Where Dragonflies Die

[Laurie V]

  Chapter 1

NOW- July 28th

 

Fog blankets my mind hiding my memory in its mist. Floating spots and light trails cloud my vision, and I’m groggy like I’m waking up from general anesthesia. Did I have surgery? It can’t be— they don’t strap you down. Four-point restraints choke my ankles and wrists, cementing me into a corpse pose. My temples tighten into a vice-like grip, threatening to crush my skull, and the only sound is blood smashing between my ears.  

My eyelids grow heavy, and the light recedes to dark. I drift in and out of consciousness. A mix of bleach and antiseptic sting my nostrils pulling me awake like they’re smelling salts, and the frigid air nips my bare skin. I’m nearly naked, left in only a bra and underwear. Goosebumps crawl up my arms. Was I abducted?  

The room is practically empty: yellowing white walls, drop ceilings, and the bed holding me hostage. My tricep throbs, and the pulsating pain shoots down to my hand. A fluorescent ceiling light floods my eyes and spotlights a memory— someone charged me from behind and stuck a needle in my arm. The rest of the memory slips away, fading into the light’s dark edges.  

My thoughts scatter with no sense of direction like a colony of crazy ants. What’s happening? Why can’t I remember anything? My mind twists, wringing itself out like a wet rag, dripping facts: my name is Addie Davenport, I’m twenty-four, no, twenty-five years old, and…. What else? I reach for the answers at the tip of my brain. They’re close but then slide into the grooves of my cerebrum, and I’m snatched back into a red haze.

A clicking noise comes across the room, yanking me from my drowsiness. A door creaks, and footsteps follow. My pulse slams against my neck, my lip quivers, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t move. You’re in restraints. You’re in danger. The footsteps grow louder and louder. One set clatter, and the others stomp, and then—they stop. The mattress sinks on one side of my body and then on the other, like hands are pressing it down. Body heat hovers over me, and breath hits my face, reeking of coffee and cigarettes. “What’s this?” A woman says with a gruff voice, “she’s not awake.”

She lifts her body, and the mattress expands back into place. A lump grows in my dry throat. The woman takes my chin and turns my head from side to side, inspecting my face. I’m not a good actress— playing dead is difficult, but when your life is at risk, you somehow are capable of anything.

“I swear I saw her eyes open,” a man says with no emotion in his monotone voice, “ Guess she’s still out.” 

She releases my chin. “Or she’s playing games with us.” She smacks my cheek in rapid succession. “Come on now.” Then, she grabs my shoulders and shakes me. I relax my muscles, making my body limp. My terror helps— it’s paralyzing. 

She drops me. “What sedative did they give her?” 

Sedative. That’s why I’m out of it.

“Uhhh, I dunno,” the man says. “Do you?” 

“Propo something, ” another man says with a close to identical flat tone as the other.

“Propofol,” The woman says.

She presses her fingertips against my upper and lower eyelid. She begins to pry them apart, and a door slams. She rips her fingers away, and someone walks across the room. Their feet fall slow and loud. 

“What’s going on here?” A man says, deep and stone hard. “ Where are her clothes? Why the hell is she in restraints? I didn’t permit you to do this.”

“What was I supposed to do?” the woman’s voice falters, “ Who knows what she’ll do when she wakes up, so I thought….” 

She’s afraid of him. He’s stopping them and seems to be in charge. Should I open my eyes and yell for his help? I repress the temptation. I don’t know enough yet, he could be dangerous, and if he’s in charge, he played a role in bringing me here. Wherever here is. 

“So you thought you’d strip her and cuff her to the bed? A bit much—even for you,” He says.

“But, she might get violent again,” She says. 

Violent? Again? I’ve never been violent…as far as I know. 

“Remove the restraints and get me when she starts talking. You’re wasting my time,” The authoritative man says.

“Of course, sir, ” She says.

His footsteps pick up, fade, and the door closes. Silence fills the room. Then, the woman’s raspy voice pierces it. “Look what you two did. He’s pissed. Take off the restraints when she’s awake and —“

“But, but the doctor said now.” One of the men says.

Doctor? I must be in a hospital.

“And I said when she wakes up.”

“We will.” The men say simultaneously. 

They stamp away, and the door clicks close. Nothing makes sense. My chest constricts, and anxiety bubbles inside it. My body and breath tremble as I suffer in my stillness, and tears coat my eyelashes. Are they gone? I can’t keep this up much longer. I peek out one eye and then the other— no one is in the room. My joints loosen, and I exhale. A moment of relief before the fear kicks back in.

