Prologue
Where do I even begin? How do I even start writing about the shit show that is my life? Iβve always had this problem, trying to figure out how to start a paper. I loved writing papers for school but I never had a clue on how or where to start. I would just start typing vigorously until all of my thoughts stopped and then I would force out some opening lines that I hoped my English teacher wouldnβt judge too hard. Now, some years later, Iβm faced with the same stupid problem. Except this time I have my therapist sitting six feet behind me, staring at me while I write in a journal about my life and what led me to be trapped in an asylum.
Dr. Richard Zaccardi, what a scumbag. Heβs been assigned to my case for the past four months and I think it took him the first two just to stop staring at my chest during our sessions. His long, greasy brown hair was slicked back behind his ears. His clothes were a size too big for him and he always smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. I had no idea how he even kept his job here at Portland Asylum.
Itβs still hard to believe Iβve only been here for four months. It feels like itβs been years since I was thrown away in this black hole. I donβt really remember the day I was brought here. I was still in a haze from all of the painkillers and anti-anxiety meds that were pumped into me at the hospital after I woke up. They said I spent four days in the ICU in a coma. Thank God for that, I guess, considering my humerus was broken in half, I had a severe concussion, deep cuts all over my body, a couple of broken fingers and a fractured cheekbone.
The first few weeks here I spent locked in solitary. The walls and floors were bare in the room, and the only bit of furniture was my hospital bed and the IV rack that was next to it. The only company I had was the camera in the upper left corner of the room with its constant blinking red light. I could barely move from all of my injuries but my panic attacks had me trying to claw at the staff if they got close to me.
When I was finally βwellβ enough to be moved to a normal room, I was forced to come to these therapy sessions. Three months of being told by Richard just how damaged I am.
I donβt remember much of it, just flashes of images; the fight, the gun shot, the accident. I tried so hard in the beginning to make those memories disappear and I managed to suppress most of them but there are two mental images I cannot rid myself of. The first being his eyes. Those beautiful hazel eyes that haunt my nightmares. Iβve never truly hated anyone in my life, not even my step mother. Not until he came into my life, turning everything upside down, making me fall in love and then completely destroyed my heart, body and soul.
The second image that haunts me is of me pulling the trigger of a gun, killing someone and seeing how red my hands were when I cradled the body that dropped to the ground.
My name is Scarlett Murphy and currently I am a patient at Portland Mental Asylum. So far, Iβve been diagnosed with depression as well as suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Dr. Zaccardi is trying to convince the board that I am mentally unwell. That because I was kidnapped and mentally manipulated for such a period of time that my memories are impaired and I now suffer from extreme anxiety attacks and fits of anger. This way when I go in front of the judge, Iβll have as he says a βget-out-of-jail-free cardβ. That I wasnβt acting on my own accord when I did what I did.
The sad part is after all this time Iβve had to think, I do believe I was acting on my own.
Letβs start with the day before I met Declan Byrne, the man who shattered my heart.
