Dreams Apart

Burnt scar

  Previously on "My diary"

Present

                        Pov : Austin

"I'll get to it." Angela referred to what she actually came for rather than me, which pretty much hurt my ego.

She disappears into the stairs that'd lead her to the rooms while I go off to the office I never asked for. It was Diana's idea.

Diana managed to give me a call from time to time when I was in Italy.

"Have you taken your pills?" She worried so much—it almost worried me.

Maybe if she were a better person, I would.

"I can have the doctor come over there." I was only assigned to one doctor. Diana said he was her trusted asset and would never even think of exposing her and her little ill secrets.

"It'd be better if you'd come home."

"I'm all alone!" She whined once, her deadliest mind game. I've seen her play it off on my father, and it always seemed to catch up on him when he got sober.

I slowly pace into my office as an abnormal image visits my mind.

"No other power than the chosen possessor can break the metal flower apart, and so..." A glimpse of straight words in a metal-designed flower appears in my memory. The metal had small fingers along with a boy to speak words I couldn't quickly grasp.

It is a blur, and it isn't the first time.

I've been avoiding the prescribed pills given to me, and that just may conclude the images and voices in my mind lately. They're nothing new, but I had almost forgotten just how cruel they were.

"He has false memory syndrome." My mother's trusted male psychologist was certain I had it, despite mentioning that it wasn't a diagnosable mental disorder.

I found that quite ironic. A disorder that made individuals center their personalities around factually incorrect memories. What makes the human mind generate incorrect memories? Well, whatever it was, I didn't have it.

I slip my drawer open to the sight of the prescribed pills rather than the cigarettes I yearn for. Typical of Diana to manage my very own office, just to remind me of how ill I am and, gosh, how thoughtful.

"Identity crisis" is two words Uncle Westly uses to describe my condition. While my father says absolutely nothing infects me, he suggests alcohol to'snap out of it' quietly without Diana hearing.

I don't blame him for the fault I have. I began drinking before he advised me to. I'm not an alcoholic, but I sure do make use of it.

Angela was as good as liquor; she was quite worse. I was coping because of her, and the idea was almost sickening. I left for Italy without looking back at my deadliest drug.

Her.

My thoughts are interrupted by a phone call.

"Lisa." I groan in slight annoyance since she's called me twice this morning about proposing a business idea to me. Well, all that is left for me is to simply accept or reject it.