Beyond the Veil of Madness

Fractured Reality

It took Anton two hours to arrive at the hospital, even though it was only about ten minutes from our house, give or take. Each passing minute only heightened my anxiety. Was he hiding his mistress, or did he care so little about me that he could take his time? The air was bitterly cold, though the sun shone brightly over Strömstad. Somehow, it was always sunny here. You would think that would ignite some spark of happiness within me, but instead, it only felt oppressive.

I remembered how, as a kid, I had loved nature and the proximity to the sea—a dream come true for me. But now it all seemed so dull, a faded echo of those childhood joys. I didn't always have these problems with schizophrenia. Ever since my mom and dad died in that car crash, I had never been the same. Anton had been my best friend in high school, my lifeline in a world that felt chaotic and isolating. But when they placed me in the foster care system, I was separated from him. I lost count of how many times I had run away, only to be picked up by the police and returned to that dreary existence.

As I dwelled on these memories, I saw Anton’s car pull up in front of the hospital. I moved my belongings to the back seat and reluctantly climbed into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Adahlia,” he said, his warm smile almost managing to put me at ease—until I caught a whiff of sickly sweet perfume, unmistakably feminine.

“Hey,” I replied, my heart sinking further.

“Sorry it took me so long to get here; I wanted to get you something.” He handed me an open bottle of red lip stain. It was clearly used, and I stared at it in confusion—I didn’t wear makeup. He also handed me a bag of chips and a soda. How thoughtful, I thought sarcastically, the bitterness rising within me. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was another woman in our home.

Anton seemed almost annoyed that I wasn't enthusiastic. “Well, what’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice laced with frustration.

I flinched at his tone. “Nothing. I’m just not feeling very well. Thank you, Anton; this was really kind of you.” I opened the soda to appease him.

He shifted the conversation to my medication. “You know, you really did a number on me. I was so embarrassed. I couldn’t leave the house. You really have to try to see a therapist. Your hallucinations aren't getting better.”

Anger flared within me. “Getting better?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” he said, the irritation in his voice evident. “Getting better, so I can actually hang out with my friends without feeling like I have to hide from them like some sort of f*****g freak show.”

At his words, rage welled up inside me, threatening to burst forth. Suddenly, a hallucination hit me, but it was different this time. It felt like a memory—a memory in my point of view, yet not my memory at all.

I was running, panic coursing through me as blood streamed down my legs from fresh scrapes, the evidence of my frantic flight. I was terrified, screaming, but no sound echoed in the void.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, the memory faded, and I found myself back in the car, parked in our driveway. The lights were on inside the house. How much time had passed? I had never lost time due to a hallucination before. Dizziness washed over me, leaving me feeling queasy, and I gripped the edge of the seat for stability. Anton was already inside when I emerged from the haze of my hallucination, and I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. It figured. I couldn't help but long for the days when he loved me like he used to back in high school. I knew my schizophrenia was hard on him too; he didn’t sign up for this life of turmoil and uncertainty. If only I could be the person he once adored—if only I were enough.

A wave of despair washed over me, and I started to cry, my tears pouring out harder than they had in a long time. I felt utterly broken, a shell of the person I once was. After a good long cry, I managed to pull myself together. I retrieved my bags from the trunk and walked into the house.

The smell hit me first—an overpowering stench that made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. Of course, it smelled terrible; Anton never cleaned up after himself. It fell to me to manage everything—cooking, cleaning, laundry. I sighed at the familiar weight of responsibility.

I put my things away and threw myself into cleaning. The laundry needed to be done, the dishes piled in the sink, the trash overflowing. I swept, mopped, and scrubbed as if by doing all of this, I could somehow erase the remnants of my anguish. It felt like I cleaned for hours while Anton sat contentedly playing his game, screaming obscenities at the screen. His shouts pierced through my concentrated effort, a reminder of the disconnect between us.

Finally, when I felt I had scrubbed away enough of my sadness, I decided to run a bath. I needed to relax and gather my thoughts. As the warm water filled the tub, I allowed myself a moment of relief.

Suddenly, Anton's voice shattered my brief respite. “Hey babe! What are you going to fix for dinner tonight?”

