Inked Hearts

Fallon

The darkness of the dim lighted room surrounds me.

Why? Why do I have to be like this? ‘Because you are pathetic. You are the reason she is dead. It is all your fault.’

Blood. Endless, crimson blood. That’s all I see when I close my eyes, an unrelenting torrent that drowns my thoughts.

The voices are relentless, echoing in my mind, whispering the harsh truth—it’s all my fault. I should confront the agony, the haunting images of blood smeared across my skin like a grotesque canvas. It pools around my feet, thick and viscous, every time I dare to shut my eyes.

I brought this upon myself. I was weak, I am weak. Pathetic, even. Yet, instead of facing the searing pain, the crushing guilt, the fractured voices that haunt my head, I find myself back here. Back in this dimly lit, makeshift lab with a friend of mine, Mari.

We’ve known each other for years, and she’s the closest friend I have. She knows everything—every action I’ve taken and every one I haven’t. She carries her own demons, much like I do, and she understands the darkness that shadows my life.

This guy devised a drug specifically for me, not like heroin or meth, nothing as straightforward as that. It’s an intricate concoction of hospital-grade drugs, transformed into a clear liquid.

They silence the chaotic voices in my shattered mind, even if just temporarily. They numb the pain, the guilt, granting me a fleeting peace that nothing else can offer. The relentless urges and self-loathing evaporate, leaving behind a rare moment of calm.

I crave that release, a brief respite from the constant, gnawing hatred I endure every second of every day. “Fallon, are you sure? I mean there are other ways,” Mari’s concerned voice fills my ears.

“They never work Mari, please, I need this.” My voice is broken as I beg. She nods her head and leaves to wait for me outside.

Vincent approaches me with eyes that resemble lifeless, cold pools of brown, devoid of warmth or emotion. To him, I’m nothing more than another experiment, a pawn in his twisted game.

Yet, I remain indifferent. I need this. His voice reaches my ears, but I don’t register the words. This isn’t my first time in this sterile room, though the intervals between visits have become increasingly brief.

Initially, I found myself here once every few months, then every other month, then monthly. Now, it’s only been three weeks since my last visit.

Vincent methodically straps my arms to the cool, metallic surface on which I lie. Above me, a glaring, clinical light casts an unyielding brightness over my body.

As always, a wave of nervousness washes over me just before the procedure begins. It’s the anticipation, the waiting for that fleeting moment when everything ceases.

Thoughts of self-reproach echo in my mind: “So fucking pathetic. Can’t even deal with what you caused.”

I draw in a deep, steadying breath as the needle presses into my skin, the sharp prick a prelude to what follows.

The liquid enters my veins, its initial chill spreading swiftly through my body, making me shiver involuntarily. My breath catches as I fixate on the stark, white light above. It’s as though I’ve been plunged into an icy bath, the cold enveloping me entirely.

Gradually, the chill dissipates, replaced by a soothing warmth. It’s akin to being wrapped in a soft, comforting cocoon, providing an unexpected solace. The cacophony of voices in my head begins to quiet, and the relentless urges start to fade.

A sense of peace washes over me, a rare and cherished reprieve. Finally, relief.

Once the sensation settles in, promising to linger for a while, Vincent unfastens the straps. I hand him his payment, and he acknowledges it with his unsettling, almost predatory smile.

With that, I exit, stepping back into the world momentarily free from the chaos within. Mari is standing there waiting for me, with concern in her eyes. She doesn’t question or push, she just drives me back to the house.

Large house, almost mansion like. The house stands tall and imposing, with multiple levels and grand windows that reflect the sunlight.

The architecture is elegant and grand, with intricate details and columns that line the edges. The gardens surrounding the house are meticulously maintained, adding to its impressive appearance. The roof is slate grey, standing out against the lush green landscape surrounding it.

Her, I, Jayden, and Jaydens brother Jace reside. We are all friends, have been since high school. The outcasts. So that’s what we call ourselves. We are close even though I feel closer to Mari since she knows just about everything about me.

We are in college, second year. Yay us. Life I guess.

We all have our things going on. Jayden is a dancer, at Juilliard. She is amazing. Jace studies music also at Juilliard. He is excellent at the piano and his voice is stunning. Mari, she goes to NYU studying literature, creative writing. Anything to become an author. She is good but does not share her work yet. I study Psychology.

Ironic? The irony has never left my mind. I want to be different than others.

The putting people in labeled boxes annoys me. Yes, there are diagnoses but stop shoving pills down their throats first chance you get and talk to the patient.

Listen to them, that is how we are supposed to help them. Safe to say I have a lot of arguments with my professors.

I also take a photography course. I love photography catching images in the right moment. Beautiful.

See that drug I force into my body helps. I am rambling in my own mind but no extra voices. Once home Mari goes straight to her room.

But I am wide awake. Even though the voices are gone I find myself thinking about them. I mean its hard not to. I need air, I need to focus and not let this build into a spiral.

I decide to walk. I need to breathe, to escape the storm raging in my head.

So I walk. I march to that familiar place I always end up when I’m spiraling like this, just a few blocks from the club.

I feel imprisoned within my own skin, suffocated by my thoughts.

I crave to feel something—anything—other than this consuming shame, hatred, and disgust. Life whizzes past me, and some days it feels like I can’t even draw a breath.

Other days, I feel nothing at all. I desperately want to be normal again, like before.

I want to smile, genuinely, not just plaster on a fake one to fend off questions. I don’t want to deceive my friends when I say I’m fine. I want to mean it.

I clutch the frigid metal bars with a grip that could shatter bones.

My eyes pierce through the darkness, fixated on each gravestone dimly illuminated.

Silence engulfs me, an oppressive, absolute silence. Finally. This is the sole sanctuary where my mind finds peace. No incessant voices, no venomous whispers, nothing but void.

Is this an omen? Is this how I silence the tormenting voices? How I fill the relentless emptiness? A stone bearing my name?

A pressure builds behind my eyes, threatening to burst, but I refuse to cry. I am not worthy of tears. I haven’t shed a tear since that night.

After what seems like an eternity, I wrench myself from the icy grip of the bars. I swivel to face the barren road. A distant car emerges from the gloom.

Perhaps. Perhaps just a single step. Maybe that’s all it takes to obliterate the voices, to fill the hollow void.

To escape this suffocating numbness that invades every thought. Everything I bury from the world.

Mari, Jayden, Jace, my father, they’d all be better off.

Just one small step. My feet begin to move, as if possessed by a force beyond me. I watch my foot, detached, like a puppet on strings. The headlights blaze, searing my vision.

Just as my foot is about to meet the pavement, something jerks me violently backward. I crash into something solid—a wall?

Where the hell did a wall come from?

Suddenly, hot air, reeking of tobacco and mint, assaults my face.

“What the fuck, are you blind?” The voice is deep, freezing me in place with its intensity.