He never gave real thought to his words. Had he done so, I’d hope he’d have chosen them much more carefully; considered the true meaning of the words he spoke to me that day. I’m no delicate flower, but I do mind being ‘handled’. I prefer that one speaks to me in the way his words are meant to be said. It’s only fair that certain truths are no sugar coated. Were my doctor to have had the nerve to speak frankly, these are the words he’d have chosen:
“Your brain can no longer tolerate its lone occupant, so I’m going to give you some meds. They’ll either cure you, or kill you in some way.
Either way, you won’t get out of this without losing yourself completely.
On the bright side, you died inside long ago, for all intents and purposes. Though I can’t guarantee any of this will help, remember it’s for your own good…”
After a few months of taking poison, the realization hits me, on this gorgeous Mayberry afternoon, that he was right: Elle doesn’t live here anymore. She was simply too hard to handle. Her roar is now a whisper, and her love of all things mysterious has been contained in the vacuous chasm once occupied by her soul. Gone are the silly daydreams and imaginations that made her life colorful. In their stead, a screen, blank and bland, reveals only chemically induced normalcy. People who know her think this is a wonderful improvement. She does not share their opinion.