Mourning Has Broken

The voice that had been urgently repeating her name for the last three and a half minutes was suddenly loud and clear; “Olivia? Can you hear me?” She opened her eyes, wincing at the harsh overhead lights. Her first observation was that she was on her back. Either that, or the rest of the world was defying gravity and made absolutely no sense (but then again; when did it ever?). The second realization was that she had an audience; her entire lecture hall was jockeying for position, trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘scene’. Some were even brandishing their phones; apparently this was prime social media content, and she was the main attraction. Her tutor – Prof Langley – was down on his knees by her side. She managed to focus on his face long enough to realize that the voice appeared to sync with his lips. It was him repeating her name, whilst simultaneously shaking her, the growing concern apparent in both his voice and the intensity of his grip.

“Oh thank God; are you ok”? he exclaimed with audible relief. Olivia pushed herself up so that she was in a semi recumbent position and allowed her immediate focus to steady. Oh my God. No.

The unmistakable wet stain in the groin of her faded jeans was spreading, fast. The mood of the crowd turned to amusement, and faint snickering began to replace to only seconds before concern.

“That’s enough! Get back to your papers! NOW” Prof Langley helped Olivia to her feet and hurriedly wrapped his sweater around her waist. “Let’s get you to the nurses office”.

_________________

She chewed anxiously at her already quick exposed nails. Streaks of thick mascara stained her pale complexion, and her baggy clothes hung off her shrinking frame as if in protest. Her appearance – once something she took great pride in – was a distant care. One she had long neglected and took no interest in reanimating.

“Do you want me to stay with you Olivia?” Pref. Langley asked; the genuine concern almost enough to stir some semblance of emotion in her. “No; thank you, I’ll be ok”. Which was a lie. She was far from ok. The furthest from ok.

Twice this month. The episodes were getting more frequent. But this was a new level of physical betrayal. How was she ever going to live this down? College was tough enough to navigate as it was, without the added shame and embarrassment of losing bladder control in front of three dozen of your peers.

“Olivia is everything alright at home?” The nurses soothing voice interrupted the preview of her immediate reality; one that involved incontinence pads and water bottles. Her oppressors were nothing if not predictable.

“Yes fine. I’m just tired”. Another lie.

“I really think you ought to see someone Olivia. I know this isn’t the first time this has happened. Did you speak to anyone after the….the accident?”

At the mention of it, Olivia’s blood ran cold. She stiffened and her pulse quickened; visibly, apparently, as the nurse immediately took her hand and started spouting a no doubt genericized speech about how “everything will be ok, and time is the greatest healer”.

“No”, she replied softly. She had seen an array of consultants, neurologists, physicians – none of whom could determine the root cause of these ‘episodes’, and after exhausting all possible physical triggers, it was written off as psychological. Most likely, a form of PTSD. “Excellent” she had thought at the time; nothing like a diagnosis of mental instability to fuel the rumor mill.

“Look, “the nurse continued – obviously desperate to reach Olivia on some level. “I have a friend who works with trauma victims, and I really think he could help you to heal”.

Trauma. Heal. Such short, unassuming words.

“Please” the nurse begged, sensing Olivia’s resentment at the suggestion. There was something genuine in her plea; something that actually resembled affection. Not that she could remember what that looked like…

“Ok” Olivia mumbled, but broke her hands free from the nurses and hurriedly gathered her things. She stopped in her tracks, surveilling the damp imprint she had left on the couch. Her eyes met the nurses – a silent apology – and she was gone.

__________________

The man who sat opposite her stared intently, as if awaiting a response. Was he? Had he asked a question? Subconsciously she traced the scars on her wrists whilst staring into her lap. I color in silver and it comes out red. Some had turned white. Some still rosy with a blood supply.

“Olivia?”

“Sorry, what?” Yes, he had asked a question, but she couldn’t remember what. Her brain was so foggy these days.

“When did the episodes first begin?”, Dr Sommers repeated. He held a Mont Blanc pen poised in his hand, eagerly anticipating her response. More like a hungry journalist than a PhD; a thought that only added to her already established dislike for him.

She raised her hand to her head and lightly fingered the scar that ran from her temple to her crown. The hair had never quite grown back, and the stretch of bald scalp was a harsh contrast to her shock of black hair. As if a sensory prompt, flashes of the rolling car engulfed her vision. The flames lapping over her boyfriend, swallowing him whole. The smoke; thick and unforgiving, choking her with every breath she clung to. The sweet metallic taste of blood that poured from the gash in her head, exposing her skull, trickled into her wide-open mouth as she screamed for what seemed like an eternity.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, the pressure dissipating the memory.

