Page 30 of Deliria

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Forster,” he greets me, his voice warmer and more soothing than his expression is. “I hear you’ve had a bit of a scare again.”

I nod, pulling the blankets tighter around myself, feeling all the more vulnerable with so many more bodies in the room. Somany male bodies. “I... I don’t remember much,” I confess, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“That’s not uncommon with your condition.” He states. “Memory loss, paranoia, confusion—these are all symptoms of the illness that’s affecting your brain.”

“What, what is my condition?” They all keep referring to it but no one seems to want to name it. It’s like the massive elephant in the room, waving its trunk around, pissing all over the sheets but everyone seems intent on pretending it doesn’t exist.

The doctor glances at my husband and from my periphery I see him give a nod, an assent, a silent message that it’s okay to let the invalid know what actually ails her.

“Dissociative Amnesia.” He says, and it lands like a death sentence.

Dissociative what? I don’t know what it means exactly, and I can’t help but shudder at his words while the reality of my situation settles over me like a shroud. “Will I... Will I get better?”

“Perhaps.” The doctor replies. “Your condition is very serious. The paranoia, the memory loss... these are symptoms of a deep-rooted psychological disorder. It’s imperative that we manage you carefully to prevent any further incidents.”

I nod, numbly accepting his diagnosis. A psychological disorder. It makes sense, in a way. It explains the confusion, the fear, the sense that I’m losing my grip on reality. It even answers the questions of why my memory is all over the place.

But it doesn’t explain everything.

It doesn’t explain the notes, the feeling of being watched, the haunting certainty that something is very, very wrong here.

I swallow hard, the weight of everything suddenly pressing down on me and I turn my eyes back on Alex. “Am I... Am I going mad, then?”

It feels like it. It feels like I’m losing all sense of reality.

He shakes his head, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “No, my love. You’re just very ill.”

The doctor shifts, seizing that moment to jump in and continue. “You are fortunate to have a husband like Mr. Forster. Most men in his position would have sought to distance themselves from such... difficulties. They might have considered... other arrangements.”

My gaze flickers again to Alex who is watching me intently, his expression unreadable.

Other arrangements? Institutionalization? A mad house?

The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication.

I am lucky, I suppose, to have a husband who is willing to stand by me, to care for me despite the burden I’ve obviously become.

I nod, and the tears that had been threatening to fall now stream down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being such a burden. I’m sorry…”

“Shh,” he soothes, moving instantly to reassure me, brushing the tears away with his thumb. “You could never be a burden to me. I love you, Scarlett. I married you because I want to spend the rest of my life with you, in sickness and in health. You’re my wife, and it’d take a lot more than this to make me give up on you.”

His words should comfort me, but they only serve to intensify the guilt gnawing at my insides.

I’m not the woman he married.

I’m a shadow of my former self, haunted by fears and suspicions that I can’t even begin to understand, but I know he bears the brunt of them.

What must it be like for him? To see me become more of an animal, to see me lashing out, accusing him and his family of God knows what because my mind is so fucked up that Idon’t even know the difference between what is real, and what is imaginary?

“Thank you, Alex,” I murmur, turning my face away to try to hide my tears from both his father and the doctor. “I, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He smiles then, a small, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that, Scarlett. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.”

The doctor nods approvingly, as if Alex has just passed some sort of test. “Now, I’m going to adjust your medication.” He says. “It should help with the paranoia. Just remember, Scarlett, you’re not alone in this. We’re all here to help you get through it.”

I nod, accepting the small paper cup filled with white little pills that he hands me without question, and I swallow them down with a sip of water, the bitterness of the medicine a stark reminder of my illness, of my helplessness. A reminder of my dependency on all the people standing around me right now.

“Remember, Scarlett, you mustn’t give in to the paranoia. It’s a symptom of your illness, nothing more. Trust in your husband, in the care he provides for you. It’s the best chance you have for recovery.”

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