I twist my wrists against the restraints, and the material scrapes my skin, reminding me of my old boogie board’s wrist strap. The sensation conjures a childhood image of my sister paddling in the ocean when she was alive, physically and mentally. A wave rolls over the visual and washes her away. Who are those people? What do they want? I tilt my head down to the cuffs. There’s a label on them with words, but they’re fuzzy and blurred. My pupils zoom in and out like a camera lens, then shift into focus. Property of SBHC. What’s SBHC? I dig through my sandy brain. Think. I sift through my confusion, breaking up my clumped memories. S-B-H— I gasp. The air disappears from the room, and I bite back a scream.

I know where I am and why.

 

Chapter 2

One Week Before- July 21st

 

It only takes seven minutes to hang yourself.

I focused on the waiting room’s black and white tiled floor, tangled in the thought. Whoever implemented the fifteen-minute check should be in prison. Those eight minutes…Stop. Stop. Stop. Use the coping technique. Step one-take a deep breath: I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through my mouth. The intrusive thought floated.

Step two-notice your surroundings: the minimalistic doctor’s office resembled a checkerboard. A velvet, traffic-cone orange couch splashed color onto the monochrome space. A flurry of skyscrapers filled the panoramic window, and a door stared at me with a nameplate engraved Dr. Nia Davis, Ph.D. Dessert sage lingered in the air like she smudged her office. The image flashed in my mind: Dr. Davis waving a burning sage stick, ridding the negative energy the patients dragged in— patients like me.  

Step three- Identify the trigger: Normally, my fixations stemmed from anxiety and grief over one person—my sister, Danielle. But, my upcoming flight home for my aunt Helen’s funeral caused my hostile thoughts that day. I left Florida the year before, vowing never to return. Helen broke that vow for me. The thought deflated. The final step- set my intention: move on. The thought disappeared like my memories from last summer.

Dr. Davis emerged from her office, her hair spiraled out in every direction, yet each curl in its place. “Addie.” As I stood, her gaze traveled to the wrinkled tank top I dug out of my hamper that morning and over to my suitcase. She pulled together the sides of her crisp navy blazer and held the door open with her back. “Come on in.”

Her office matched the waiting room’s color scheme and decor. A modern white desk sat beneath a window without photos or personal effects. She hid her life from patients, yet, she encouraged me to share everything about mine. No wonder people avoided shrinks—I did, doctors didn’t help my sister. But, my anxiety grew unmanageable, and I needed relief— pills—the kind only psychiatrists prescribe.  

I sat knock-kneed on the edge of another orange velvet couch while Dr. Davis grabbed her notebook.

She took a seat across from me. “Happy to see you again,” she said with a smile, “how have you been?”

“Ok, I guess. The Xanax helps.” 

At first, I planned on only seeing Dr. Davis once, getting the prescription, and going on my gloomy way. But she convinced me I needed more than pills, and my plan morphed into seeking a diagnosis. What was wrong with me? Now, at my third appointment, my question remained unanswered. My frustration heated and verged on coming to a boil. 

  “But, why aren’t I feeling better?” I wrapped my arms around myself. “Doesn’t grief heal with time? It should be getting easier.” 

  She tilted her head to the side.” Sometimes grief doesn’t follow a straight path, and there might be more going on here. But, don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” She opened her notebook. “Are you still having difficulty studying?” 

I graduated from law school a few months back, and the bar exam loomed over me. Studying for the bar challenged me more than it should’ve. I couldn’t focus on anything other than Danielle’s death.  

“It’s hard to concentrate,” I said.

She pointed to my suitcase. “Going somewhere?’

“I’m going to a funeral,” I hung my head, “my aunt Helen died.” 

The corners of her mouth sunk. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Were you close?”

“When I was younger, we were, but we haven’t been for a long time. I saw her at Danielle’s funeral, and that’s the last we spoke.”

“How does the decline of your relationship make you feel?” She asked.

Dr. Davis’s soothing voice hypnotized me. During our sessions, she managed to wrangle my issues and rope them out of me without pulling too tight, easing me into opening up to her about my spiraling grief: my daydreams Danielle didn’t die, my guilt for not saving her, and my memory loss of the days surrounding her death.  

“Guilty. I should’ve kept in touch more.” I said.

“Don’t be hard on yourself. It happens.” She changed the topic. “Isn’t your exam this week?”

I nodded.

“Do you feel ready?” She asked.

I blew out my cheeks. “Kinda, I’m stressed out about it and nervous, though. I’m having more of those intrusive thoughts too.”

