Chapter Thirty-Two

NOW

 

The room grew oddly quiet for the first time in hours. Even the hum of the air conditioning seemed to still out of respect. Lyric’s head drooped once again as he seemingly came back into the room, his body language betraying his silence as if he took responsibility for the truth that had finally been told.

Cedar was gone, but the reverberations of his words could still be felt by all those in the room. Lyric shuddered and cradled his restrained hands to his chest, shielding his heart like a child for protection from the horrible monsters who lived under his bed. As he returned, the cloud that hung over his mind burned away and he took heed of his whereabouts once more.

After a moment of silence, where he allowed his breath to return to normal, he finally had the courage to raise his head and peer out at the officers from under his long lashes.

Both were staring at him intently, their expressions stern but tinged with something that he couldn’t quite make out.

Was it concern? But why would officers of the law show any sort of concern for a convicted criminal?

His gaze drifted from the man to the woman, lingering for a moment on each, studying their expressions and trying to gauge something from them.

The woman was the first to move, shuffling papers together and replacing photographs into their pristine manila envelopes that had been placed to one side. When she had meticulously tidied her area, she exchanged glances with the man to her side, their eyes speaking a silent language. He responded with a slight nod of his head.

Lyric’s gaze continued to dart from one to the other, waiting for one of them to act. There was something strange about the way they were regarding him, as if there had been a shift in the room that he hadn’t noticed and the dynamic had changed. The more he stared at them the more nervous he got. He studied their faces. Stern and yet emotionless as if they were trying their best to remain neutral and unfazed in his presence. But there was something more. Something he couldn’t quite place.

Something almost…clinical, about them and the way in which they now sat.

The rhythmic beating of his heart that had just returned to normal began to spike as if it had realised something that had eluded him until now. From nowhere, a question appeared in his mind, like a light bulb switching on in a dimly lit room, illuminating a sudden doubt that he hadn’t considered before.

It took him a moment to formulate the question in his head before his lips could figure out how to ask it.

“I never did ask to see your badges…” he murmured, his voice hesitant and unsure.

The man and woman shifted slightly in their seats, a movement so subtle it would have been unmistakable to the untrained eye. But Lyric had become quite masterful at reading people’s body language, and theirs spoke volumes of awkwardness and discomfort.

There was another brief, silent exchange between the two before they returned their eyes to Lyric, brows slightly furrowed. It was the man who spoke first this time.

“Badges?” he asked. The word lingered in the air around Lyric like a fly he couldn’t quite swat. “What sort of badges should we have, Lyric?”

The question carried more weight than it should have and it forced Lyric to sit up straighter than before. He laughed to himself at the ridiculousness of the question, for the answer seemed like it should be fairly obvious to them all.

He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself when he realised that the man and woman didn’t share the humour he detected behind the question. The man looked once again to the woman, who had now sat back in her chair and crossed her legs almost too casually, as if her work here was done.

“Lyric,” he began, choosing his words with obvious care, like one would if trying to explain something fairly complicated to a child, “do you know where you are?”

Again, it was Lyric’s turn to guffaw at the ludicrousness of the question.

Of course, he knew where he was. He smiled but couldn’t quite find the words to answer. Then he looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time.

Somehow things looked different than he had previously thought. There was no two-way mirror as he had sworn there had been upon entering, or table with a coffee maker and mugs. The room was simple. Stark. White. Brighter than he remembered, with only a lone camera mounted on the wall pointing directly at him, a tiny red light illuminated on its side.

He returned his gaze to the man and woman before him.

“Of course, I do. I’m at the police station…” But as the words left his lips, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

The man offered a tight-lipped smile at him, not one of amusement but more of pity or concern. The woman remained unfazed by Lyric’s admission, and continued to stare blank-faced at him.

“Lyric, you know you’re not at the police station,” the man said, enunciating each word with much more careful consideration than he had before.

“What do you mean? Of course, I am. You called me in…” Once more, his sentence was drenched with uncertainty. He laughed to himself as he looked them both in the eye.

But after a moment, he noticed something he hadn’t registered before. He glanced down to the officer’s clothing and his mouth opened into a silent “o” shape as his pulse began to thump away inside his head, beating his temples as panic began to rise inside his throat.

The officers weren’t wearing police uniforms. They were wearing white coats.

Doctor’s coats.

