Her final struggle

With the passing time, she had begun to move on. Nightmares had almost stopped torturing her. They used to be rare occurrence now. But ones that came took her breath away. She literally woke up from each nightmare gasping for air, with wide open bloodshot eyes, trembling legs, and hazy conscious. Her bed sheet used to drip sweat. On those occasions, life seemed not worth living. She was waiting for the day when she would cut open her veins in her sleep and wake up to see the blood oozing out from her palms. She could feel the pungent smell of her dried blood on the bed sheet. It would have already rotten inside before coming out for external display. She looked alive but was dead inside from long back. Her life was a misery that she wanted to get rid of as soon as possible.

A few years back she was diagnosed with some mental disorder. She was a victim of a minor accident. Some head punches here and there, and now she couldn’t think straight. She was one of the most interesting patients. But interesting in Psych Ward is an ordeal for handlers and doctors. She had hallucinations. She was hard to handle, at one moment she acted as docile as a cow and in another she was as disruptive as a untamed beast. She managed to knock down handlers easily. A couple of them were not sufficient to handle her, they needed at least three pairs. Tackling her was a sport in itself. She has been on different medications and under a different procedure since her admission. One of those medications had left its permanent mark. Her hallucination. She invented people around her. She used to have long conversations. Half she spoke and half her head stuffed. On occasions conversation went completely incomprehensible since she used to go on listening mode. Handlers hated this. One sided conversation are not so attractive to indulge in.

One day she went quiet for no apparent reasons. She was found wintering in the closet in one of the nearest wards. Doctors claimed that evidently medications had calmed her down. She could now be handled by only a single person. Doctors noticed some fears in her daily conduct. She easily got scared of anyone or anything. She seemed paranoid. A lady assistant was tagged to her for the company. She needed assistance even when she went for baths. When the situation appeared to be going out of hand, Doctors had to start with counseling sessions. After few sessions, she finally opened up and poured down everything she was experiencing.

Once she opened up, she sounded saner than anyone else in the ward. She immersed the doctors with all the past details. She used to talk to herself even when she knew onlookers labeled her insane. She was a psychiatrist herself. She had been self-diagnosing herself since her silent ward experience. She had figured out what was wrong with her. She was suffering from multiple personality disorder. She knew people looked at her as if she was crazy but she had no option. She used to talk to her selves. She used to have argument and discussions. She had pleaded many of them to go away and few abided by her request. There are always some exceptions. Few of them were too stubborn to even talk. They didn’t even show any hint of softening. They started conspiring against her. She had begun living in constant fear. Conspiracies running in her head were her nightmares. For others, her screams in the night were rituals of a nightmare, but for her, it was the struggle for survival. When she woke half suffocated people told her that it must have been a wicked dream. But she knew she had tried to strangle herself in sleep. There were no clear explanations for her finger marks on her own neck. Few times she had stopped herself from slicing the wrist open.

Her admission helped docs in settling her medications. She seemed to get better. Her nightmares were decreasing. She was responding well. On the occasion of relapses, doctors knew what they were dealing with. Her surveillance was increased. One attendant was always present for her help and security from herself. Incidents had started mellowing down until one morning they could not locate her on her bed. Doors were unlocked, and she was found with fingernail scratches, torn clothes and bloodied clothes. She had suffered multiple injuries. Her room and washroom were both a big mess. They found a rope made of bed sheet hanging on the fan, a torn off the pillow and emptied bottle of medications. Dots were hard to connect. Nothing was clear.

One thing was creepy and horrifying. It was her smile. She was sitting in half filled tub, reddened by her blood. She was wet and exhausted, but her smile stood out. She was grinning. No one dared to approach her without doctor’s instruction. One of her doctors approached her cautiously. He asked her what happened out there. She whispered, ‘I killed them. I killed them all. One I hanged on the ceiling fan, another one I suffocated with a pillow, and I made the third one swallow the pills and drowned her in the tub till bubbles stopped surfacing, I loved the sound of bubbles when they burst. All were resistant and restless, except for the first one she was a piece of cake. She kicked a few times, with no energy, but it was fun. This scratches on my body are work of the second one whom I suffocated, She was strong. I ripped down pillow in her memory when I was finished. Bleeding and torn cloth are from the third struggler. They had no clue whom they were dealing with. No one is left. Me and my body. Could you please test and confirm that I am fit? I have to be released’. And she started smiling again.

Something was wrong with her. Everything looked accurate, but something was bothering the doctor. He could sense some strange behavior. His patient never had this much strength. At least not enough to pull this stunt. She could never dare to do anything of such atrocity. Her smile was pure, not nasty. If she had done this, she would not have bragged about her doings. Instead, she would have been filled with guilt. Suddenly he knew what must have happened. He longed for his analysis to be wrong. But he was aware that his patient was never coming back. He was supposed to deal with a new one because his original one was hanged on the ceiling fan.

For long time I was a consumer. Reading through this sea of articles. I always wondered if I could ever write as good as what I read. Last year I started my struggle with writing. It is amazing to put down thoughts and let your stories flow where they wish to go. I have recently started writing articles and published a few :) I am still searching for my style and genre. Any feedback or suggestion is welcome. Do recommend if you like this story and share with friends.