by: Ashley Cunningham
winner of encore’s annual Creative Writing Contest

It’s one thing when you begin to single-handedly smear the line between reality and unconsciousness; it’s quite another to be creating a line within reality alone. Here in this box with tiny maze pathways to medicine and one-way conversations, I believe that I find another part of me around every corner. It could be the way someone’s smile crackles toward me, or how their tongue sometimes trips over hello’s in the morning single files line drive. I feel I could have circumnavigated an ocean inside myself by now, and I’m waiting to decide on the right shore to happen upon.

I have to figure out how to stay afloat. I slip and slide through the late-hour corridors to piece together either side of the line in the dark. This room holds me in like a deep thought, sifting through my memories for explanations and remedies. No one can hear me scream. No one can see me struggling for sight until my pupils dilate to adjust to infinite nothing.

As the emptiness fills me up, I wander through overlapping circles in time and see Laura lying in the leaves of my childhood forest. The smoke of autumn fog rises from around her while she makes her move inside my head. I remember when I first introduced her to my parents, and they acted as if they didn’t even see her standing there, instead glaring at me with confusion or contempt; I’m still not sure.

I trace back to the time before Laura, when my mother and father and I seemed like one entity, a time when I knew without question that I was a part of something much bigger than myself. In those times, feeling so small was a feeling of great comfort. No matter if or how I fucked up, my accidental burdens could always dissipate within a bigger scope of reason.

Two pasts combine, and I can’t decipher which one led me to blaming myself and which one freed me from fault. I can hear Laura tell me I’m awfully stupid if I don’t see she is only trying to make me better. I can hear my parents tell me they want Laura out of the picture. I never pleased either one I suppose. As I think about this, it occurs to me for the first time that I never heard myself until I was drowning in the silence of a cold ocean. Watching Laura dissipate within the water, I felt lighter than ever before.

Still, I have to wonder why a killer such as myself would belong packaged in this box rather than caged in a cell. I try to remember the first time I woke up here, and all I can recapture is bits and pieces of mixed conversations among professionals who didn’t know what they were talking about.

“She was alone in the vehicle when they found her.”

“Probable suicide attempt. Possible accident.”

These words hit hard and stomp out a new impression on my mind. Could it be that everyone is keeping something from me, or am I the one keeping secrets from myself? I jerk my focus from the frame and decide tomorrow I will ask Doc why I am here for the first time. Either that or I will take it upon myself to research my own life in his disposable documents. I play hallway hopscotch with cracks in the cold tile, and land square inside my room with the foreign feeling of excitement.

I wake up and crawl out of shallow slumber with the impending feeling that I am going to stumble onto answers I didn’t ask for. There is no way around this one, though; for better or worse I have to find out the truth about myself. Step by step I march to and through the line born from a uniform serving mind melters. Time is slowing all around me while my mind races thinking about how I am going to divert Doc’s attention long enough. By and by the clock hands tick until I can make my way to his office.

Walking into this room with a purpose feels nice. It has been a long time since it seemed I was actually doing something. Mostly I’m just thinking or feeling, which both seem like a never-ending waste. Doc sits in his chair more serenely than I have ever seen him—almost like he knows exactly what I am up to. This could either be my paranoia, or he understands me more than I give him credit for.

“You look different today,” he remarks. I don’t take this as judgment. In fact, his insight kind of impresses me, and I consider simply asking him what landed me in his black-and-white world.

“Can I be straightforward with you?” I ask.

“Please. I’ve been wondering when you ever would.”

After all this mental preparation, I can’t gather up the words to dump out of my mouth and on to his agenda. The window finds my attention and keeps it for a minute before I finally break.

“I need you to tell me why I ended up in this place,” I tell him.

“The aim of your time here is supposed to be so I can help you discover that on your own,” he says.

Screw that. I have been digging and digging, and all that has come out of it is a bigger hole for me to bury my confusion.

“Occasionally, though, I have found that some people need a push rather than just pulling at strings.” He reaches for my file, and my jaw locks in place with panic. Maybe I didn’t think this through; maybe knowing is going to do more damage than good.

He inhales, exhales, hands me a manila folder. This is it, I know. There won’t be any turning back from this point forward. There won’t be any more circling around the truth.