Crisp. White. Clinical doctor’s coats. Clipped to the breast pockets of each were identity badges displaying a photo as well as a name and title. Lyric’s gaze lingered over each in turn, trying to make sense of why officers of the law would be dressed in doctor’s coats, like they worked in some sort of…

Hospital.

The panic was getting stronger now, gripping his throat like a noose and sucking all the moisture out of his mouth to leave behind a sandy-like grit on his tongue.

“Lyric, my name is Doctor Powell,” the man said, “and this is Doctor Sanchez.” He pointed to the woman at his side. “I am the Superintendent here and Doctor Sanchez is the lead psychotherapist of the long-term care ward of L’Institut Pere Mata.”

He paused then, letting his words hit Lyric like pellets from a BB gun; sharp and stinging, leaving his skin hot and itchy like he was on fire.

“Does that help you remember?”

The woman, Doctor Sanchez, sat forward and put her hand gently on Doctor Powell’s arm as a way of shifting the power of the dialogue back to her. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, gentler, the way a mother would speak to her newborn child.

“Lyric, I don’t want you to start to worry. First off, let me begin by reassuring you that you’re safe. You’re here, with us, and this is a safe place.”

Lyric’s eyes were blurring as the familiar prickle of tears began. His mouth was ajar and a thousand thoughts were trickling through his head like drips from a leaky faucet.

“I…I don’t understand. I thought…”

“We don’t expect you to understand, Lyric. I’m so sorry we had to put you through all of this. But I’m afraid Doctor Powell needed to see for himself to judge the progress you’ve been making.”

“Progress?” he asked, his voice small and insignificant.

“Yes, Lyric. Progress,” she repeated. “Lyric, this may come as a shock to you, but I’m afraid you need to keep hearing the truth.”

Her voice softened even further as if she didn’t wish to frighten him with what she was about to say next.

“Lyric, you remember coming to stay at the Institute after your parents’ death, don’t you?”

He nodded slightly, sucking back tears and wiping at his sore, burning eyes.

“After your parents and brother died in the accident you were picked up on the beach not far from your family home. The reason you don’t recall any specific details about what occurred with Rodriguez Sanford was because I believe you had an episode after the accident which is when your Dissociative Identity Disorder, or multiple personalities if you will, officially began to manifest itself.”

Lyric squirmed in his seat, his skin crawling as if he had been dipped in a tank full of insects and they were slowly worming their way around his body.

“In the recollection of events you just gave to us, you were released from the hospital two years after first being sentenced, thanks to the progress you’d made and your good behaviour. Do you remember that?”

Both doctors exchanged another telling look.

“Yes…Of course, I do. I was twenty when I got out.”

“Lyric, do you know how old you are now?”

Lyric was getting angry at having to answer all these stupid questions.

“Why are you asking me all this? What does my age have to do with anything?”

“Lyric, if you wouldn’t mind just answering the question,” Doctor Sanchez implored gently.

He let out a grunt of disapproval, his gaze shifting from one doctor to the other, the feeling of unease becoming stronger with each passing second.

“I’m twenty-eight, of course.”

The puzzled look the doctors returned to him made his hands tremble.

“Lyric, I’m afraid I’ve got something to tell you, and it is going to come as a bit of a shock.”

“What? What is it?”

“Lyric…You’re not twenty-eight years old.”

“What? What do you mean? Of course, I am…I think I know how old I am, for Chrissake. What are you talking about?”

“No. Lyric, you’re not. I’m afraid you’re almost forty.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been in the hospital for nearly twelve years now.”

“No. Come on, that’s crazy.” His gaze darted around the room as he considered what she had just said. “Come on. That’s ridiculous. Forty? That’s insane. I’m not forty. I’m twenty-eight. My birthday was like, six months ago. Why would you think…”

Doctor Sanchez was silent for a moment.

“I’m afraid not, Lyric. You’ve been a patient here in the long-term care ward for almost twelve years.”

“That’s impossible. That’s impossible. Why would you say that? Why are you lying to me? How could I be…No, that’s insane. What is this all about?”

“I wish I were lying, Lyric. You tell me this exact story you’ve just recounted to us every week when we meet for your sessions. We’ve been meeting, you and I, every week since you were first admitted. And every week we go through this same discussion. I’ve been trying to get through to you for almost twelve years now.”

Lyric could only stare now, his gaze flicking frantically around the room like an insect.

“What are you saying? That I’ve been in a hospital for…No. I can’t listen to this…When do you think I got here, then?” His voice strained to sound sarcastic as if he were entertaining what they were telling him.

