Convicted (Consequences)

easier—the faceless people’s words rarely penetrated her bubble.
    Then without warning, the people before her would morph into other faces, and she’d forget her vow of silence and speak. After all, it was so exciting to see long-lost friends and faces, yet as fast as they’d appear—they’d fade away. Most of the time, it didn’t matter—whether real or imagined—the people with her rarely understood her conversation. Whenever this occurred, she’d remember her disobedience. The overwhelming sense of shame instigated an internal turmoil that according to the voices threatened her well-being .
    That internal turmoil would manifest in ways Claire couldn’t control. She wanted to stop—to behave—but sometimes she couldn’t make her body do what she wanted it to do, and then the faceless people would restrain her. So many images would race through her mind—she hated restraints. The faceless voices would tell her the restraints were for her own protection—so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Claire would still fight—after all, she’d never hurt anyone—but wait—she had.
    Her history of violence had been well documented, and since she had the capability, it was better to be safe. Then when things seemed lost—when she least expected it—relief would come.
    Claire would hear his voice.
    She couldn’t predict when it would come; she couldn’t encourage it, or even beg for it. No, Tony appeared on his own schedule and of his own volition. His voice would come in—a word, a whisper, or a long rambling speech. The deep baritone melody could soothe her like no drug.
    When Claire first arrived at Everwood, the faces and hands that took her outside encouraged her to garden. They’d put tools in her hands, but she wouldn’t grip—she couldn’t. It was too painful. It reminded Claire of the gardens on the estate or those in paradise. In time, the faces gave up. That was Claire’s assumption—she didn’t ask. No matter the why, they no longer asked her to comply.
    On the occasions, when she tried to remember her life—she couldn’t. It all blended into the same grayness—the place where dark became light and light became dark—the place between places. There was before—earlier—long ago—once upon a time—when life had color, and there was then —the time when all life disappeared—when the grayness won—the time after the dark.
    Her efforts to contain the grayness were useless, and with time, she no longer tried. It seeped from every compartment, leaked into her thoughts, and filled every void. Her world—her reality—was gray—colorless.
    Then, unexpectedly, like his voice and without reason, hues of color would infiltrate her world. It was the color of unsolicited memories. She was powerless to stop them. Usually, they’d begin well enough with greens of spring and the blues of waves upon a lake. Without warning, an overwhelming pain—a demobilizing sense of loss would stop her. Worse than the gray, this was nothing—not white—not black—NOTHING!
    This void wasn’t only brought on by the loss of Tony. Oh, Claire knew his ways; he’d return long enough to rekindle the passion, ignite her need, and disappear again. This nothingness was something else—an emptiness she couldn’t identify—one that even the gray couldn’t penetrate—one that clawed at her heart. If she allowed her thoughts to linger in the nothingness for too long, it tore her soul to shreds, and she felt every slash—fleeting memories of a baby and a fire. It was the most agonizing pain she’d ever experienced, and without a doubt, Claire was a veteran of pain. She’d endured loss, undergone tragedy, and withstood physical suffering—hell, she’d braved death itself.
    Without warning, this emptiness would approach—rattle her soul—and bring her to her knees. When it did, her body would collapse. She’d hear a primal plea escape her lips—not a cry—not simple tears on her pillow. She’d hear a wail of torment that no one but she could understand. When this happened—the people would come. They’d speak words she couldn’t comprehend and a new pain would come to her arm.
    Sometimes she’d scream just to feel the bliss of the sharp prick. The faces and voices didn’t understand...she couldn’t ask—that would constitute as divulging information; nonetheless, the sharp sensation led to sleep—a reprieve from the conscious grayness and suffocating nothingness. Life was no longer real.