“About a month after the…. After it happened”.

“I see”

Do you though?

“And aside from this last incident (kind of him, she thought, to not actually make reference to her wetting herself) has there been anything remarkable about any previous times?”

She pondered the question for a few moments, before deciding to withhold the details that burned her lips. She wouldn’t tell him about the time she had woken up naked in the laundry room of her apartment block with blood on her face (not her blood; she had checked herself thoroughly) Or the time she got up for class one morning to find herself wearing a full face of makeup (that she never wore anymore) and clothes that were most definitely not hers. As she had torn them off herself, exposing several bruises that she couldn’t account for, it was the smell of oil and gasoline that puzzled her the most. But then again; she was a college student. Wasn’t it par for the course to wake up not remembering what you did the night before? Sure – she liked a drink. But blackouts were for amateurs, inexperienced in the realm of morbid alcoholism. She was a seasoned pro. Or so she thought.

“Olivia”, he continued, “we need to try to find what’s triggering these episodes. Its not neurological or physical, so we must assume they are psychological. Would you be open to a little experiment?”

Olivia shrugged, resisting his stare; annoyed at his interest. She was in no position to decline help offered to her; her family had been ripped apart by the accident, and the shockwaves that swept through their small community had driven her already manically depressed mother to further into an unforgiving black hole.

Dr Sommers leant round and opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a small, neatly bound black book. One of the expensive looking ones; hardbacked, with a ribbon for a bookmark and an elastic wraparound to keep the contents from spilling out.

He leaned across the vast expanse between them, proffering the book.

“Please, take it. I want you to keep a journal for the next few months. A diary, of sorts. Your feelings, emotions, sleep pattern – anything that can help us determine the root cause of your…” He paused. “Troubles”. Olivia rolled her eyes at his attempt at downplaying what she had already overheard her mother refer to as ‘psychotic breaks’, but reluctantly mirrored his gesture and met his outstretched hand and took ownership of the book.

________________

The next few weeks were quite unremarkable. The days merged seamlessly into one another; class, study, and all of those existential things, like eating and sleeping. She had not qualified for student housing, and monthly scraped around for just enough cash to cover rent for the hovel that she called home. She loved to paint; it was her one escape. She was studying Art History, and loved nothing more than to don her overalls in the dark of night, dim the lighting of her already dingy apartment, and plug herself into a heavy metal playlist; the kind that doesn’t really have words, just a lot of noise and illegible shouting.

No episodes. Nothing out of the ordinary.

______________

She woke up to banging on her door. Moments earlier the banging had been her own fists on the inside of a sealed coffin. Her nightmares were still constant and unforgiving, but she had long accepted them as part of who she was now.

As she grasped at consciousness, she realized that she wasn’t in her bed. She lifted her head off the cold wooden floorboards and a pain seared through her scar. Instinctively, her hand reached to touch it, but before it reached her throbbing scalp it froze in front of her face. She stared at her hand as her heart momentarily stopped.

Blood.

No, not again.

The knocking at the door was getting louder and growing in urgency. “OLIVIA!”

She rose to her feet and as she scanned her immediate vicinity was suddenly awash with relief. There, lying unceremoniously on its side, with its contents covering almost the entire floorspace, was her pot of red acrylic. Oh thank god. She almost laughed out loud with relief.

The door. Yes.

“Prof Langley, what are you doing here?” The expression of concern on his face was infectious, and she suddenly felt uneasy again.

“Jesus Olivia, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine….wha…”

“You’ve missed three classes!” No one has seen or heard from you in days!”

Olivia took a moment to digest this information. Who actually cared enough about her to miss her anyway? Her head throbbed. What day was it? Saturday. It was Saturday. How could she have missed class?!

She swiped her phone off the nearby dresser and stared in disbelief.

Tuesday 17th March

HOW?! How could she have lost three whole days?!

“I’m so sorry Prof Langley, I….I don’t feel very well. Please excuse my absence; Ill make up the work”

She started closing the door, avoiding the Professors worried – and slightly confused – expression, but his foot stopped the momentum of the closing door. His expression had changed from one of confusion to one of grave concern; but his gaze was no longer fixated on Olivia, but rather just over her shoulder. Following his stare, Olivia turned and inhaled quickly, doing her best to stifle a gasp.

