I wake up covered in dirt.
My pyjamas are ripped at the edges, while my skin looks as if I've crawled out of a grave.
This can't be happening.
I lunge upwards, jutting out of bed to further inspect the damage. A few scratches on my arms, hardly noticeable. Otherwise, I'm a mess. A patterned rug of mud, dust and cobwebs.
The scream that has been working its way up my throat briefly pauses.
I close my mouth, covering it.
I can't scream. I'll wake Mum and Light and they'll see me like this. Oh god. This can't be happening. She isn't coming back, she can't come back.
I start to pace, but my legs are shaking so much I have to sit down. I'm aching all over. Sitting down resembles a crane trying lower a ten-ton pipeline.
Outside, the sun hasn't risen properly. It's barely dawn.
That means I still have time to forget this ever happened.
With a fair amount of hyperventilating, I open my bedroom door, padding across the landing to the bathroom. If I have a shower and dump the clothes in time, I can forget about this.
I'm not letting her ruin my life, not again. Once was enough.
Stripping off my ruined clothes, I step into the tiled shower, bask under the glow of the hot water. Maybe it will wash me away. Wash away whatever she was up to last night. What was she even trying to do? Dig a grave? I wouldn't put it past her, that's for sure.
After drying myself off, I lug the bundle of clothes back to my room. I can't go outside, even if I want to. Even thinking about it leaves me with a hole in my chest. I can't.
Instead, I try the next best thing: hiding them under my bed. It's pretty pathetic – even for me – but I don't see any other choice.
Forcing myself to blank out the truth, I dress in a white blouse and blue jeans. Even though the jeans are skinny fit, they hang off me like a bedsheet on a TV aerial. Maybe I should ask Mum about buying some gym equipment, just to build myself back up again.
Rubbing the worry from my mind, I creep downstairs.
Dr. Light and Mum aren't awake yet, so I head to the living room to read. Somehow, the book I was reading yesterday has ended up back on the shelf. It must be Mum. She must have put it away.
Gradually, I lift it from the shelf and walk over to sit on the couch.
My body sinks into the pillows like a ship onto the waves. If I could spend the entire day here, reading, I would. But two hours soon slip away, the dew leaching from the grass outside, and I hear footsteps echoing across the hall. I understand what Light meant yesterday – to want to help myself. But has he considered that maybe, I don't want to feel okay? I might never feel okay again, no matter how many sessions I have.
Talking about feelings doesn't always change them.
Folding the page, I sit up, relieving my chin from its concertinaed position.
I peek over the cushions, meeting my Mum's stare as she enters the room.
"You're up early," she remarks. Her open smile makes my toes tingle. Mum.
The gravity of everything I've missed because of those three years finally hits me. Three years without getting ice-cream in the park with my Mum, three years without eating a takeaway sandwiched in front of the TV, with the one person who understands me better than I could ever understand myself.
"I couldn't sleep. Did you sleep well?" I ask quickly.
Last night is definitely not what I want to talk about.
"Yes, actually. I've made pancakes". Pancakes. Instantly, the world seems brighter.
"Thanks". Still, I can't escape the nausea in my stomach. Last night. What did she do? Mum seems okay, but what about Dr. Light? What if she's done something to him?
As my Mother swings back around the door, I lurch up from the couch, rushing to the dining table. It isn't right to go careening into Light's bedroom. But what if...?
Slotting into a chair, I start shovelling pancakes onto my plate. I just hope he's okay. He doesn't exactly deserve to be, but I hope he is.
To alleviate my nerves, I pile on more pancakes, tucking in with the ferocity of a wild animal.
"Good morning".
I turn, half a pancake hanging out my mouth, to see him in the doorway, rubbing his forehead. His skin – pale as it is – seems paler, like an alabaster statue in a museum. A museum. I remember going to one, although I'm not entirely sure which. Mum must have taken me, but I can't recall seeing her face. Just hearing her.
"Don't go running off like that," she had said to me. "I don't want to lose you".
Dousing my suddenly dry throat in orange juice, I watch Dr. Light ease onto the chair. He really does look awful. All his movements are so stiff, stiffer than mine. A blush creeps onto my cheeks as I realise I still have half a pancake hanging out my mouth.
Not so subtly, I finish it. Light only takes one. His eyes meet mine. Tired eyes. He isn't tired in the sense of sleep – I know he isn't – but something else. Mentally tired, as if he's holding himself back. Back from what?
"Are you okay?" he asks me eventually. If I wasn't so worried, I would have registered his concern.
"Yes. I'm fine". Lying, always lying. I'll never be allowed to stop.
"Are you okay?" His expression falters slightly.
"Yes," he says. Liar. Both of us are too accustomed to playing a part.
My brow itches. I don't understand him. For someone with a Harvard degree and a snappy suit, he's pretty miserable. Like me, I suppose. But then, I have an excuse.
