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Who Do You Trust?

Who do you trust, when you don't even know if you're real?

Who do you trust when you can't tell what's real and what's not? Who is really here, who did my head make up? Is the man with the drugs and the questions real? Are the noises, the lights real or imagined, hallucinated? I know the sleep deprivation is real, that much I know, but is someone really waking me up, or am I doing it to myself? Are they reading what I write, if they are real?

He's so gentle and sweet when he brings me into that room, the nice one with the old soft rugs and the comfy squishy chairs. So soft his touch as he rolls up my sleeve to give me the injection. Relax, Misha. It's okay, I'm here to help you, just relax. A little prick in your arm, it'll be over quickly. I can feel his hand hold my arm down, firm but gentle. Loving. He always strokes my hair when the injection is over. There's my good Misha, good girl. I always lean into his touch, it is the only nice touch I get. The others, they are rude and forceful, throwing me around like a sack of potatoes. I have hit the wall of my cell so many times, I have the bruises to show for it, I can see those bruises, I can feel them. But I am not sure they are real.

Then the room spins and bends in ways I know rooms cannot bend, at least sometimes I know...and I always end up somewhere else. In my head is the only place I can talk to the dead. And they always come, oh god they always come. And he starts asking me questions, WHO DO YOU SEE, WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO, WHERE ARE YOU? Suddenly so loud and with such venom. He wants answers and he wants them NOW! There is no dodging them, never. He must know everything. These things were dead and buried, I was done with them. They were done and put away and now they come back and I must relive them over and over and over and I am forced to remember such detail. I can smell, taste, feel hear things that were long gone. I have arguments with dead men. Even in death he comes to me drunk and accusatory. Maybe there is no mercy on his soul. Maybe he comes to me from hell, but why is hell in my head, in that room with the squishy, comfy chair? Is the interrogator really the devil? Oh my god, am I dead? Is this hell? It feels like it.

So bright is the white of this room, oh god it hurts. And I wait for the noise and the lights to come, because I know they will...I don't know when and I don't know why all I know is, that they will come. They threw me in here hard, my body aches like I have run for days, but I think the only places I have been are the white room and the comfy, squishy chair room. Right?

I don't know anymore what's real and what's not. I can't, I just can't. There can't be any more of this, because I cannot take it. I cannot.

Shelly, open your eyes. Dammit Shelly open your eyes, I am here to help you. NO! Please no more help, I don't want help any more. Just let me be please. I just need some peace. Bloody hell, who is screaming like that? What could possibly cause someone to scream so much? Someone must be enduring some major torture, that poor soul. Apparently she will get no mercy either. Maybe mercy isn't real, maybe none of us are blessed with mercy. Someone, please shut her up, just kill her already she is making my head hurt more.

Shelly, stop. You're safe, sweetheart. Shhh, you're safe. I can't help you if you don't stop screaming. Please don't make me sedate you again. Please. There is begging, a soft voice. Wait. Stop what? Oh god, am I screaming? Oh Jesus, is that me? Oh god, please no, don't let that be me.

Silence. That's my good Shelly, good girl. You're safe. You're home now. It's over, it's been weeks since you came home. That can't be right. It can't. He was just here, he was...I can still feel the prick of a needle in my arm. I can still feel his hand in my hair. Hear his soft voice change to demanding questions in less than a blink of an eye. There's that screaming again, see it's not me...is it?

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