Living Dead Girl

We are not crazy. You want to know how we know that? About a billion tests, a year of daily counseling, at least twenty rounds of various neuropsychological procedures, and constant psychiatric evaluations. But it gets worse, my friend. On the more barbaric end of the spectrum, these bastards took to insulin shock therapy and electroconvulsive therapy to try and treat our apparent schizophrenia. Idiots. We told them it wasn't schizophrenia. We told them we weren't insane. But they didn't believe us. Probably because we speak from the same mouth. Anyway, we're just glad they didn't end up resorting to a fucking lobotomy. That would have totally sucked.

The thing is, Gisele is real. Not real like Jones is real, with his sweaty face and hairy neck, and those sausage fingers that probably don't even have knuckles. She's not real the way I used to be real, running around like I was invincible and my actions would never yield any real consequences. But she's not just a voice in my head, that's for sure. I mean, technically, yeah, as of right now, she's just a voice in my head. But it's not just my head anymore! It's our head. We're sharing!

I understand if you're a little confused right now, but don't worry. We will clear everything up for you in due time. What we're trying to get at here is that today is the day. The day that, in the eyes of the law, the body of Lark Fontaine is finally free. What does this mean for us? It means that we can finally finish what we started and I can finally have my body and mind to myself again.

It's been a year since we were thrown in here, locked up like a common psychopath; a year since we were escorted into our new room with its four padded, white walls. It's been a year that we've had to endure the pain, the confusion, the discomfort, and the mistreatment. However, a whole year of planning and scheming has definitely been good for our post-asylum plans. And once we walk through those doors and out into the real world again, we're never looking back. We'll die before we get tossed back in there. Or, I will, considering Gisele is already dead.

* * *

The heavy steel door creaked open just after sunrise. We could hear Jones' bushel of keys jingling as he propped the door open.

"Rise and shine, Tweety," he grunted.

"A bird-themed nickname," we said. "How original. Never heard it before."

"Get up, bitch," he spat. "Big day today."

We sat up and grinned. "We know."

Jones narrowed his eyes at us.

"I know," we said quickly. We reminded ourselves to speak slowly, to think first, so as to not slip up and get stuck in here for another year.

"Don't fuck this up," said Jones. He wiped his thick, sweaty hands against his thin, stained shirt. "My wife and I are having dinner tonight to celebrate. The torture of dealin' with your crazy ass for the past year is finally comin' to an end, Bird-Brain, and I tell you what, I couldn't be happier to get rid of your ass."

We slid out of bed and into our flat white hospital slippers. They matched and clashed in equal measure with the off-white scrubs we had to wear. We looked around the room at the belongings we had acquired over the last twelve months and decided nothing was important to bring to the outside with us.

"Let's get this show on the road, then," we said.

Jones roughly grabbed our wrists, as always, and shoved us into the hallway. We went left, down a long, bright white corridor lit with the ugliest fluorescent bulbs we'd ever seen. We moved quickly, Jones pushing us all the way, a tight grip on our arms which he held together behind our back. We passed door after door, each one leading to a room just like ours, housing a patient with some sort of mental dysfunction that doesn't allow them to be part of regular society.

When we reached the door to Dr. Death's office, we felt our heart skip a beat. This was it. This was our final test, the one thing standing between us and the outside world. Dr. Death opened his door and frowned, his big bushy gray eyebrows plunging down to nearly cover his gray eyes.

"You're early," he said.

Jones sniffed. "Eager, sir."

Dr. Death laughed. "This one has caused you quite a bit of trouble, hasn't she?"

Jones grumbled, "You have no idea, Doc."

Dr. Death stepped aside and motioned for us to enter his office. "That will be all I need from you for now, Mr. Jones. Please wait here. It should be only about ten minutes and then you can take Miss Fontaine up front to sign out with Cynthia."

Jones nodded. "Yes, sir," and let go of our sore, cramping wrists.