Looking down at my hands, phantom veils of mud coat my fingernails.
Closing my palms, I move on to my next pancake. Mum sweeps in, picks up Light's plate. He mutters an almost inaudible thank you.
Mum kisses my forehead, running a hand through my hair as she passes.
"I'm going to go out shopping today. We've only got tumbleweeds in the fridge. Do you want anything?"
My memories. My old life, a proper life, not whatever this fractal existence is. But I doubt those things can be store bought.
Instead, another idea takes root.
"Maybe, dumbbells or a workout magazine or something. I just think it might be good for me to build up my strength and get some exercise," I add sincerely. I'm not sure why I'm thinking of lifting weights, but I am. I also find myself wanting to ask for gym equipment.
Mum looks sceptical, and I fear she's going to say no, when Light clears his throat.
"That isn't a bad idea. She's currently underweight and raising her endorphin levels might help her feel better". Mum flashes him a stern glare, but it's so fast I barely see it.
"I don't want her overexerting herself, but alright". A moment later, she's gone. Leaving Light and I at our now very silent table. He's not even looking at me, he's just staring at the floor with his mask of stoicism.
After I've cleared my plate, I begin staring at the floor too.
'Look at that. He's stared a craze,' I think I hear her saying, which makes me shiver. She's not supposed to be here. This is my life and she is not, she is not, ruining it. Not again, never again.
"Do you feel up to doing a session today? To talk about how you're feeling right now?" Dr. Light is asking. He's mumbling so quietly I almost can't hear him.
"Sure," I whisper. It's what he wants really, what Mum wants. It's always what everyone else wants. Never me.
Five minutes later, we're back in that room. The plush chair squelches beneath me, as if it too is pretending to be strong. Dr. Light readies his notes. He asks about my sleeping patterns and I lie. I lie a lot. The whole session blurs into thinly fabricated lies and more elaborate ones. Fake memories until I stop at a real one.
"I remember moving here," I say, surprising myself. I don't remember it very clearly, but at least it's something.
"Do you remember where you lived before that?" he presses. More carefully, this time. Less probing, more prodding. I shake my head, and he doesn't push me for any further details.
My hands flutter into relaxation, while my sweat dries up like a river in the desert.
"Did you like moving here?" It's a good question. There seems to be joy in the memory, but there's also an underlying sense of pain. Discomfort. In the end, I do what I do best. I pretend.
"Yes. I remember being really excited at the all the different rooms and views." I say, praying my answer will satisfy him.
He scribbles in his notepad before speaking again.
When he meets my gaze, his voice takes on a softer edge. A knife blunted by countless attempted murders.
"Why are you lying to me?" So, his Harvard degree is useful for something.
Pulse quickening, I shuffle in the chair. Sweat sheens, glistening as stolen diamonds on my brow.
"I'm not lying," I say hesitantly.
"Look, I don't want to push you. I just want to know why you don't feel as if you can tell me the truth. I'm your psychiatrist, I need to know what's bothering you". I wonder if prying is in his job description.
The walls thicken, pressing my lungs inwards. I can't, can't tell him. I can't breathe. I'm supposed to go through these sessions and get better, not worse. Everyone wants you to get help, to be somebody else's problem. But other people, they don't understand. They can't. I don't want them to, not really. I wouldn't want anyone to go through what I've been through.
But they don't even try. That's all anyone of us can do – try.
"Okay," he sighs and for a blistering second, I fear he's going to start shouting, start telling me that I'm wrong for pretending, I'm wrong for trying to stop people worrying about me. That I'm wrong for trying at all.
"What's your favourite colour?" he asks. I can't hide the tiny note of laughter that escapes me. We're making small talk now?
"I don't know that either," I answer. He nods. Honesty.
"How do you feel, right now?" Like I want him to, no I need him, to stop asking questions. Because next time, I'll tell the truth.
"I..." My words leave me.
"I'm feeling like crap," he says, throwing a frown across my brow. I thought this was my session.
"And why do you feel like that?" I ask, crossing my legs to appear more studious. Tapping my imaginary clipboard, I slide forward. He doesn't smile, but I feel that he's saying all this to get one out of me.
"Don't tell your mother, but I get headaches a lot. Sometimes, they turn into migraines. I don't know why I have them, but I do. A lot of the time, I have to pretend I'm alright". In an instant, my walls lower, the drawbridge of my mind falling with a thud.
"Now," he says. "Tell me how you really feel". Smile dissipating, I remain silent, an internal debate happening right before his eyes. I want to tell him, but I can't. Not about last night, not about her voice in my head. But I can tell him something.
"I feel like I'm spending every hour of every day pretending to be okay". Dr. Light closes his notebook. Stares at me.
"You don't have to be okay with me. You can be wonderfully not okay". So, I am. It's the best talk I've had for a long time.