“Lyric, you were picked up…By the police. It was late June in 2016. Do you remember what happened that year?”

“Of course, I remember, because it just fucking happened! It is June 2016! What’s wrong with you both?”

The panic in his voice showed itself as the threads in his mind unravelled.

The doctors shared another all-knowing glance and Doctor Powell gave another very thin-lipped smile, casting his eyes down to the papers on the table.

“Lyric, the year is 2028. I know you don’t understand what’s happening, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. But you need to start listening. You’ve been in this hospital for twelve years. Ever since the police found you near one of your parents’ apartments, in the early morning hours of Friday, June 28th, 2016.”

“That was only fucking yesterday. Why are you saying these things?”

Doctor Sanchez drew in a deep breath through clenched teeth, clearly determined to plough on.

“You were found roaming the streets, as if in a daze.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Covered in blood.”

Now, his eyes focused on hers.

“Blood?” he repeated back to her.

“You were picked up quickly and brought in for questioning. They couldn’t get anything out of you. You were unresponsive, completely blank behind the eyes as if in a trance. The officers who picked you up couldn’t get any answers. When they checked your record, they came across the hospital files of your time at the Institut Pere Mata, and a specialist was called in. It wasn’t long before they checked the address we had on file for you. And that’s when they found…” Her voice cracked, as if it hurt her to speak the next words that came out of her mouth. “That’s when they found the body of Lenox Winter.”

“Lenox…”

“He had been stabbed multiple times in the chest and was pronounced dead at the scene.”

“Lenox is…”

“Your fingerprints were all over the body and the blood on yourself was a match to the DNA of the victim.”

“Lenox is dead…Fuck…Oh, Jesus…”

“It’s okay, Lyric. It’s okay.”

“What the fuck do you mean it’s okay? Of course, it’s not okay. What are you saying to me…?”

His whole frame vibrated with fury and his eyes went wide, like those of an animal snared in a trap.

“I was the doctor that was called down to the island to complete a full psychological evaluation upon your arrest. You were unfit to stand trial and were sent here. To the Institut Pere Mata, where you have been a patient ever since.”

She sat back after finishing, braced, as if she understood the effect her words were going to have on him and she could watch their impact play out on his features. His lips moved as if he was speaking but without any words they could detect.

A single tear fell from his eye as the weight of the revelations he had just suffered began to take its effect.

“I’m so sorry, Lyric…”

But her apology carried only minimal sincerity.

“Doctor Powell is here to revisit your case and judge the effectiveness of your current dosage of chlorpromazine. I’ve been hoping we might be able to lower it this trimester, but I’m fairly certain this will be refuted. Your delusions are as strong today as they were when you joined us.”

Her words were like liquid lava, pouring over him and searing his skin. He put his head in his hands and gently pounded at his temples in frustration as the truth of what she was telling him began to sink in.

He grabbed hold of his hair, expecting to entangle his hands in his long dreadlocks.

Only they weren’t there.

“What the fuck?” he shouted as he patted his head in search of his long hair, but was only greeted with a tightly shorn buzz cut. He kneaded his skull and plucked at the short hairs with his fingers, desperately searching for something that wasn’t there.

“My dreads?” he called out, his voice seized with panic.

“Lyric, you had those cut off when you first arrived at the Institute. They were a safety risk to you. We were afraid you might use their length to harm yourself in some way.”

“This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m only here being questioned. I…I need to go home. Right now. Now!” he shouted, panic-stricken and unable to fathom what was happening. His skin crawled and his heart pounded in his chest as his vision blurred and hearing softened, all sounds being dulled to a white noise.

“Lyric…You are home.”

But as he was refuting their apparent lies, his whole body gripped with fear and hysteria, desperate to flee the situation and get as far away from there as he could, something gave way in his mind. A small part of him started to lend itself to the idea that perhaps they might be telling the truth.

Doctor Sanchez reached down into a bag at her side that Lyric hadn’t noticed before and pulled out what appeared to be a small, round hand mirror. She carefully opened it and turned the reflective side so that he could peer into the looking glass.

It took him a moment for his eyes to refocus, but as he wiped at the tears that clouded his vision, someone stared back at him in the mirror that he almost didn’t recognise. He opened his mouth to speak, but there were no words to explain the emotions he was feeling. All he could do was stare in despair at what he saw in the mirror.