We moved into the office and Dr. Death followed, closing the door behind us. We sat in a worn-out armchair across from him as he settled in behind his desk. He had a file open on his desk full of loose-leaf papers with the same thing printed at the top of each: FONTAINE, LARK - #6167099.

"Miss Fontaine," Dr. Death began. "I just want to talk to you and ask you a few questions to make sure that you're ready to leave us today. Please answer each question with complete and total honesty. Your mental health depends on it."

We nodded. There was a shiver up our spine and Gisele's laughter floated through our mind. But we sat with our back straight and our eyes forward, pretending that it was just me. That was the only way we would make it out of there today, by pretending that she wasn't there, and it was really just me.

"Yes, sir," we said. "I understand."

"Wonderful," he said. "First question; What is my name?" He glared at us, burning anger behind his eyes, masked by a fake façade of doctorly concern.

We couldn't help but smile, just a little. "Dr. Mortem, sir."

He nodded and grinned. "Lovely. Moving on..." He scribbled something on a piece of lined paper. We recalled how we'd made fun of him when we first came here, giving him the nickname of Dr. Death and resurfacing all of his childhood insecurities along with it. "How old are you, Miss Fontaine?"

"I am nineteen years old, Doc. Got my whole life ahead of me."

He made no reaction at all, just scribbled some more. "Where do you live?"

"I live in Sugarfield, about two hours south of here. One two three seven two Sunset Boulevard. Lived there my whole life."

"Does anyone else live at home with you?"

We shook our head. A memory whispered faintly in the back of our mind but we shut it out. No time to recall that tragedy now.

"No, sir," we said. "It's just me now."

"Do you have any living family?" he asked, not looking up from where he wrote notes in the file on his desk.

We took a quiet breath.

Just recite what we've practiced and keep our feelings out of it. Gisele's voice was calming in that moment, reminding me that I wasn't going through this alone.

"No," we said. "My mother died giving birth to me. My father passed recently. I have no living grandparents, aunts, uncles, or siblings. It's just me."

"Do you have another support system for when you return to society, Miss Fontaine? Friends? Colleagues?"

"I have Trey."

"Ah, yes." Dr. Death penned another note. "The gentlemen who visited you. Just twice throughout your stay, wasn't it?"

"Well, it is a two-hour drive." We felt the sting on that one. It was true, Trey had only come to see us twice since we arrived, and it was very early on in our stay. It hurt to think about it, so we avoided thinking about it entirely.

"Mmhm." Dr. Death scribbled some more, then put his pen down, crossed his hands on the desk, and looked into our eyes. "Miss Fontaine, can you tell me what you remember about the day you were admitted here?"

"Do I have to?"

He nodded.

Gisele came again to comfort me. Just as we rehearsed. You can do this. Her Old English accent was mysterious and soothing.

Despite her encouragement, our voice was small when we spoke. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to do it. But I guess I did. That's what they tell me. I swear, I didn't mean to do it. I don't remember it."

Come on, love, you can do better than this babbling baby bullshit. Get your head out of your arse, straighten your damned shoulders, and speak!

We cleared our throat and squared up. "They brought me here instead of taking me to jail, which is pretty cool. But I was afraid because I didn't think I was crazy. And because I couldn't remember lighting the match."

"Have you had any episodes in the last few weeks?" Dr. Death went back to note-taking, and we shook off the sick feeling that had crawled up our throat.

"No."

He wrote something else, pulled out another pad of paper, and wrote something there, too. Then he stood up, pushed back his chair, and extended his hand toward me. I stood slowly and shook his hand.

"You may pick up your medication at the Wellburn Pharmacy on Route 6. It should be ready for you to pick up by the time you get back to Sugarfield."

"Okay." Our heart began to race.

"I am only a phone call away, Miss Fontaine. I hope that you will reach out to me if you should ever find the need. Though you're leaving today, I'm still your doctor. Understand?"

We nodded, our mouth dry, our legs aching to turn and sprint down the hallway and toward the front door, never looking back.