There, in thick red paint, filling every inch of wall space, written over, and over again…

HELP ME.

“I have to go”, and with that Olivia pushed Professor Langley’s foot with her own, and slammed the door, locking it, before walking tentatively towards her latest creation. She stared, completely baffled. How did I even reach that high? she pondered, craning her neck.

After a few minutes – possibly more – of obsolete contemplation, Olivia noticed her black book, lying open, face down. She grimaced. Despite abhorring having to comply with the shrinks request, she adored literature, or books of any kind in fact, so to see one seemingly discarded so carelessly angered her – especially if it had been her own doing.

She rifled through the pages, searching for some clue as to what could have possibly triggered this; especially after such a long, uneventful respite from anything unordinary. She had – after an initial rebellion – been really rather diligent with her daily logs. Although she wouldn’t admit it, she had even started to enjoy making the entries. It was a constant in her life. A friend; familiar and welcoming.

She stopped flicking as a page caught her eye, and she carefully retraced the pages. What the hell….

She had made Saturdays entry; a takeaway coffee to stave off the DT’s, and then sketching some architecture in the park.

What she had written next was what worried her. Or not so much written; more of a hurried, urgent scribble. It wasn’t even recognizable as her own handwriting, but it had to be.

OBOO G0G q00

The scribble was accompanied by a crude drawing. A self-portrait? It was certainly sad looking enough to be her. In pain too.

She slammed the book shut, as it the force could erase this new content. Despite apparently having lost 3 days, she was exhausted. She just needed to lie down, just for a little while…..

________________

A number. It’s a phone number. She sat bolt upright, out of breath. Her nightmares sometimes proved as intuitive, and on this occasion, they had allowed her to dissect the puzzle of the illegible scribbles while she slept. She was drenched in sweat and her heart was beating out of her chest as she scrambled for her book, opening it again to the page….

0800 606 900.

Could it be?

With a quivering hand, she dialed the number, and held her breath as the call connected.

“You’ve reached the missing persons hotline; how can I help?”

Olivia threw her phone as though it had bitten her. She heard the operators feint voice repeat, “Hello? Missing persons hotline, do you have information?”. She crawled to where the phone lay and hit the end call button. All sort of scenarios began flashing through her mind; was she crazy? Was she preoccupied with tragedy? Was this her way of reaching out for help? But where had the number come from? Had she memorized it from a milk carton? So many questions…..so little energy. She abandoned trying to grasp at her sanity, now seeping through her fingers like sand, and once again fell into a dark, enveloping sleep.

_________________

“I’m so sorry Professor, I’m just really not very well, and I need to take some time out”, Olivia lied into her phone.

Well, it was sort of a lie. She wasn’t feeling herself, but certainly not enough to warrant an extended leave of absence from class. She was convinced that the episodes meant something, and her new obsession was figuring out exactly what. Mania, disguised as purpose.

Another episode a few days before announcing her sabbatical had produced yet more scrawls…this time a definite mixture of letters and numbers. But deciphering this one was going to be difficult; it was definitely not a phone number. Co-ordinates perhaps? A code of some sort? She shrugged off the occasional voice in her head that mocked her pseudo enthusiasm at her new ‘hobby’; “just because you watch CSI doesn’t make you a detective” it mused…

But Olivia knew. She didn’t know how, but she just knew that it all meant something. Something important.

After 5 days holed away in her apartment, the withdrawal became too intense, and despite being dressed in homeless chic and having not showered in a week, she ventured out to a nearby bar with the little black book - or her ‘bible’ as she had begun referring to it affectionately as – safely tucked under her arm.

She sat perched on a bar stool nursing a neat vodka, the furthest away from other human life as physically possible. Despite the separation, her appearance (and smell, probably) still drew disapproving looks from other patrons.

She didn’t care; the Russian Standard that she sipped on warmed her from the inside out, and the delicate rush of alcohol that coursed through her veins was pure nirvana.

An overhead TV broke her moment of indulgence as a news bulletin suddenly blared out. “Can you turn it down?!”, Olivia hissed at the loitering barman. She wasn’t usually rude or confrontational, but her anxiety levels were at an all time high, and she had just wanted to enjoy that short respite from all the noise.