He looked so different. So much older. His long, blond hair was gone; shaved into a closely cropped style that was like a shadow circling his round skull. His eyes seemed sunken and his face withdrawn. Even his skin looked different. Older. There were tiny lines around his eyes that he hadn’t had before and the short hair at his temples had started to grey. He angled his face differently as if he was testing the reality of what he was seeing, wondering if the reflection would mirror his movements. As he tilted his head this way and that, so did the stranger who stared back at him. After a moment of silence, he closed his eyes and tore himself away from the mirror, collapsing into his hands and beginning to sob.

“Lyric, we have this conversation almost every week. And every time we reach the end, I have to reveal the truth to you again and again. Lenox, and his murder, and your time here. From what I’ve gathered, your subconscious built up a wall around itself after Lenox’s death, perhaps as a way of protecting itself, or as a way of grieving over what you did. Your mind seems to be on some sort of a loop, living in a constant cycle of denial. It’s as if you aren’t able to process any new memories. There are many documented cases of such an amnesic state occurring to patients after suffering a traumatic loss of some kind. But I must admit, the fact that your subconscious seems to be stuck somehow, repeating the same scenario over and over again, as if in some cyclical state of regression, is disconcerting, even considering your previous diagnosis. Just when I think we’re getting close to a breakthrough, either with your medicines or through our sessions, your brain seems to reset itself again and we’re back to square one. Suddenly, in your mind it’s twelve years ago. As if no time has passed…”

A moment went by and the white noise softened as Lyric calmed down once again, the panic fleeting and his senses returning to normal. He drew in a deep breath and began his counting down from ten, as he had been taught all those years ago. Another deep breath relaxed him further until his hands stopped shaking and his heartbeat slowed. He glanced up at the two doctors before him.

“But it feels like only yesterday…”

It was the first sign of any sort of acceptance on his part. His words came out pained and full of strain.

Doctor Sanchez paused for a moment, reaching across the table and taking his restrained hands in her own. The touch of her skin was warm on his cold, numb hands, and he appreciated the change in temperature.

“I know it does, Lyric…” After a moment, her hands loosened on his as the truth began to settle around him. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to centre himself in the room, letting the truth cascade over him like the waves in the sea.

His settled mind, as much as he fought it, at last considered things from their perspective.

“I…I don’t remember…”

“I know you don’t, Lyric. I’m so, so sorry for all of this. It comes as such a shock to you every time. But that is the case with Dissociative Identity Disorder. After your parents died and the attack on Rodriguez Sanford when you were eighteen, you were in a catatonic state. Completely unresponsive to any sort of treatment or stimulus. And you remained in this state for two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“I’m afraid so. When you awoke, you were convinced you were Cedar.”

“Cedar…”

“It seemed that you had adopted his personality after the accident, presumably as the brain’s way of coping with the trauma of losing your family. It wasn’t until about a month after you awoke from catatonia that we saw your true self begin to take control again. Whenever Cedar is allowed to take over, he seems to want to punish you somehow. He has been creating elaborate stories about you for years, trying to get you into trouble and make you pay for the way you treated him. He still thinks he’s alive and a completely separate entity to you. You’ve told me before that you and Cedar weren’t like normal twins; sometimes inseparable, at other times vying for attention and acting in a confrontational manner towards each other. When you adopted his personality after his death it was as if your subconscious wanted you to suffer, as if you felt you deserved the pain somehow, and it used Cedar to deliver it. The truth is, Lyric, you’ve never forgiven yourself for the deaths of your parents and Cedar, and these personalities are your brain’s way of coping with grief.”

“How is it that I keep forgetting?”

“Unfortunately, that’s something we have yet to figure out or properly treat. When you were released from the hospital the first time, you were doing so well. Your meds were working and you showed promise of being able to lead a fairly normal life. You were checking into your appointments, and had taken over the running of your parents’ café. Things seemed good. And then, eight years later, around the time you would have first met Lenox Winter, things seemed to get worse again. You went off the radar for a while, not showing up for your appointments as often, not renewing your prescriptions…”

She wrung her hands for a moment and Lyric could detect a slight pain in her mannerisms.

“I blame myself for not seeing the signs sooner. For not detecting that your condition was worsening again. Perhaps if I had, then Lenox…”

But there was no use in finishing her sentence.

“After the death of Lenox Winter, when you were picked up by police, you slipped into this amnesiac state, perhaps due to the psychological trauma you experienced, and despite our efforts to pull you out, your brain seems to revert back each time, resetting itself somehow as a way of protecting the psyche from the truth of what has happened to you. And the truth behind what you’ve done.”

