Page 46 of Judas

It’s difficult to explain what they look like, really, but picture motor oil as it mixes with water. That foggy-film rainbow-like effect? They appear like that, but suspended in the air and darker. Like the LED screen on my phone is starting to fade, or the lights in the room have lost their luster. It’s nothing like having a person sitting next to me in a black spandex suit, waiting for me to notice them. I seethings, not people, but the Doctor chalks them all up to schizophrenia.

Promise I’m not crazy, they’re really there.

If the voices ever leave, the gaping holes they’ve created may be what actually impairs me. That or the long lasting effects, because the way it seems, they’re not going away any time soon. They’ve been here since as far back as I can remember. And while they don’t scare me, their antics have become more cruel as I’ve gotten older. While I wish they would do it sooner rather than later, there will be a fall out and that’s more intimidating than just dealing with the never-ending noise.

“Mr. Wilson, I know it may seem excessive, but this medication is approved by the Food and Drug Administration for patients thirteen and older. Sadie’s markers are extreme enough to warrant it, while also being on the lower end of that severity scale. If we start her early, she could live a more stable life once her body metabolizes the medication and we find a suitable dose for her.”

“That’s a lot of hooblah. She needs a good ass beating to straighten her out, instead of her mother coddling her because she has too many feelings,” Dad returns.

There it is: the lack of understanding and his boomer mentality—it’s always punish and never treat. Whip the sicknessout of me. Confine me until I act as expected of a suburban girl given everything she could ever want.

“Carl, we discussed this with the Doctor already. Kids like Sadie do not respond to physical punishment, as it breeds resentment and rebellion.”

I adore my mother as much as I am capable of. She tries her hardest to give me the typical life most girls have at my age. Cheer and sports, social life and emotional support. The thing is, I know I’m not theirs—their biological child. I’ve always known. They’ve never hidden that fact from me, especially my father. Sometimes he wields it like a weapon and throws it in my face during the more heated fights. They’ve even told me the adoption is open and if my biological mom wanted me, she would have tried to reach out to me—she hasn’t.

“Since it’s so difficult and unpleasant to be part of this family, Sadie Aurora, you’re welcome to run right back to that sex offending birth mother of yours. Wait, you can’t because she’s locked up and gave you up the day you came out of her.”

P… please stop, stop!

The fighting started when he came home from work today. Mother and I had a good dinner—alone—but he showed up at the end before either of us could get the cleaning done. Now? I’m curled in the back of my closet; it’s the only place that makes sense. Hidden away, packed into a small space that gives me three solid walls of safety and comfort while my hands cover my ears and I shy away from any potential exposure.

Squeezing my eyes as hard as I can, the moisture tries to escape but I won’t let it. He won’t see me cry anymore. I refuse to look weak in front of him—being weak has not accomplished anything for my mother, so why would I do what fails her? Instead, I’m out of sight, out of mind.

It is alright, child. He will never harm thee.

That’s the soft voice. Always warm, inviting, and soothes me at night when I burrow in the middle of my bed, turning my back on the world. Sometimes I think I can feel her fingers running through my hair when I’m not paying attention, but brush it off because I can’t let people see there are things wrong with me. They can’t see that I’m not like the rest of them and that there are more than one of me inside.

Sometimes I think about what it would have been like to live with my real parents; would I still have to go to the Doctor and talk? Where would we live? Somewhere that feels more like home than this? There’s more to feeling like you belong somewhere than someone just claiming you’re theirs, right?

They told me about the day they brought me home. Father said the nurses handed me over all nice and clean after washing the vernix off of me, having quickly bathed me within the hour of my birth. Him and Mother were ready to start their lives with a child and give me a better one than I ever would have had. A few years ago, Mother told me I was still crying when the nurses placed me in her arms, and didn’t truly stop for a few hours after we all arrived home. It’s like the staff took me, bathed and diapered me, swaddled my little self in a blanket before I could have the taste of milk on my tongue.

I always found it weird as I grew up, when my mother's heartbeat didn’t sound like mine or one that I’ve heard before. It’s supposed to be simple ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum, at least that’s what I’ve learned in my science classes. But Mother’s always seemed different, the beat wasn’t ever quite right.

Being adopted is supposed to be a good thing, but I’ve not been able to find the silver lining other than basic necessities. Roof, food, rest, safety. That’s what we need to survive according to Maslow, and that’s what I get so I should be grateful. Just like father tells me. There’s got to be more to it than that—way more. Psychological needs are just asimportant as the others due to how powerful thoughts can be. If we feel low, sense that we are unwanted, discarded, or lost, then the mind takes matters into its own hands. I’ve seen some of the happiest people take their own lives and they have the basic necessities, too. Just like me, we’re broken inside.