Dr. Death walked across the room and opened his office door. Jones stood on the opposite side of the hallway, looking wired. We winked at him.

"Enjoy your freedom," the doctor said.

"I will, Doc. Thanks." We gave him a victorious smile.

Jones escorted us down the hall, this time without manhandling us, and into an elevator. We went down three floors and came out in the lobby, which was decorated like a doctor's office waiting room. There were no bars on the windows here, no series of locks on each door.

We turned to gaze through the glass double doors that led out to the parking lot. The sun was shining; it was a gorgeous spring day. Our entire body buzzed with anticipation as we approached the front desk where Cynthia sat chomping a piece of gum and filing her impossibly long nails. Her hair was pinned up in a perfect bun and her lipstick was even redder than her nail polish.

She gave us a small stack of paperwork and, after we scribbled a little doodle on each line she'd highlighted, we were ready to go.

"Here are the clothes you came in," said Cynthia, passing us a rumpled brown paper grocery bag. "They've been washed. And here are your personal items that were confiscated from you upon arrival." She handed us a second smaller bag made of plastic.

Our skin felt on fire at the sight of it. Our whole body itched and the desire to run straight through the glass doors to the outside was nearly too strong to resist. We gathered our things and turned to say goodbye to Jones.

"I hope you rot in hell, you fat fuck."

He half-grinned. "I'll see you there, psycho bitch."

On all that is unholy, I really hate that asshole.

We laughed, spun, and walked quickly toward the doors, pushed them open, and burst out of the tall, brick building into the warmth of the sunshine and the late spring breeze. A huge smile spread across our face, ear to ear, for the first time in a long time. The air smelled earthy and sweet, and our eyes burned from the brightness of the sun as we practically ran through the parking lot toward the street.

The hospital sat at the end of a long, dirt road, at the other end of which sat an intersection and a small lean-to with a payphone that acted as a bus stop. When we arrived at the rickety little shack in the middle of nowhere, we finally shed the hospital scrubs and opened up the paper bag to change into our own clothes.

Each item of clothing we removed from the bag sent one more shock to the memory center of our brain, but we were well-versed in batting away those thoughts. We pulled on a worn-out pair of jeans, black and white canvas tennis shoes, a plain white t-shirt, and a denim jacket. There were tie-dye socks and a pair of black underwear in there, too.

Once we were dressed, we ripped open the plastic bag. We pulled out a scrunchie and threw our long, ratty hair into a ponytail. Next came a tube of lip balm, a zippo lighter, a pocket knife, a wallet, and – the most important item of them all – an antique brass ring set with a faceted onyx stone.

We took a deep breath. Put it on, please, dear lord, put it on. I need to stretch my legs.

"Gotta call Trey first," we said aloud. "You don't know his number."

We picked up the receiver of the payphone and pulled a couple of quarters from our wallet, dropped them in, and dialed Trey's number from memory. He picked up after three rings.

"Hello?"

"Trey, it's u— it's me. It's Lark."

He breathed for a moment, then said, "Hi. What's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm great," we said. "They let me go."

"They did?" His voice was incredulous. "Are you for real? Where are you?"

"At the bus stop by the hospital." We bit our lip as we wondered how to ask our next question. "Would you pick me up? I'll give you gas money."

Trey chuckled. "You don't have to pay me. I'll be there in a couple of hours."

"Thank you so much."

We hung up the phone and gazed down at the ring. We shoved all the other items into our pockets, then picked the ring up to admire it.

"Just try not to freak Trey out," we said. "He's all we have."

Put the fucking ring on your fucking finger.

We did. And then, for a moment, everything went black. There was a sickness in our stomach, like riding a rollercoaster, that disappeared as quickly as it came. And then everything was different.

I was watching from inside. I was listening, as if in another room of a house. I was no longer in control of my body. The moment I put that ring on my finger, Gisele took control. It was her body, now.

***

Chapter Two Coming Soon...