A Fractured Mind

Chapter 1

I forgot to be me. Oh, what a lovely day! Or is it night, noon, or somewhere in between? Can anyone help me? Will you give me the right answers I am looking for? Questions, questions, questions!

The feedback is vague, dim, and at times nothing. I go into a blackness with no light at the end…

The end of what? Confusion, frustration, my daily consumption of food and drink; why do they want me to put garbage in my mouth when my tongue is full of rejection? These people are now my enemies.

Bathing is a fear of the water, not trying to cleanse me but break me down. Down into a watery pit where I see nothing, remembering less. I know not a soul. How? Oh, how did I get here?

I remember being born but to whom? A woman named Cellia. Not quite so beautiful to the world but beautiful to me.

Me? Me? Who is me? I am looking; just maybe I’ll find her before my end.

I truly hope so.

I now can see my mother changing my diapers, no Pampers eighty years ago. A linen cloth the smell of an unclean baby—whew, was that me or another baby that looked like me? I can’t remember.

Someone please help me! Who? Cellia. I remember a man, dark and tall, better looking than the woman he calls Cellia. He’s walking through a door with glass knobs that have been cut by a sharp knife, hard but pretty.

I am freezing; my body shakes from the inside, trying to remember yet praying not to forget.

Prayers, yes, I see someone on bended knees, eyes closed, mouth dripping spit, or is this rushing water trying to get me wet, clean me up when I am not dirty? The diaper has been removed; soap, water, hot water much too hot for my butt. Who will listen to me? Who will care?

Loud prayers all silent, only one man saying something… Help me, oh Lord, I am in need of you.

Who are you? Did he help us? I can’t recall. Will he help me? I don’t know. I feel a miasmic sensation in my stomach. This tall man hugs me, and he is with two others, children who favor me. One boy has blond hair, kinky, curly; his is so cute. Can he be mine or a part of me? His eyes, those eyes, deep-green eyes and a crooked smile, like Cellia. Now I remember my mom. Her touch, her smell. I want desperately to lay in her arms forever, a safety net. No harm, no cold, no bitterness, but she lets me go. She drops me into a pit of darkness, but I never land, suspended into a neverland of nothing. Why? Why? Why me? I am so little; did I land in the stench of a dirty diaper? When will I be clean? Is she done with me? Cellia! Cellia! She refuses to answer me.

I am trapped in the elevator of life stuck on the umpteenth floor—no buttons to push, no number to get me safely to the next floor.

A baby doll, a green tree, lights, and little bulbs. Everyone is happy tearing open packages, toys and more toys everywhere. Mine is handed to me; I am wearing pink, soft pink pajamas. I am happy; I smell wood burning. I look and see a fat burning fire surrounded by a big potbellied stove. Where did I come from? Is that me on fire? The smell is overwhelming. Who brought the doll? The tall dark man or that blond green-eyed woman named Cellia? Someone please answer me!

I feel sick; my stomach is churning. I’m so dizzy; I try to stand but have no strength. What day is it?

Chapter 2

What time is it? Loneliness . . . only a room with curtains; sunlight is trying to break through and free me of this darkness. Maybe we can both break free. The sun breaks free, but I am still captured; my darkness has the strength and power of a herd of elephants. My chest hurts; the pain is holding me hostage—who will help me breathe? Mom and the tall dark man, they’re crying. They are asking a man with a white coat what will happen next.

What is next? What will happen next? I can’t open my eyes, but my ears hear everything. The lady, Cellia, asks, Is she going to make it, Doctor?

I surely hope so, he replies softly. She’s young, ten years old, she can fight this. Give us a few more days to clear the fluid out of her lungs.

Fluid… that water again… that water again is my enemy; it wants to drown me or clean me up. I am not sure.

Where am I? Who am I? No one calls my name. They say I am a Mrs. Beaumont.

How?

How in this world did I become this Mrs. Beaumont? They have me mixed up with someone else. Please stop calling me by someone else’s name. Please! Call me Cellia.

I taste salt; my lips are wet with saltwater. Tears of salt cleansing me or drowning me, I’m not sure.

Water is my enemy, whether it comes from the eyes or other places. I am always wet. Water! Water has this power to consume me, annihilate me. Forcing this demon to annex control of what little I have left.

Water has its liquid hold on me; who can save me? Is it this God I vaguely remember? Where is He? Why can’t I hear Him? My eyes have blinders like the Amish horse in a race against traffic; I can’t believe anything I can’t feel or see. What I see now I forget the next second. There is no next; just now and maybe then. Then is more real, has more meaning.

I can’t feel my legs, my fingers; they refuse to follow my command. Will anything do as I wish? My wishes are dead; my mind has already been embalmed, and my heart has already made an appointment with the local mortician.

The greatest fear is to close my eyes and sleep, but I am exhausted and can’t blink another second. I wake slowly, opening my eyes, only to realize my demise has not yet been met. Soon I will finally arrive—no memory, no pain. Not a thing to remember, trying to gather bits and pieces of time, people, or myself. Peace will eventually invade my wretched burdensome life.

My kids go on their pleasure trips; they will not have to worry, enjoying themselves, not having to rush back to a half-rotten, half-dead parent. I wish for so many things, a smile, laughter, a familiar voice, me. I want her and only her.

Death.

She has a mind of her own; she sets the date but refuses to tell me when. She remains in total control and enjoys every minute of it. I forget everything, as she sits at my side, gloating, sneering, relishing with throaty sounds of half-dead frogs, hissing like a poisonous snake that has just digested the old dried-up patient before me.

I forget everything except her. She rules. She is coming for me in an ivory gown, no face nor form, just a non-caring attitude; no beauty, none, just a gown, and her feet have been methodically removed so neither of us will be able to walk away.

The gown will carry me away. Will someone care? Will someone mourn for me?

Cellia is weeping; her long hair is tied in a knot. I’m here, mama. She refuses to look at me, refuses to touch me. Am I that grotesque?

She holds a picture of a tall dark and handsome man. Why? I can’t recall.

The dingy gray room, the depressing dark furniture, a torn chair that is empty, no color, no feeling, no pulse. I panic; I feel for my pulse, but it’s extremely low to admit that I am still alive. Cellia, sobbing, breaking, being reduced to a mere pile of waste, falls to the floor. Young children, a boy and a girl, they’re very sad, sad beyond consolation.

I remember my father falling, falling crumpled to the floor of the kitchen; it too was a dark dingy gray. Is there no color here? Am I blind and can only see gray? She came for my father without warning, a phone call, or a note. She took him, and he went without a fight, at forty-three years old; she had no mercy, no guilt. But I will not go without a fight. I fight for all who find some senseless favor in her slow retreat of life.

They come into my room; her angels beg me to swallow the death bite. They call it my meds, but I know better. They swear it will ease my pain, make me comfortable, yet they aid her in my demise. Shame on them, killing an old woman for a dollar.

The vibrant youthful, and serene me that is inside wants to live, go back to being born again, experiencing time travel without limits, without demands, and most of all, without any cares. Life is the most difficult trip one can make because so many people want to travel with you, except in the long-awaited shadows of death.

I see a pretty box filled with satin, blue satin.

Stop! Stop!

I am being turned over. Pain, too much pain, tears marching, trying to break through. I am too weak, and I am much too frail to allow my body the luxury of tears; they will rush me to a place I cannot afford to visit. Self-pity is a city where there are many just like me, and who in the hell cares? Not a soul. My tears are not able to participate in the pain my body has been given.

"Mrs. Beaumont, it’s time for your