The tea kettle sang and danced when I returned; the red curtains swirled around my head and hummed memories in the corners of my ears. The ghost of my childhood soul skipped around the dusty table, an apple in her hand and a song in her heart. The kitchen cabinets were just as I left them, doors hung ajar with the pots of jam arranged in a wall against the outside world.
"Ula?" I call, my voice startling the books scattered across the floor. They haven't been read in years; their pages are sad with neglect.
"Where have you been?" Ula whispers in my ear, her cattish scrawl of a voice tickling me to the ends of my hair. Her one-thousand-year-old paws patter across the torn couch pillows; her yellow eyes search my mind for reasons. Stories about why I left her, so many years ago, surface when I pour the tea. The strong herbal brew catches the words in my throat, and draws the stuck thoughts out and into her ears.
"To the center of the world, there's more to life than this playhouse." The book pages flutter into my mind; Ula begins to press her claws against my hair.
"You know you can't escape from us," she hisses, and the ancient thoughts seep back into my mind, the old rituals regain their hold on me. The childish soul under the table begins to cry, her wails spinning into coils that wrap around my arms. The tramping thoughts of yesterday creep into the house, slowly marching towards me and ruining anything I ever did to keep them away.
"Start counting."And the numbers dance across my vision: safe numbers, bad numbers, repeating numbers.
"Repetition keeps everything from crumbling. Routine is what saves you from bad things." My hands are moving, tapping, touching. Without my permission they dance, rapping a comforting pattern on the wooden table. My throat, hazy with dirt and germs, is suddenly cooled with a cleaning mixture. The illusion of grime I ignored for weeks is burned away with bleach.
"Double-check everything. The door locks, every sentence you say, the arrangement of the Lucky Objects." My vision is obstructed with Ula's organizing. She paints a picture of how objects should be arranged in my mind. My hands quickly place everything in a safe arrangement. "Lucky clover, old dog tags, pencils set just-so, old notes from friends piled alphabetically..."
The books flutter their words in front of me, begging me to re-read every sentence inside them.
"Double check the meaning. Make sure you understand every sentence. Read thoroughly. Read it again. And again, and again, and again." Ula is in control of everything I do now. I know she's imaginary, but she is in control of my thoughts. Her illogical suggestions of rituals and things to get rid of anxiety overrule my logical decisions.
I wish I could be back in my apartment, safe from their whispers and urges to do something a million times.
"Every time you feel like doing a ritual, count five things to bring you back out of your head and into the world. Count what you smell, taste, see, touch, and hear." My therapist's voice echoes, drowning Ula's words for a few moments. Magic formula for escaping the black hole of obsessions that threatens to suck me in again.
The scent of the earthy tea wafts over to me; the coils start to loosen just a bit. My arms, trembling with the sense of impending freedom, press against the table. Its ancient grains bring me back to myself. Ula's grip on my mind begins to slide.
"What might help you is to give your anxiety a name. It'll help you realize that you are not your disorder." The therapist's voice echoes. Her words have stayed with me all these years.
"Drink this." Ula forces me back to the little house with her screeching voice, shoves a mug of tea in front of my face. The smell of the raw brew makes me want to gag, retch fiery vomit onto this place and erase it from memory.
"No," I cough, and the chafing coils release me a bit more, "I'm not doing this anymore."
"Your past self would want you to do this. It keeps you safe from harm. Drink it, then hunt for magical things for three hours. It will erase the curse which has been placed on you." She wills me to take the cup, forces me to imagine how peaceful my life would be if I follow her ritual. I float in front of my eyes, dancing in a quiet field of flowers. I am all alone with my happy thoughts.
"All this, and more, if you follow this last ritual." It's what she said the last time, and the time before. Her web of lies has always entangled me, always tricked my naive self into believing I could be free if I only do a bit of magic. The child I used to be crawls over to my leg, her little hands gripping my ankle, trying to suck me back to the past.
"Get away from me, Lyla!" I say to myself, struggling against the memories she is quickly wrapping around my legs. Her tears encase me in an inescapable tether, chaining me to the past. My mind goes blank with panic; I have fallen in an ocean of fear. Ula viciously shoves me under the waves; her hands are as cold as ice. The child grips my ankle with the weight of the past; she drags me down, down, down. Ula's slimy hair wraps around my neck, her thoughts seep in and onto my tongue.
A scream tears my throat apart, bombards my brain and begins to eat away at the child. The shriek rips through my vocal cords, slashing into Ula's body and separating my voice from hers. The exhilaration of impending freedom carries me out of the sea, into the house and up to the roof. My head explodes and cracks through the roof thatch. The rubbery remains of my brain gently carry me away from the cottage.
I claw at the air, trying to escape the dizziness of levitating, but my new mind only swells more. Its airy lightness carries me above a train, leads me and the bits of my old, exploded brain into the smoke. Smog from the chimney mingles with the brain bits, the train whistle screams and shatters what was left of them.
"Where are we going?" I try to rasp out, but my mind does not listen. I drift slowly through the polluted air with one hand pressed tightly on my hair. I am terrified of the balloon that has replaced my skull, the stretched plastic feel of it scares me.
The train rattles beneath us, the wheels' teeth chattering and shaking before the tunnel. The conductor pulls on the whistle, jarring my new mind while disappearing into the inky blackness ahead. My brain begins to deflate, slowly pushing me towards the train tracks below. The whispers of the collapsing air tickle my ears and blow my hair out of proportion.
"Your new life is just at the end of the tunnel." The disappearing brain murmurs in my ear, the last of its deflating air pushing me inside. The ebony darkness envelops me in a hug, crushes my battered limbs and presses against my withered hair. My feet stutter forward, trembling hands feeling for support in the murky unknown.
When the light appears, my eyes begin to sparkle in their old way; my face is drawn into a smile. The sunshine cuddles me close, erases the frightening whispers of the past. I am warm with the salty smell of hope.
