If this were a Disney fairy tale, a couple of bunnies or tweeting birds would join me now and lead me to a warm place where a rat with the pretentious name of Clafoutis would prepare a cup of hot, spicy chocolate for me. But nothing stirs except Prince who thumps his tail on the ground in an excited welcome as he hears my voice. Has he been here all night as well?
I must have been sleepwalking. Again. And I’m talking out loud to myself. Again. Only insane or demented people walk around the bush at night dressed in nothing more than a thin nightgown, talking to themselves. Not in November at any rate, in temperatures no higher than forty-five degrees.
My legs are still not working. An old doll is lying by my feet and staring at me with a half scratched out eye, as if it’s holding me responsible for its tattered clothes and dented celluloid body. The image of the doll fills me with dread. I will make sure it will land in the big gray rubbish bin at the side of the house.
I’m feeling defeated once again. Not only that, I feel unsafe. I can’t be trusted. How do I know I didn’t walk around and commit a crime while I was sleepwalking? I could have murdered someone without knowing it. And if it wasn’t me, what if one of my inside parts were violent and homicidal? How do I know I can trust them? I don’t. I have no clue what they’re up to when they have control over the body. The familiar fear clutches with cold fingers at my heart.
The only thing I tried to murder last night was the tree. My scratched arms and legs and the torn nighty are evidence that the tree won that battle. I chuckle in a bout of comic relief as I sit on the cold ground and rub my legs. Prince is staying close by my side as if he knows I’m about to go crazy. What am I saying? I am crazy.
The last thing I remember from yesterday was bringing the dog home, feeding him a bowl of doggy biscuits, filling a dish with water, and sitting down at the table. The rest is blank. I hate blank. Hate it with a vengeance. My blood is running cold.
Someone must have cleared away the bushes and rubbish. I didn’t… and I didn’t call anybody to do it for me. Inside friends, huh? It’s time to get to the bottom of this. Maybe I have early onset Alzheimer’s? Can someone at age forty-two show early signs? These blackouts happened on a regular basis when I was still living with Horace.
Evidence of activity was everywhere in my rooms. Things were pulled out and clothes were thrown around. One morning I even found my bathroom painted in bright pink and unicorn stickers were stuck all over my bathroom mirror.
Nothing I did stopped the unexplained activities. I even put in double locks and changed the keys to stopping whoever came and messed with my place. Nothing worked. Horace thought I was completely crazy. I guess in his eyes it was not a big step from crazy to completely crazy. How could I argue with him?
I hoped getting away from Horace and Helen would change things and I would find peace and quiet. And then this. After the first night in my house, it looks like an army of maids has performed a spring clean. Tonight, a battalion of gardeners cleared the yard; and I’m sleeping draped around a tree, in serious danger of catching pneumonia. I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse.
Truth be told, the inside-friends-story doesn’t look as appealing this morning as it did yesterday. What friend lets you stay outside in the freezing cold night? With friends like that, who needs enemies? Sobs are welling up from deep inside me. I feel like crying, but tears are not coming. I’m burned out like a campfire and no blowing or poking will bring the died down embers back to life.
Hopeless and defeated, I get up and stumble toward the house. If this is how my future life looks, I don’t want a bar of it. Without a smidgeon of control, I’m drifting on this ocean of life, tossed about by some invisible current, bruised and battered. This life is not worth living. I can’t do this anymore; it’s just too much.
Did I remember to pack my pills when I left Waitakere Flats? I had enough to put an end to this pitiful excuse of a life. Nobody will miss me. They might not even find me for a month or two.
My hands are hot from all the rubbing. Stamping my feet to help the circulation, I walk to the house and form a plan of action. Not that I have to think hard. I’ve been here before. The difference is that in the past either Horace or Helen showed up and stopped me or got me to the hospital in time.
It feels like this is the end of the road for me. I’m not upset about it. I’m just tired. Who will deny me the right to put my head on a pillow and sleep without ever waking up? This never-ending fight against the emptiness inside me that sucks me into a dark bottomless, vortex, has to stop. My search for meaning came up empty. There is no meaning and nobody in my life to hang around for. That’s okay, too. Nobody can blame me for not having tried.
I open the back door and let it slam shut behind me.
A piercing pain lances through my left hand like a thousand sharp knives. Colorful spots swirl at the edges of my vision and tears shoot into my eyes. I caught my fingers in the door. I open the door, wincing in pain as it releases my hand and blood is circulating to fight against the injury.
“Pay attention, stupid woman.”
Who said that? I
