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“Projection of hope,” she repeats. “It’s a term used to describe an attachment to someone upon whom your whole well-being relies. Even when that person cannot possibly live up to the ideals you project on them, they become the symbol of all your hopes for the future. In short, perhaps your ‘love’ for this man is merely a manifestation of your wish to be in a relationship, regardless of the suitability of the match.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not projecting anything. What I feel for Nick … I’m certain he felt it, too. It wasn’t something I forced to happen.”
The doctor maintains a dignified silence as she processes this information. “Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?”
I shake my head vehemently. “No, never. I love my family too much to ever hurt them in that way.”
“Describe your typical day.”
“Dark. Like everything’s hopeless, like there’s no point getting out of bed.” I pause, biting my thumbnail. “Some days it’s an effort just to wake up. To wash, to brush my teeth, to comb my hair. I burst into tears at the slightest provocation, and sometimes, justsometimes, I wonder what the point is.”
“And yet you say you’re not suicidal?”
“No, definitely not. I’m no use to anyone dead.” I laugh bitterly. “Sometimes I feel I’m no use to anyone alive, either.”
The doctor makes no comment, just writes more notes, then she gets up from her desk, walks slowly over to the window and opens the blinds to let some light into the room. Sitting back down, she opens a wall-mounted medicine cabinet and takes out two white boxes with green writing on. “I want to start you on these.”
“What are they?” I ask.
“They’re called Thurlax. They affect the neurotransmitter in the brain called Serotonin. It helps stop you from feeling depressed. I’m giving you one month’s supply to see how you go. Take them twice a day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon, but don’t ever have them on an empty stomach. Usually, the effects kick in within two weeks or thereabouts. Phone me to make another appointment before the month is up so we can see how you’re doing, okay?”
“Okay.”
She spends another five minutes going through the possible side effects of the tablets, then we say our goodbyes and I head home feeling slightly more upbeat about things. In the past, I haven’t had much joy with antidepressants, and on the whole find them not to agree with me, but I’m hoping Thurlax might be the exception. The only snag is the time Dr Wong says it takes for them to kick in. I’d been hoping for a quick fix to help numb the pain, but she says it could take up to two weeks. I pray I’ll see results faster than she expected.
When I get home, I try to read a book, but my head just isn’t with it. For a sweet distraction, I watchThe Princess Bridefor the umpteenth time, but once more find it hard to concentrate. Between seven and eight, I clean the kitchen: I wash and wipe down all the surfaces, mop the floor, even polish between the wall tiles. Then I make a sandwich and take my first dose of Thurlax, but I almost throw up at the first bite. My stomach can’t seem to hold down any food, and in the end, I survive on endless cups of black coffee.
When I finally go to bed, I find it hard to sleep. My mind is buzzing too much and I
feel unaccountably on edge. Also, my hands keep shaking and I worry that the new medication might not agree with me. After a long spell of relentless tossing and turning, I finally manage to nod off, only to be woken again in the early hours of the morning.
Something has disturbed me.
But what?
In the breathing dark of my bedroom, my eyes dart wildly around, trying to detect some hidden danger. There are shadowy corners everywhere, and all the places I look seem to be perfect dwelling for a monster. Everything is ominous; even my dolls look sinister. Eventually, my senses draw me toward the window. A trickle of soft moonlight is seeping in through the half-open curtains and at first, I cannot see what is so compelling.
Then, out of nowhere, I hear a gentle rapping noise. My brows furrow; surely someone can’t be knocking on a second-storey window?
There it is again: a low thud, like knuckles hitting glass.
I stare at the window with morbid fascination. Gradually, a grayish-white mist reminiscent of dry ice from a smoke machine begins to cloud up the glass. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s like I’m hallucinating, but no, my senses are all in check; this is definitely happening. Rapidly, I slip into a pleasant trance-like state, somewhere between sleeping and waking. Gripped by some unknown force, I climb out of bed and stagger toward the window, my limbs guided by invisible puppet strings. The glass is now completely fogged by the mist and something shadowy is compelling me to open the window.
With a crazed smile, I throw back the curtains and loosen the latch, a bizarre thrill coursing through me like electricity. Cool air slaps my face, my nostrils, as I shift my gaze upwards. The mist is seeping into my bedroom in great billows of white, and in no time at all has consumed everything it touches.
From the depths of this hazy maelstrom, the silhouette of a man appears. I’m rooted to the spot, paralysed, afraid to confront the apparition unfolding before me.
And then a familiar voice calls out my name and my whole body freezes.
Nick Craven is standing in my bedroom.
He smiles at me, a warm, inviting smile.
I lick my lips and feel a delicious surge of longing as he walks toward me with an intensity that holds me both enthralled and wordless. For a long time, we gaze at each other, dual hearts beating as one. His smile broadens and his teeth glimmer brightly in the moonlight. A malevolent force is emanating from him like potent radiation; something dark and bewitching that coerces me to submit to him.
Slowly, Nick opens his arms and I step into a powerful embrace that only lasts seconds but seems to last for years. His sweet breath fans my face as he presses his cheek to mine. “I never meant to hurt you,” he whispers. “You’ve got to believe me. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
I tilt my head to one side and emit a low whimper. Lost in his arms, I feel so safe and protected. Then softly, he starts to kiss me; first on the cheek, then full on the mouth. Hot, sweet kisses that make me giddy and send me slightly crazy. With a throaty groan, I grab his head and lock my fingers in his hair, goading him to kiss me more intensely. This is sweet, beautiful insanity, but I love every minute of it.
