I drop to my knees and sob in the middle of the living room. Dr. Burton stands from his chair, walks over, and tries to comfort me.
“Dr. Burton, I need you to commit me to a mental hospital.”
“I think that’ll make things worse for you. I can help you, Katherine. I’ve spent the entire day reading literature on the disorder, and I will continue to do so. If you come to my office three times a week to start, we can work on putting Dahlia to rest so she can’t come out again.” His hand softly rubs my back while his soft voice soothes me.
“I need to call Detective Walker and tell her I killed all those people.”
“No, you don’t. You must understand thatyoudid not kill those men.Dahliadid.”
“How can I not remember anything?” I shout.
“Because when Dahlia comes out, you go to sleep and stay asleep until she lets you wake up. Let me help you. You do not need to ruin your life because of this. It isn’t your fault, Katherine. Okay?”
I nod, and he helps me off the floor.
“She killed my parents, Dr. Burton.”
“I know.” He hugs me. “Everything will be alright. I promise. Just get some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
I nod again as tears flow freely from my eyes. After Dr. Burton leaves, I bathe, hoping it will relax me. When I finish, I climb into bed and open my laptop. I bring up Google and type dissociative identity disorder into the search bar. I began reading articles and watching YouTube videos of people who supposedly have the same disorder. I can’t deal with this. It’s too much, and Dahlia needs to be stopped.
I glance over at the bottle of pills on the nightstand. It’s the only way. I pick up the bottle, shake the pills in my hand, and pop them in my mouth, chasing them down with water before Ichoke. I sink into the plush mattress, pulling the soft comforter up to my chin as I try to find a comfortable position before facing my demise.
43
I slowly openmy eyes and take in the sterile white walls, the fluorescent light above casting a harsh glow that hurts my already sensitive eyes. I turn my head and notice a small window high up near the ceiling. Where am I? I look down at my wrists that are strapped down to the bed, along with my ankles. I try to break free, but when I do, it hurts my wrists, so I stop. I scream, yell, and make every noise I can to get someone’s attention. My memories are hazy, and my mind struggles to piece together the events leading up to where I am. All I can recall is the swallowing of countless pills out of desperation to stop a killer. Now, I’m in this strange place. Is this purgatory? Am I being punished for all of my sins? Perhaps this is just another hellish realm I have stumbled into.
I hear a click, and the door opens. A nice-looking man enters and walks over to my bedside.
“You’re awake.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital. You tried to commit suicide, Katherine.”
“How long have I been out?” I ask.
“A couple of days. We had to heavily sedate you to keep you from hallucinating. You were screaming that someone named Dahlia was trying to kill you.” He picks up the clipboard hanging off the end of the bed. “You have been assigned to Dr. Seagram. I’ll go let him know you’re awake.”
“No. I want Dr. Burton.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He leaves the room, and I hear the lock clicking when the door shuts.
I tightly close my eyes, praying this is nothing but a nightmare. They open when I hear the door open.
“Katherine, I’m Dr. Seagram,” he smiles, holding an iPad. “How are you feeling?”
I know if I tell him anything other than ‘fine,’ I will probably be sedated again.
“Fine,” I say.
“That’s good to hear.”
“Can you untie me? My wrists and ankles are hurting.”
“Sure. I don’t see why not. You seem to be in a calm state.”
If he only knew.