“If you have any information that could assist officers with their investigation, please call 0800 606 900 today. A $20,000 reward is offered for information leading to the whereabouts of Alice Hamer”

Olivia froze.

That number.

The barman had found the remote for the TV and was taking aim at the receiver when Olivia launched herself at her, knocking the remote from his hand.

“What the….?!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry – did you hear that?” Olivia was looking frantically between the barman and the bulletin that now encircled the screen on a carousel.

“Hear what? The disappearance?”, the barman almost scoffed. “That’s old news. Doubt they’ll find her alive now. Shame. Pretty girl”.

Missing person.

Missing girl. The girl from her bible. Could it be? No, that’s impossible. Subliminal messaging was one thing, but clairvoyance was entirely another.

“Picture” Olivia blurted out. “Do you have a picture?”

“Of Alice? Sure. Her face has been plastered all over the local papers. Here”

The barman grabbed a secondhand newspaper from under the bar and passed it to Olivia, who upon receipt, turned as white as a sheet.

There, staring back at her from the front page – with the same sad, pained eyes - was the girl she has sketched a few weeks back.

Then darkness. It happened again.

________________________

Waking up having no recollection of what had occurred the hours, sometimes days prior had become commonplace. So, when Olivia awoke to find herself in the penthouse suite of the most luxurious hotel in town, she was relatively unphased.

Had she gone on a drinking spree and hooked up with a rich guy? Had she robbed a bank and was reveling in her spoils? The truth in fact was not too far from the latter, which she managed to piece together whilst swigging the remnants of Grey Goose from one of the numerous empty bottles that lay discarded amongst the room service trolley, gift bags, and various other items of luxury that adorned the extravagant furnishings. Did I do this? Between swigs she patted herself down, trying to account for her phone, which should surely shed some light.

The first thing that struck her as she squinted through bloodshot eyes trying to focus on the small print on the screen was a notification from her bank; a deposit receipt for $20,000 made the day before, from a source she didn’t recognize.

What the…..

Her confusion was rudely interrupted by her phone vibrating and displaying a withheld number.

“Hello?”, she muttered cautiously as she settled the phone in the cradle between her ear and shoulder. Her bible. Where was it?

“Olivia, Detective Monroe. We were just wondering if you could come down to the station today; we have a few more questions for you if you don’t mind”.

More questions? And who was Dt. Monroe? He spoke as though he knew her, so they must have met. But surely she would remember?

“Detective, I… I….”

“I know this must all be very overwhelming for you Olivia, and we are all so incredibly grateful for your assistance. We just need to finalize some routine enquiries”

“My assistance? Wha….”

The detective mistook her confusion for emotion; “Miss Hemmings, it’s not every day you manage to assist in the recovery of a missing person. You’re a credit to the community, and to your family. They must be very proud”

Olivia found herself repeating excerpts of what the Detective said “very proud…” she trailed off.

“So we’ll see you later today, yes? You know where we are.” And he hung up, leaving Olivia open mouthed and in a whirlwind of overwhelming confusion.

Missing person. Recovered. Reward.

Had she helped the authorities? Had she claimed the reward? But how?! With what?!

Her bible. That was the key. Dammit, where was it.

_______________________

Olivia never made it down to the police station that day. Instead, they came to her, tracing her using mobile phone triangulation and facial recognition software. Not normal procedure; especially for a celebrated hero. But this was no longer a normal investigation.

A call had been placed to the missing persons hotline 24 hours before. Olivia had given very specific information that had led to the discovery of Alice. She was found – alive, barely - in a padlocked storage facility that doubles as garages, just off a disused highway.

The letters and numbers.

In the hype, no one had queried Olivia’s intimate knowledge of Alice’s location. Her rescue shook the community, and Olivia held hero status. The reward was gifted to Olivia, no questions asked – even when she had apparently asked for it to be routed to a disused account that was registered to her late boyfriend. Apparently. Olivia had no recollection and relied on police reports and news bulletins to piece together the blanks.

But as the hype subsided, the investigation took an unexpectedly dark twist. An item of immense significance was recovered from the lock up and was now a key piece of evidence in the case.

A small, neatly bound black book.

When the arresting officer produced the book from a clear evidence bag Olivia lunged for it, but the officer retracted it just out of her reach.

That smell. Oil and gasoline.

