TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO. That's how many rose bushes he had planted. It had been hard to count in her fatigue, but it was even harder to sleep. No matter how hard she yelled or hit the door, no one came, leaving her all alone with her thoughts for the first time in years. Until now she had turned all her attention towards analyzing the people around her and helping her patients, to the extent that she barely had any time to think about herself. That was the only way for her to function. She didn't care about healing her problems, because she knew that took patience and forgiveness, both which she wouldn't grant herself. After all, she didn't have any moment to spare when she had to be the best at everything she did.
And now here she was, proclaimed to be the best psychiatrist in the world and yet unable to spend a second in her own company. She didn't want to analyze herself, but it was hard not to when it had become like a reflex to her. Every time she felt herself slip in the thought process she was used to, one which was now critically directed at every one of her own moves, she started walking circles in the room, so fast that her head began spinning. It was the only way she could stop herself.
She was doing it for the fifth time this morning now, her stomach beginning to turn at how fast she was going. It was the fifteenth day he had left her alone here, the only way she could keep track of the hours the rising and setting of the sun over the bed of roses below. At first she had had some hope that she'd have some contact with him when he came to bring her food, but she quickly realized that wouldn't be happening. When she had opened the second door leading to the bathroom, she had found a stack of canned food, crackers and dried fruits in the stall of the shower, reaching to the ceiling. From the amount of it, she'd be able to survive here for six months at least. She wouldn't let it come to that. If need be, she'd bite through her own tongue.
When she sat down on the floor, her mind began to wander again, like it had done these past days here. As soon as she blinked she was back in a room she didn't want to recognize, one which her mother had made sure was beautiful enough that no one would bother to look further. People didn't care about how pale the national prodigy was or how she always covered her skin. No, none of that mattered when her dresses were pretty and her room big. The view from the outside was a distorted one, but no one wanted to see the terrible things underneath a pretty smile anyway. Abuse couldn't possibly exist in a family so perfect, her teacher had said once, when she had seen her bruises.
She tried to shake herself out of the memory, but for some reason she wasn't able to see anything but her old room. Even after all these years, even as a hallucination, she hated this room. It was straight out of an advertisement for interior decorating, with pastel pink walls and beautiful dolls lined up neatly on the closet full of books. Brand new school supplies were stacked on her desk, colorful dresses in her closet. It was all pleasing to look at, but that's also all it was meant to be. She didn't touch the things in this room, after all, she wasn't allowed to. The dolls weren't for her to play with, the books were just covers, empty pages on the inside. Everything was for show and so was she.
"Helene!" a shrill voice called out, echoing through their empty home," come downstairs, now."
Though she wanted to refuse, her body never listened to her. She walked downstairs, moving as if controlled by someone else, a smile plastered on her face as soon as she reached the living room. Her mother was sitting on the couch with her back turned towards her, busy cutting something out of the paper. When she didn't give another order, Helene continued walking, only stopping when she stood right beside her. The woman was hunched over the paper, her face concealed by her pale blond hair, which was spilling down more as she leaned forward. Her knuckles were white from how tensely she was holding the scissors, nails bitten so far that her fingers bled at even the slightest pressure. Even her desire for beauty couldn't outweigh her compulsions.
"Look," her mother said, glancing up then," look how lovely this is."
Helene's gaze didn't immediately follow her mother's to the picture in the paper, instead lingering on the bruises on her skin. Purple had bloomed everywhere, her nose cracked in a way which wouldn't be reparable, face so gaunt Helene could trace all her bones. Once they had looked almost eerily similar, but now her mother was simply a ghost of a woman. Thankfully she was on too much drugs to notice. Whatever version of herself she hallucinated when she looked in the mirror, Helene didn't mind, as long as it kept her pleased. She had very quickly learned what her mother would do to her when she wasn't happy after all.
When she glanced at the picture she saw the article was about another award she had received recently. She was dressed in a pink dress with frills, exactly like the one her dolls wore, her hair tied up with a bow. It was the woman behind her that her mother was looking at though, her fingers tracing over the image of herself so feverishly that it almost seemed like she was in a trance. Her pupils were wide enough to conceal her irises and Helene wondered what combination of pills she had taken today. She'd find out soon enough.
"I look ever so beautiful," she muttered," this is how it's supposed to be, me being on the frontpage. I proved them all wrong, didn't I, all those ugly bastards who told me I'd be good for nothing. Look at me now!" Suddenly she grabbed Helene by the face, forcing her to see as her voice grew so loud in volume that it almost became deafening. "Look! Look, I tell you! I am the only one that matters, they'll realize soon enough. Oh, Juliana, ever so lovely Juliana. They'll sing for me, all of them. Even Mother. She'll call me Julie again."
Helene remained silent, waiting until her mother permitted her to speak. The woman stared at her, but she never was truly looking, only seeing what she wanted to. Then, without a warning, she jumped to her feet, the scissors falling down her lap as she pulled Helene along towards the basement, nails forming crescents on her wrist.
"Come," she said," we must get you another award, Helene. I already know what dress I'm going to wear."
The basement was empty save for a desk and a chair, her mother pushing her down there so she could work. This was the one she actually used, the one in her room a decor piece she wasn't allowed to touch. In the wood drops of blood had dried up, from when she had written so much her fingers started to bleed and from the nights where she was forced to stay awake, nose bleeding every time her mother dosed the pills too high. As if on clockwork, the woman rattled a bottle at her, grabbing Helene's face as she forced her mouth open. She was seven years, at this point.
"You promised," Helene whispered, voice soft," you told me I wouldn't need to use these anymore if I got that award."
"I just want you to do well, Helene," her mother frowned," why can't you understand that? You're making me the villain, can't you see how terrible that is of you? Me, your own mother. What kind of a child are you?"
"Moth -" she began, but the pills were already forced down her throat.
She almost choked, but her mother's hands were blocking off her mouth and nose to force her to swallow, the asphyxia coloring her sight dark for a moment. Her mother let her go when she had downed the pills, sweetly fixing her hair before she took her face in between her hands.
"You'll do well for me," she said," you know better than to disappoint me, Helene."
Her gaze flicked towards something above her collarbone then, none of her clothes having been able to hide that bruise. At once her mother's face contorted in distaste, pulling so roughly at the fabric in front of the bruise that Helene lost her balance and fell to the floor. Her head smashed against the tiles, stars dizzying her vision as she tasted iron between her teeth.
"Really?" her mother screeched," did you have to let him bruise you somewhere people could see? Look how ugly that red bruise is on your skin, Helene. Do you know how much that will clash with the pink dress you'll have to wear tomorrow?"
"I'm sorry, Mother," she said, but the words were slurred, her mouth filled with blood and her mind dazed from the fall.
"You should be," her mother said," now sit down, you'll have to be the best, Helene."
She nodded, getting to her feet as she attempted to sit down, but so disoriented that she fell down. Quickly she pushed herself up again, this time managing to sit in time, before she got scolded. The pills were starting to work then, her heart beginning to beat so fast that she thought she was going to faint, hands shaking uncontrollably. Within ten minutes she'd be vomiting, but afterwards, she'd be able to focus well.
"Focus, Helene," her mother said.
"Focus, Helene," she whispered to herself, the sight in front of her changing so quickly that she became light-headed.
Every time she blinked she was somewhere else, her hand reaching out to her surroundings but only touching air each time, even when she was so sure what she was seeing was real. She blinked and was hiding underneath her bed, blinked again and was counting the roses, again and was getting slapped in the face, again —
When she opened her eyes, she started vomiting.