Sparks of Resistance || Self-para.
She awoke with a gasp. And with small and tired eyes, she scrambled to find a pen. They had allowed her one, the other day, so it had to be there. Paper was not available, maybe it would be later, but she could write on the floor. Or rather, draw. Because she had seen a face, and while it felt familiar, she could not recognize it for the life of her. But it was important, she could tell. It had to be remembered.
Still only half-awake, Lacey grabbed the pen with shaking hands (she was hungry as hell), and started drawing. She had never been the greatest artist, but this drawing would serve more as a reminder than anything else.
It was a man. Sharp features, a few wrinkles and fairly long hair, which would perhaps have looked girly on anyone else. Scales instead of skin, although, she could not be certain if it was only an illusion. It could be. Either way, odd looking skin. Big eyes with small pupils.
Lacey leaned back to take in her masterpiece. As expected, the drawing didnât do the man from her dreams justice. But she could use it; she could look at it and not forget. That was a victory in itself. And as she stared at the odd-looking man, she remembered more details. Details such as how he looked when he smiled in childish glee, and how he frowned when he was confused or puzzled.
No matter how long or how hard she stared, his name refused to reveal itself.
Lacey was ready to give up when the door to her cell opened. In came the same nurse as the one the day before, carrying the exact same sort of tray as she always did. A glass of water, bread, and a red apple. And a cup of pills balancing on the edge.
"Morning," the nurse greeted cooly (as she always did) and gave Lacey the cup of pills as well as the glass of water (as she always did). The tray was placed on the floor.
It would be a shame to say that Lacey gave a greeting in return. All she did was putting the cup with the pills to her lips, and tip it. They were followed by a stream of water. Only, this time, she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, trapping the pills in-between. She swallowed the water with only a little trouble, and watched the nurse show her satisfaction with a smirk and a âgood girlâ.
When the door closed behind the nurse, Lacey spit out the pills, and observed them for a moment. Where there had once been four, there were now six. Her guess would be that the razor blade-smiling woman had told them to make the dose greater. Why she needed the pills in the first place, Lacey was not sure. Of course, they told her she was dangerous to the world around her if she was not ârelaxedâ. But they said a lot of things, so why should she believe them?
The pills ended up under her mattress, and Lacey quickly ate her breakfast. Any moment, the nurse would come back, and Lacey would be escorted to the restroom. She would rather do that when she wasnât on the verge of passing out from hunger.
While she ate, she looked at the face on the floor, really wishing a name would pop up in her mind. But nothing happened.
As expected, the nurse showed up a few minutes later. Laceyâs legs shook under her, the still unsatisfied hunger coupled with exhaustion from her strangely restless sleep doing a number on her. With uncertain steps, she joined the nurse by the door, and followed her out of it and down the hall. She passed other cells, and it gave her a sense of comfort (as it always did) to know that she was not all alone down here, however petty that thought might be.
Natureâs call was silenced, and Lacey followed the same nurse back to her cell, now on a tad more certain legs.
"Iâll be back with lunch," the nurse said as her parting words, and closed the door behind Lacey, who took a deep breath. Another day in this awful place. At least she had the drawing. His name was bound to be remembered at some point, right?
Except, he was gone. Where there had been a drawing, there was now only clean floor, and her pen was lying on top of her pillow, as opposed to the floor. Lacey took a deep breath, trying to hold back her tears. It was ridiculous; it was just a drawing, and an ugly-looking one, even. And yet, she had a deep, gnawing feeling of loss and⌠abandonment, which made even less sense.
With a heavy sigh, she sat down on her mattress, and grabbed the pen. All she had to do was to draw the face again. It couldnât be that hard; she had already done it once.
A head, that was as far as she got. That was all she remembered. All memories regarding this face slipped right through her fingers. Like they always did. Lacey threw the pen, and it hit the opposite wall with a smack. âCome on, come on," she mumbled to herself in a hoarse voice, and hid her face in her hands. âRemember."
She felt like screaming, she felt like tearing her hair out, and suddenly their claims of her supposedly violent tendencies made sense.
Maybe she should just take those damned pills, and keep the dreams away when the sun was up. Sometimes, one was much better off not feeling at all, compared to this misery. And she wouldnât hurt anyone in her drug-induced haze. Not herself, and not anyone else.
But the fighter in her was much stronger than the quitter, and she refused to let them all win. She would stop taking the pills for a while - just a few days - and see how everything changed. If she only grew more violent and destructive, she would allow them to flush everything down her throat. But if she started recalling the dreams - or even memories from reality - the pills would have to stay under her mattress.