The smell lingered long after the book had been replaced in the now sealed evidence bag. Olivia did not resist as she was read her rights and her hands cuffed behind her back. The fading scent was still trying desperately to ignite her memory. That smell.

_________________

The book had been found not far from where Alice’s emaciated body hung almost lifeless from a makeshift rope harness.

An array of wigs and makeup and clothing of no specific style or genre littered the floor; a ‘dressing room’ one CSI had deliberated. Full bottles of pills stood like soldiers next to unsheathed lipsticks. Razorblades danced in the light provided by the flood lamps erected at the scene. Later, a body search at the facility would reveal more letters and numbers etched into Olivia’s inner thighs. Some healed. Some brand new, still leaking fluid.

A background check revealed that the lock up had been registered to a Wayne Price; Olivia’s late boyfriend. Its sole purpose had been to house his most prized possession; a ‘64 Mustang, that he kept in pristine condition. Well; the bodywork at least. If only he had been more diligent with engine maintenance.

As they had pulled out of the lock up that day – carefree and so in love – they didn’t look back. But if only they had. They would have seen the dark pool of engine oil and gas that had pooled on the concrete, and now trailed behind them as they sped off into the perfect summer’s eve. They would have turned back, and never made it as far as the highway, challenging another car to a race at the intersection lights. Alice would never have flicked a lit cigarette, aiming for Olivia’s open window, but missing…. instead falling into the trail of flammables that still trailed unforgivingly behind them; a fuse….

_________________

In the custody suite Olivia sat silently.

The assisting officer carefully turned the pages of the upturned book with his latex gloved fingers, his focus alternating between its contents and Olivia’s emotionless face.

Pages and pages of scribbles. Urgent. Frantic. Some etched with so much force the paper had torn.

“Can you tell us how you knew where Alice was being held?”, Dt. Monroe asked pointedly.

She couldn’t.

The Detective ignored her silence and further pressed, “or perhaps you can tell us why the combination for the lock to the garage along with the disarm code for the security alarm is written here on this page?” he said planting a nicotine stained finger on the page before her, all the while keeping his arresting eyes trained on Olivia’s face.

“Was it for the money?” The tabloids had put particular emphasis on Olivia’s parents’ wealth; in hindsight a $20,000 reward seemed disproportionate – frugal even. Their family had been targeted before, but only ever for their two miniature dachshunds, who were later returned as the kidnappers had had a crisis of conscience. But the monetary incentive offered for their reward had resulted in a lot of unwanted attention.

Money is the root of all evil, she thought, but still didn’t speak. Her motive – if she was indeed responsible for Alice’s kidnap (which was now being categorized as attempted murder, as it was apparent the assailant had left her with no food or water, and with deep lacerations carved into her flesh. To die, essentially) – evaded her. Her brain had long since locked away the details of that fateful day that took the life of the only person she had truly ever loved.

Detective Monroe produced one of the pill bottles found at the scene. “Is this yours?”. A rhetorical question. Olivia stared at the bottle, at recited the fine print to herself. Paliperidone. Miss Olivia Hemmings.

Paliperidone.

Her general knowledge around medication was good; she had become well versed since her mother’s diagnosis. She therefore knew immediately that this particular drug was used to treat acute schizophrenia.

___________________

The evidence was overwhelming. Not only had the black book acted as a confession, her DNA was found covering everything in the garage. And thanks to having maintained poor personal hygiene over the last few weeks, skin cells belonging to Alice were found under Olivia’s fingernails. Her only real defense was to plead insanity. Without it, she would end up in a detention center where she would never survive her peers.

What funds had remained of the reward money (that due to a financial loophole she was permitted to keep) were consumed by legal fees, and soon ran out. She was at the mercy of a court appointed lawyer – an inexperienced one at that. He had however managed to negotiate her incarceration to be at the state psychiatric facility; the lesser of two evils.

The episodes didn’t stop; only now that she was under 24-hour supervision, a sedative was quickly administered to prevent her from harming herself, or others. In her desperation for escape, Olivia had learned to induce the episodes, craving the hiatus from her immediate reality.

One on such occasion as the cold needle pierced her skin and the Haloperidol surged through her veins, her vision faded. But just before her eyes closed fully, she caught her reflection in the Perspex glass of the door.

Her alter ego grinned through lipstick stained teeth back at her, beckoning to follow through the portal to her other self.

“Hello, old friend”.

____________________