𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝕭𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘 ⤞ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡

3 | 𝐈𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐢𝐭?

❝Reality denied comes back to haunt.❞

- Phillip K. Dick, Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

TWO DAYS AFTER THEIR INITIAL ARRIVAL, PENELOPE FOUND HERSELF STANDING IN THE LIMITED BATHROOM IN HER HOTEL ROOM.

       Her slender fingers were wiping at the foundation and concealer she had applied early that morning, in an attempt to hide the truth. When the wash cloth took away the last bit of makeup, the ugly, unpleasant signs of her condition found their light. The slightly crusted mirror reflected her into those dimmed hazelnut eyes, showing the exhaustion that imprinted into her skin. Dark marks circled her eyes, and the cracks in her lips were on the edge of bleeding - yet she didn't care.

       Recently, Penelope cared about a sparse amount of things, due to certain circumstances, and those closest to her worried as much as they breathed. Lily - who'd gained a habit of nibbling at her cuticles - seemed to fret every second, of every day that she wasn't beside her friend. After that night, the carefree and light atmosphere that surrounded that brunette girl vanished, and with each sun that rose and set, Lily's apprehension grew. Penelope used to shine so brilliantly, and now, she was a replica of the darkness she once feared. The transition was painstakingly slow, but the results were what a certain someone wouldn't have wanted.

       Time for another one, she bitterly grumbled, setting the damp cloth on the edge of the sink. That familiar haze began to lift from her subconscious, and the loss of disconnect from reality allowed her to know that it was time for another pill from her vast collection of prescriptions. Most of them were prescribed to her before the accident due to her tainted childhood, and the memories that clung to her like a uncontrollable vice. But, there was one drug in particular that Penelope needed more than the others, or so Dr. Murphy, her family's psychiatrist, constantly told her.

       Said medication was created with the sole purpose of stopping any attempts her brain made at resurfacing unwanted memories, which would morph themselves into incredibly realistic apparitions - the common term being hallucinations. This vivid form of imagery was considered harmful to the grieving process; repeatedly opening the wounds that desperately needed to heal. Penelope developed this hazardous form of grief days after burying the one she loved most, and her visions always involved that charismatic and vibrant boy.

       After retrieving the orange bottle she'd been searching for, Penelope fiddled with the top, her fingers rubbing over the ridges carved into the lid's edges. The unpronounceable words that were printed on the label had begun to fade from frequent handling, and when she counted the dwindling amount of rounded, white pills, she knew that a refill would automatically be called in for her.

       Holding the small piece of sanity between the tips of her fingers, Penelope chewed on the inside of her cheek, contemplating something she hadn't in nearly two months. It had been so very long since she had felt his fingers moving through her hair, or his eyes moving over every curve her body held. She missed him more than her desire to breathe, and that desperation was what made her step towards the commode, and allowing the pricey dosage to fall into the water.

       Penelope felt the air shift a few seconds after the garbling from the toilet stopped. It went from a subtle chill and slight musty smell, to warm and the scent of motor oil, a change she'd only experienced a few times before when she missed a few of her designated dosages. The breaths falling from her chest smelt of peaches, and the hairs lining her nostrils tingled as cigarette smoke drifted upwards.