This is a sort of follow-up to "A Girl You Don't Know" and also a back-story addition for a role play character. It takes place some time after the the events in the aforementioned story. It also is meant to explain a little about some of my character's personalities and appearance.
I hope you enjoy it!
The hospital was cold. They should have been warm, but they weren't. There were a lot of hospitals. I.. I remember the first one... It was a little warmer. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was having warm blankets on me all the time... Maybe it was because my skin felt like it was on fire. There was always a mask on my face. I took it off once... I couldn't breathe and couldn't put it back on... I didn't play with those things after that.
I couldn't feel my right arm for so long. I tried looking over at it once, but I couldn't see out my right eye. A nurse brought a mirror once. I was covered in bandages. My arm... It was very tightly wrapped. She told me it was so the skin could heal and maybe get use of it again. That sounded nice. I did learn to write with my left, though. It proved to be useful those first few days before I could bring myself to speak. My throat always felt dry. Talking with the breathing mask on was almost impossible to do and I gasped for air every time I tried to speak.
My friend's tried to visit every day. Most of them had school, so I was usually stuck in the hospital alone. At least... I could have sworn I was alone.
It was maybe 3 months into my hospital stay when I started hearing things. I told a nurse about it, but she said it was probably other patients or some of the staff from the hall as I was in a single room (my 'adoptive' parents wanted to make sure I was comfortable). It kept me calm for a while until I started hearing something actually talking to me.
The voice I heard felt comforting, like a friend that was always there. It even spoke when my real friends came to visit. I tried to ignore it then... It eventually got so loud that I would start screaming in the middle of the night trying to get the voice to shut up. They always had to sedate me before I slept. Doctors thought it was because there was little for a teenage girl to do in the hospital, let alone while confined to her bed.
My friends were encouraged to bring movies and games to keep me occupied. One friend brought this game called 'Go' which I had only heard of briefly. He decided to leave it there for me so I could try and play against myself. Doctors didn't like it, but they didn't argue. They wanted to keep me occupied so...
That game turned out to be a mistake. Once I got some feeling in my right hand, I started physiotherapy with my bandages on. I was always trying to get full motion back so I would write again and just generally do things. They kept the breathing mask on me most of the time. I had more trouble breathing than I ever wanted to admit. But back to my hand... It was nice to have it back. Made playing 'Go' easier as I had much more dexterity in my left hand, now.
Right hand placed black tiles, right hand placed white. I don't think I was every actually playing against myself. Other voices were joining the first one. Each started developing on it's own and my mind started to fracture. It didn't take long before my friends just stopped visiting. Talking became a chore. I had to think before I said anything. These voices screamed in my head at me and at each other, keeping me up late and waking me up early.
When the bandages were finally removed... The shock of seeing the scars... It was... I don't know. It wasn't me. I remember touching things and everything felt... Like there was that frosted glass. I knew it was there but details were fuzzy and not clear. Doctors said it was because the bandages were on for so long... But I don't remember ever believing them. Especially when I woke up, my bed soaked with blood.
That is when I first knew something was wrong. I didn't remember doing it and no one had come in my room. The voices in my head were silent, like they didn't exist anymore. My doctors were not pleased that I had torn open some of my wounds again. But every night for a week I would tear them back open. I think they were waiting to get a shrink in to look at me.
It was a woman. She was nice. Smelled like peaches. I don't remember much of our conversation. I remember the fact that I don't remember anything at all. She looked shaken when she got up to leave, but she left me a notebook to write in. There was a note on top saying I should write everything about my day down in it.
For the next few weeks I wrote. Nothing unusual happened. But then I was looking back through and there was handwriting in the book that didn't look like mine. It was messier, some was more like a chicken scratch angry sort of writing. I didn't think anything of it until I got out of hospital. Well, out of that room. They moved me to the psychiatric ward so I could be monitored. I personally didn't mind at first...
But things got worse. The writing in my book was less about my day and more notes to myself. Some were warning me away from certain patients and doctors, others were about wanting to kill me. I couldn't confront anyone because everything in my book scared me. When one was full, they gave me another. This went of for... I don't know how long. Time blurred together in there.
Waking up covered in blood still happened. Sometimes the writing in the book looked like it was written with a finger in blood. I remember being scared and blacking out much more than before. Doctors restrained me before my one-on-one interviews. They said it was for everyone's safety. I didn't believe them about that, either. It didn't help. I would wake up back in my room covered in bruises from the restraints. And not long after, I stopped writing in my book.
The voices... I could hear them again. They would talk to me... and one hated me... Still hates me. They didn't want names, didn't think I should change mine. Not that it would have helped. The more I talked to them, the more of myself I lost. Memories of before are fuzzy at best, non-existent at worst.
I don't remember how, but I found my home on a space station. Home being a medium sized warehouse... More like a large meat locker... But there was a bed against one wall, a shower in the corner, and a concrete floor with a drain in the middle.
I don't know how long I've lived here, but it's home. Omega is my home. And I have my voices to keep me company.