for his touch—it took away the suffocating ache that filled her otherwise empty life. Yes, there had been times when they were together that there was pain; however, it was nothing like the pain of not knowing when he’d return; therefore, when they were together, she’d compartmentalize that pain away. While he was there, she’d refuse to show her misery. It would remain her private agony—after what she’d done—she deserved it.
Claire remembered every word—every syllable he’d ever said. He told her the offer of a psychiatric facility was to protect her. Now, whether she deserved to be or not—she was protected.
Sometimes people asked her questions. With each inquiry, she’d hear his voice, “Divulging private information is still forbidden...”
She no longer questioned what constituted private information. Whether it was her memories, their history, or what she wanted to eat, she wouldn’t divulge. In an effort to refrain from revealing anything she shouldn’t, Claire chose to not speak. With time, that decision became easier and easier—the faceless people’s words rarely penetrated her bubble.
Then without warning, the people before her would morph into other faces, and she’d forget her vow of silence and speak. After all, it was so exciting to see long-lost friends and faces, yet as fast as they’d appear—they’d fade away. Most of the time, it didn’t matter—whether real or imagined—the people with her rarely understood her conversation. Whenever this occurred, she’d remember her disobedience. The overwhelming sense of shame instigated an internal turmoil that according to the voices threatened her well-being.
That internal turmoil would manifest in ways Claire couldn’t control. She wanted to stop—to behave—but sometimes she couldn’t make her body do what she wanted it to do, and then the faceless people would restrain her. So many images would race through her mind—she hated restraints. The faceless voices would tell her the restraints were for her own protection—so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Claire would still fight—after all, she’d never hurt anyone—but wait—she had.
Her history of violence had been well documented, and since she had the capability, it was better to be safe. Then when things seemed lost—when she least expected it—relief would come.
Claire would hear his voice.
She couldn’t predict when it would come; she couldn’t encourage it, or even beg for it. No, Tony appeared on his own schedule and of his own volition. His voice would come in—a word, a whisper, or a long rambling speech. The deep baritone melody could soothe her like no drug.