She spoke as she took notes. “Have you been using the coping techniques?”

“It only helps get rid of them. It doesn’t stop them from coming.” My thoughts were like an endless game of whack-a-mole. Once I hit one another popped up. 

“I see. Are the thoughts all about Danielle? Or other things as well? “She asked.

Once again, I gave her information, and she gave me none in return. Just tell me. Give me a diagnosis. It had to be PGD—prolonged grief disorder. I was stuck in a grieving purgatory, like a piece of hardened gum underneath a park bench. After researching, PGD made sense. I had all the symptoms. But Dr. Davis wasn’t convinced.  

“I don’t mean to be rude, and I know you’re doing your job, which I know little about, but I hoped you settled on a diagnosis. Is it what I think it is? PGD?” I asked.

Her gaze raised from her notebook to me. “You need to slow down and stop self-diagnosing through the internet. I need to rule out all other possibilities, and I haven’t gotten your blood results either.”

Maddening. Blood tests wouldn’t tell her anything about my grief. “I’m sorry I haven’t gone for the blood work, but it’s tough to fit it in with the bar coming up. The days keep getting away from me, I start studying, and before I know it, it’s five o’clock in the morning. I don’t see the point anyway.”

“Trouble sleeping?” She asked.

I drew my eyebrows together. “Well, no, not exactly. I just lose track of time,” 

“And in the past, did you experience this? Insomnia or any other unusual sleep patterns?” 

“Sometimes I’ve had trouble sleeping. I wouldn’t say it was unusual. It’s more like whatever I had going on at the time. Like I’d sleep a lot, and then I wouldn’t. I’ve been a student for a really long time, you know. My schedule isn’t normal. Things change with final exams or when I have papers due.”

She wrote in her notebook again. “I see.” 

Dr. Davis’s favorite phrase—I see. Passive words concealing any reaction or glimpse into what she thought of my responses.

“Would you say your appetite changes with your sleep patterns?” 

“I never really thought about that. When I study, I don’t eat as much as I should.”

“Have you ever stayed up for four days or more?” She asked.

I tilted my head back and then straightened it. “God, I don’t know. It couldn’t be days.” Could it? “It’s nothing I’m concerned about.” Danielle had the sleep issues, not me. Her bipolar disorder would leave her bursting with energy or completely zapped of it. “The only thing unusual is a reoccurring dream. In the dream, I’m falling and it’s pouring rain …” I stared at the wall, “it feels so real.”

  “Dreams of falling usually mean you subconsciously feel the loss of control over your life or something in your life. With what you’re going through, it makes sense. They’ll stop as you heal.” She changed the topic. “Do you think going home for the funeral will help you?” 

“What do you mean?”

She tapped her pen against the paper. “I think being in the location where the trauma took place can help. I hadn’t suggested it before because I don’t think you’re ready, and you’ve been adamant that you never want to go home. But, now that you need to, facing your past can help you heal and remember.” She set the pen in the crease of her notebook. “I don’t want you going if you feel like you can’t handle it. You aren’t required to go to the funeral. Your family will understand.”

“I know, but it’s the right thing to do,” I said.

“But is it right for you? “

I turned to the window. “Helen played a big role in my childhood. I should be there.” A small flock of birds circled the building across the street. Last Spring, they found thousands of migrating birds dead from building collisions. They flew to the reflection of trees from Central Park in the glass, mistaking it for their home, and crashed. Misinterpreting something could be deadly. 

“Then use this as an opportunity to unearth the memories you’re missing. I’m still not clear what the root of the fractured memories are—”

“They’re repressed memories from trauma, and I’m not sure I want to remember,” I said.

She wagged her finger. “Again, self-diagnosing. Don’t do it. It could be something else entirely.”

Something else? “I’ll face those memories after you determine my diagnosis.” 

She crossed her legs and leaned forward. “You might not have a choice. Memories can surface at any time. There are countless triggers. It can be as simple as a smell, a place, or an object,” Dr. Davis talked with her hands, “something you read or watch.”

My arm hair rose. “But maybe the memories won’t surface.” 

She checked her watch. “I’m afraid we’re out of time.” She got up from her chair and nestled her notebook under her arm. “Let me walk you out.” 

Dr. Davis led me out of her office and into the waiting room. “Have a safe trip.”

She handed me her card with handwriting at the bottom—cell: 347-689-1001. I raised my head and searched her eyes. 

“I normally don’t give out my personal number, but you can call me if you need me.” Concern spread over her face. “This trip might be more difficult than you think.”