The thought of cooking made my stomach twist in knots. I felt sick and knew I couldn’t bear the thought of preparing a meal. “I’m really not feeling so great. If you’d like, you could order takeout. I’m fine, though; I’m not hungry.”

His sigh echoed through the hall. “Not even home a full day yet, and you're already back in my pockets,” he scolded, his tone dripping with frustration.

I chose not to respond. Engaging would only spark another fight, and I was too exhausted for that. This was his bait—saying something cruel to provoke me. If I responded, he would retaliate, shattering things—TVs, coffee tables, glassware. I dreaded the idea of him recording me, catching me in moments of emotional turmoil. The last time, he posted those videos to his social media. I could still hear the laughter of his friends ringing in my ears, the hurtful comments they threw my way.

One of them had the audacity to say I must have been a hell of a lay for him to stay with me. That stung. It stung more than I wanted to admit because I had once thought that person was my friend.

I glanced at my phone, half-hoping Mal would reach out to me, especially after witnessing the fallout from those videos. But she'd been distant, treating me differently since she saw what happened, as if now I were something she needed to handle with care.

I sank into the bathtub, letting the warm water envelop me as I fought back tears once more. I felt so alone, trapped in a life I never asked for, surrounded by shadows that whispered doubts in my mind. I wished for something—anything—to pull me back to the surface, where the warmth of the light could reach me once more. But for now, I was left drowning in the darkness, desperate for a lifeline, and hoping against hope that Anton could still see the person I longed to be—someone worthy of his love.

I submerge my head beneath the warm water, letting it cascade over my hair as I prepare to shampoo it. My eyes are closed, lost in a moment of peace. But suddenly, a chill slithers through my body, and I feel goosebumps erupt along my skin. The warm sanctuary of the bath is replaced by an icy grip, and I shoot up, gasping for air.

It’s dark. The air around me is thick with the scent of moss and oak, an earthy aroma that feels foreign in my bathroom. I hear crickets chirping in the distance, their songs abruptly interrupted by rustling leaves. The chill deepens, seeping into my bones. I look down and see my legs covered in blood once more.

Panic surges through me; I realize I am completely naked, exposed, and vulnerable. I tremble uncontrollably, my fingernails caked in dirt, and my arms bear the marks of bruises and scrapes. Fear grips me like a vice; I hear footsteps approaching, heavy and deliberate. Adrenaline ignites my instincts—I duck behind the nearest tree, hiding in the shadows, praying to go unnoticed.

The crickets fall silent as the footsteps draw nearer, and my heart races faster. Suddenly, a rough hand grabs my hair, yanking me backward with a force that rips a significant amount of it from my scalp. I gasp in shock and pain. The figure looming over me is a tall mountain of a man, but his face is obscured by a mask, rendering him a monster in the shadows.

Before I can react, he punches me hard, causing sharp pain to explode in my mouth as my teeth slice through the inside of my lip. Blood spills forth, hot and salty, and I taste the metallic tang of it on my tongue. He climbs on top of me, the weight of him pinning me to the ground. His hands wrap around my throat, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

Just as the world fades into darkness, I am thrust back into reality. I find myself in my bathroom, sitting in a bathtub full of freezing cold water. Shock courses through me, and I shiver violently, the remnants of his grip still lingering around my throat. How long have I been in here? What the hell is happening? I scramble out of the tub, my heart racing uncontrollably as I wrap myself in a towel, the fabric barely warming my trembling body. I rush to the medicine cabinet, yanking it open, and my eyes fall on the familiar bottles of medication. I grab a double dose, desperate to quiet the storm brewing in my mind. Anton is right; I am getting worse. This isn't normal. Dressing quickly, I move to the bedroom, my heart heavy with dread. Anton lies sprawled on the bed, snoring softly, blissfully unaware of the turmoil swirling inside me. I climb under the covers, seeking refuge from the world, and let silent tears slip down my cheeks, each one a testament to my fear.

The weight of everything—my fears, my past, and my fractured mind—crashes down on me. Slowly, the exhaustion of the day takes over, and I drift into a fitful sleep, hoping to find solace in dreams where monsters cannot follow. But deep down, I know they will always be waiting, lurking in the shadows of my mind.