Post by evelyn on Oct 12, 2017 2:14:45 GMT
Evelyn Frye
What day was it again? Was it a Tuesday?...perhaps it was Wednesday. Most every day seemed to blur together, and that day seemed to be no different. The entire apartment smelled of cigarettes, marijuana, and half-burnt food. Dishes, pots and pans laid uncleaned in the kitchen sink, and the trashcan was filled to the brim with food that had spoiled or other refuse—it needed to go out, but it wasn’t likely to happen.
In her bedroom, clothes and hangars were tossed haphazardly in the floor and closet—not a single garment was hung up, save the one or two pieces of formal wear she owned. The bed itself was covered in sheets—stained and unwashed—while the nightstand was covered in ash accumulated from her smoking habit. The entire apartment needed a week’s worth of straightening up, but its owner lacked any and all motivation to clean—her mind was clearly elsewhere. It was unnatural, even for someone with as lax standards as Evelyn.
Her hair, normally short and trimmed, had been allowed to grow to her shoulders—it was greasy, unkempt and mostly hidden under a toque, and itched constantly from a dry scalp. It seemed as though the only personal care she had given herself was the courtesy of brushing her teeth—stained yellow as they were, they lacked any visible deterioration; at two months without a shower, it was only by the overwhelming odor of menthol and pot that anyone who dared enter the apartment didn’t recoil at the smell of her.
One might wonder what would cause a seemingly normal person to become so destitute without warning. It might have been some personal tragedy—perhaps the loss of a dear loved one, or a friend that had been consequential to who she was—but that was unlikely; she had not been to any funerals lately, and she had burned bridges with most of her family and cared not to mend those relationships. Though she was a compulsive smoker of both tobacco and marijuana, neither her nicotine addiction nor the THC were enough to cause such a downward spiral—as well, she lacked addiction to any other drugs.
Questions buzzed in her mind as she stared blankly at the ceiling fan from the couch; images, sparse fragments of memories flashed in her mind’s eye whenever she closed her real ones.
A holding cell, concrete and steel with neither latrine nor cot—the guards stood menacingly over her; the image cut out, and there was screaming and protests...whose were they? It was hard to make out the voice. Another flashed in her mind—a blinding light staring her in the face, soon obscured by what looked like the back-lit figure of a doctor; she shook her head...or, tried to in the harness her head was secured into. The image went black once more.
‘Now, Ms. Frye,’ a voice said, ‘We’ll try this again...’
It was some kind of..interrogation room. She was alone, staring at the mirrored glass—at herself, wrists and ankles shackled to the chair. The lights in the other room caused faint, ghostlike images to show through it on occasion, but never enough to disrupt the fact that she was in solitude...
The scattered bits and pieces came all at once, and each time they changed—each time she couldn’t recall what the other pieces were. She could not recall anything from the before the past two months, nor anything that had happened within the past few years for that matter—there was a barrier there, something keeping her from remembering….it drove her mad….
What day was it again? Was it a Tuesday?...perhaps it was Wednesday. Most every day seemed to blur together, and that day seemed to be no different. The entire apartment smelled of cigarettes, marijuana, and half-burnt food. Dishes, pots and pans laid uncleaned in the kitchen sink, and the trashcan was filled to the brim with food that had spoiled or other refuse—it needed to go out, but it wasn’t likely to happen.
In her bedroom, clothes and hangars were tossed haphazardly in the floor and closet—not a single garment was hung up, save the one or two pieces of formal wear she owned. The bed itself was covered in sheets—stained and unwashed—while the nightstand was covered in ash accumulated from her smoking habit. The entire apartment needed a week’s worth of straightening up, but its owner lacked any and all motivation to clean—her mind was clearly elsewhere. It was unnatural, even for someone with as lax standards as Evelyn.
Her hair, normally short and trimmed, had been allowed to grow to her shoulders—it was greasy, unkempt and mostly hidden under a toque, and itched constantly from a dry scalp. It seemed as though the only personal care she had given herself was the courtesy of brushing her teeth—stained yellow as they were, they lacked any visible deterioration; at two months without a shower, it was only by the overwhelming odor of menthol and pot that anyone who dared enter the apartment didn’t recoil at the smell of her.
One might wonder what would cause a seemingly normal person to become so destitute without warning. It might have been some personal tragedy—perhaps the loss of a dear loved one, or a friend that had been consequential to who she was—but that was unlikely; she had not been to any funerals lately, and she had burned bridges with most of her family and cared not to mend those relationships. Though she was a compulsive smoker of both tobacco and marijuana, neither her nicotine addiction nor the THC were enough to cause such a downward spiral—as well, she lacked addiction to any other drugs.
Questions buzzed in her mind as she stared blankly at the ceiling fan from the couch; images, sparse fragments of memories flashed in her mind’s eye whenever she closed her real ones.
A holding cell, concrete and steel with neither latrine nor cot—the guards stood menacingly over her; the image cut out, and there was screaming and protests...whose were they? It was hard to make out the voice. Another flashed in her mind—a blinding light staring her in the face, soon obscured by what looked like the back-lit figure of a doctor; she shook her head...or, tried to in the harness her head was secured into. The image went black once more.
‘Now, Ms. Frye,’ a voice said, ‘We’ll try this again...’
It was some kind of..interrogation room. She was alone, staring at the mirrored glass—at herself, wrists and ankles shackled to the chair. The lights in the other room caused faint, ghostlike images to show through it on occasion, but never enough to disrupt the fact that she was in solitude...
The scattered bits and pieces came all at once, and each time they changed—each time she couldn’t recall what the other pieces were. She could not recall anything from the before the past two months, nor anything that had happened within the past few years for that matter—there was a barrier there, something keeping her from remembering….it drove her mad….