“I wish this wasn’t happening…”

“I know you do, Lyric. Again, I wish things were different for you.”

“Why did you do this today? Why did you let me believe…?”

“I’m afraid this is how most of our sessions begin. Your brain somehow convinces yourself that you’ve been called in for questioning and our therapy sessions continue from there. I’m sorry we had to play along today, but it was the only way for Doctor Powell to experience first-hand the state in which you remain.”

“We believe that it was Cedar’s personality that was present and responsible for the death of Lenox Winter, as well as the disappearance and possible death of another three individuals on the island, whose cases remain open to this day,” Doctor Powell added. “The particulars of all four cases share some obvious similarities; all males under the age of thirty, all disappearing within a three-mile radius of one another and all frequenting the same bar where you had been reported on numerous occasions, as well as where you—or Cedar, I should say—allegedly picked up Rodriguez Sanford. Unfortunately, no bodies were ever recovered from the three previous cases, and due to your apparent amnesiac state, I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to uncover the truth behind their whereabouts. I fear that if things had gone differently, then the body of Lenox Winter would also have gone undiscovered and his case unsolved.”

Doctor Powell sighed deeply, his mouth hardening again into that familiar tight-lipped expression. “I’m afraid at this time we may have to think about exploring a different course of treatment,” he continued, his gaze turning towards Doctor Sanchez.

The doctors both stopped for a moment and exchanged yet another expression between themselves before Doctor Powell pushed his chair back. He looked to the camera on the wall, nodded his head in its direction, and stood up.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

And with that he nodded towards Doctor Sanchez.

Lyric looked up at the same time as he stood, unsure as to what was happening. Doctor Powell passed Doctor Sanchez a piece of paper, which Lyric assumed had his diagnosis scrolled across. She took it, scanned it quickly, and nodded, not once making eye contact.

“Thank you, Doctor Sanchez. Lyric…” Doctor Powell nodded in his general direction, although he avoided Lyric’s stare.

After a moment, the door was unlocked from the outside and an official-looking man in uniform escorted Doctor Powell out of the room, leaving Lyric and the head psychotherapist alone for a moment.

She stared him straight in the eye, her arms folded neatly on the table in front of her. She let another moment pass in silence before she attempted conversation again.

“Lyric. Do you need more time?”

He almost laughed out loud at the question.

“More time. More time for what?”

“To process. To think. To remember…”

“I’m not sure I want to remember anything more.”

“I understand.”

It was her turn to clear her throat and signal to the camera on the wall that she was through. She stood abruptly, gathered the envelopes from the table, and moved towards the doorway before turning back once more to face Lyric who remained seated, small and insignificant at the table.

“Lyric, I’m going to process Doctor Powell’s diagnosis and we will commence a new course of treatment tomorrow morning. I will have Dickens escort you back to your room, and I will see you for our next session next week. Do you understand?”

Her voice had changed once again, from soft and kind to formal and sterile. The door opened with a jarring sound and with a final nod to Lyric, she disappeared down the hall.

Lyric was alone now, with nothing but his disturbing thoughts to comfort him.

His eyes remained fixed on a spot on the table until the aforementioned orderly made his way into the room and put a heavy, strong hand on his shoulder.

“It’s time,” was all he needed to say to let Lyric know he was able to return to his cell, or room, as they called it.

He stood and followed the orderly out of the room.

The hallway was white, with blindingly bright fluorescent bulbs lining the way. A sterile smell of bleach infiltrated his nostrils as he shuffled slowly along the cold, white-tiled floor. As he walked, he noticed the soft slippers that adorned his feet and the grey sweatpants and sweater he wore on top. He let his hands find his head once more, running them softly over his shaved head and silently missing the comfort that his long dreadlocks used to provide.

Things in his mind were becoming clearer now as the details of his life returned to his consciousness. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to hold on to them this time, but for the time being he let them all wash over him.

After a few minutes of walking along winding hallways and passing nurses and doctors, each nodding hello in Lyric’s direction, they reached a large grey door with a small gilded window and large slot in the centre.

The orderly took out a hefty keyring that was attached to his belt and found the appropriate key with which to unlock the heavy padlocked door. The deadbolt slid back and the door creaked open. He motioned for Lyric to lift his wrists. Once he had, the orderly unlocked his restraints and stepped back for Lyric to go inside.