That night, I chose to stop trying as hard to make Father happy and proud. There’s no amount of trying that will influence someone to look at you for what you’re truly worth, not at what they price you at. I came at a cost of nineteen thousand dollars, though that’s significantly cheaper than paying for a pregnancy—Michigan paid for my mom’s since she’s property of the state—it’s still a little on the low end for going through an adoption agency. Plainly put, I am a wholesale baby because both Mom and Dad were criminals. My life is of lesser value because of things outside of my control.

Now, they keep discovering more things wrong with me and what do you do when your purchase is defective? You send it back and get another one. I doubt they will adopt another kid, not after they picked the bad apple. To keep things from getting worse, I keep my mouth closed; voicelessness is the better option when compared to screaming and shouting.

I don’t necessarily want to be on medication that will make me a zombie, but I also want the voices to stop long enough for my parents to like me. Truly like me, Sadie; the girl with too many thoughts and too few words. See me as a person rather than stock.

Surprise, surprise, I came to them as an heir to Patton Technologies. Father has had dollar signs in his eyes from the moment he found out, hoping the blood relation would be a saving grace for his struggling investment firm. He’s sat me down on more than one occasion to discuss how I’m going to insert myself into Mr. Patton’s circle when I turn eighteen—work for him, internships, be arm candy for one of the old men he has around him, whatever it takes. I don’t want anything to do with technology, which would be a huge issue. Outside of blood relation, I have nothing to relate myself to Mr. Patton. Biologics don’t matter to rich men, only manipulative ones with an agenda.

Half the time you can find my phone laying around somewhere in my room and demanding to be put on the charger. Imagine how angry Father was the day they couldn’t find me and I left my phone sitting on my dresser, unable to use the tracking on it. Mother gave me a keychain after that. It’s pretty cool, I guess, allowing them to track me instead of having to carry a phone. Doesn’t necessarily keep me safe but it will help them find the body. And trust me when I say, there have been a few times where I thought they might.

My passion lies in studies, though—ironically, the human mind. That’s what I want to do when I am done with school: talk to people that I relate to and give them someone who understands. The morbid side of me wants to pick their brains apart but I also want to help; help them not be like me and teach them to mask better. To be the best fake-human I can be, I watch people, study their mannerisms and behavior, all while mimicking and keeping my nose in textbooks.

On the outside, I look normal. Typically pretty girl, platinum hair, blue eyes, clear complexion, self-chosen ruggedly styled wardrobe because I’m edgy. When in reality, I, Sadie Aurora Wilson, am merely a fragile cuticula holding back a myriad of afflictions. Everything else is for show, to keep people off our backs while they poison me into the perfect mail-order daughter.

Sitting in the backseat of the Yukon, my legs are pulled up to my chest where my arms have wrapped around them. My head rests on my knees as I tone out their bickering. My parents liketo reserve our family fights for private, even if I’m an unwilling party and usually the topic of discussion.

The one that likes to make the most noise in my head is starting to run rampant—eager to pick a fight, usually digging my hole deeper than it already is. It gets exhausting trying to tone her out but I do my best. At the moment, my nails are digging into the sides of my thighs, willing her away, as if that’s ever been effective in the past. All she does is fight me, sending me into blackout episodes and takes over—a complete system override. It’s terrifying, not knowing what your body is doing and having zero ability to stop it, but what can I do? She’s stronger than I ever will be.

My parents don’t say anything, but I know why they have the locks on the inside of their bedroom door and not the outside. The incidents started happening about a year ago and have only increased in frequency. I think that’s what set Mom out to find the Doctor, needing to fix me. What began as Multiple Personality Disorder, as we learned today, has progressed into schizophrenia. I’m not hearing voices, they’re there, I promise I’m not crazy.

Have I said that already?

I can feel the entities. They’re living, breathing, energy-using, soul-sucking beings in there—mental parasites. Coexisting semi-harmoniously, except for the demented one who likes to push and pull me around like a marionette. Sharing a body I try my hardest to remain in control of, the very one whose nails are no longer scratching and are more so digging into the flesh. No longer attempting to drag me away from the rampaging entity, but to hold onto and hope the sun I can feel shining through the window doesn’t turn into a black hole before we make it home.

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