Chapter Eleven: Clean Comfort, Empty Torture

There are often times when I get stressed or overwhelmed-- considering that I share my head with a very chatty girl, that should come as no surprise. When I find myself gripping my skull, trying to focus-- or even trying to tune Lenore out... I have this little trick I use.
I just remember the time I spent in the hospital.
I realize, that must sound outrageously strange, but there is a logic to it, in a sense. Though yes, it was after a car wreck- and yes, I knew both of my parents were hospitalized at the time. But I was so... numb. Numbed from adrenaline, blood loss, numbed from the various drugs, numbed from the repetition and silence. Numbed from the needles and exhaustion.
It all felt as if I was simply floating, weightless and clean. I was as blank and empty as a page of untouched paper. No thoughts, no chaos, no mind. All that existed was fulfillment each time I would breathe in, and out. That rich satisfaction buried deep into our primal reflexes, our very nature. Even visual stimulation held no clutter, seeing as how everything was white. Clean, empty walls, sheets, beds, lab coats, floors, skin. The whole thing passed by like a dream. No time, no mind, no body, just silent observations, and an inability to ever really describe it so clearly as you experienced it. I will never remember all that I wish I did about the time I spent there.
And though I’m not entirely sure why, the thought- the memories... they calm me. I use them to lull myself to sleep, I use them when I can feel panic rising up through me, I use them when Lenore doesn’t seem to want to shut up. She’s told me before how much she hates those memories, how much they 

disturb

her,

how they

                bring her

    to

silence.

I mean, the infinite emptiness! Nothing! As if anything in life never had a purpose, never will! This incredibly overwhelming feeling of uselessness. I held no life, I felt more caged than I ever had before. Trapped in some kid’s mind forever-- doomed to never live my own life, take control of my own world. Some freak of nature, some fluke. I’d never be able to draw, (a passion I won’t get the chance to try.) or learn to sing. Or try on the cute clothes I see or become friends with the people Lionel will only pass by. I’ll never be able to be my own individual. Even now, when these thoughts occur to me, I feel myself begin to shrivel up. Agony. I can’t believe that it’s possible for someone who really is just a fragment of consciousness to be depressed, but I sure can get that way.

I

try to...

“kill”

                

                     myself.

I feel quotation marks are necessary, because there is no way I can physically kill myself. There is no physical part of me that isn’t fused to my brother-- and handed to his control. So I try to suffocate myself somehow. I wonder how I can shut down my own part of the brain-- my own consciousness-- without hurting my brother. Or if it’s even possible at all.

I’ve never told Lionel about this. This still, quiet, painful feeling that stirs within me when he reminisces so warmly. I let him keep his bliss while I choke on the fear.

Someday I’ll figure out how to make this work, how to do it.

Until then, I must hide these sheets he writes on. He knows when I am writing, and his hand transcribes... he knows not to look at them afterwards. All of the things I write-- he puts into a locked drawer under the desk. He promises me he’ll never read them, not until I give the word. But I doubt I ever will, at least as long as I’m still here.

Trapped.

Author's Note

This was so much fun to write, and a lot of it came as a surprise to me, this was supposed to be ust abkut why he likes the color white, but it grew more complex.
(IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE NEW VERSION OF CHAPTER TEN, YOU SHOULD. BECAUSE IT WILL MAKE THIS MAKE A BUT MORE SENSE.)