The Dollhouse

Chapter 9

SEATTLE, 1963.

For most people, the memories they had of that year were unforgettable. Perhaps they'd reminisce about the year the World's Fair attracted ten million to the city, the death of the starlet actress Marilyn, or how every single newspaper was splashed with JFK's face when he was assassinated in Texas.

For me, it was the year I learned to fear the night.

The nocturnal woodland near the highway was a whole new world in the darkness. I had no memory of losing my bag, but the absence of it on my shoulder was not of any concern.

I had to keep running.

Away from the streets, away from the noise. Like a deer in the headlights, I darted into the night the way a scared animal escapes a swerving pick-up truck.

It was a stupid, stupid decision. Every instinct in my chemically-imbalanced brain screamed at me to bolt. I remember, it felt like my feet were flying over non-existent ground - for all that I could see and feel was humiliation, their hands, their greedy eyes...

How long had I been running?

My bones were splinters.

The twigs snapped under my feet as I stumbled over the underbrush. Sharp intakes of breath fed my lungs. At that point, I realized I could no longer cease the cries from stuttering from my lips.

It was madness. One lap of the court in gym and I was usually ready to die. But in this circumstance, I couldn't feel a goddamn thing.

Were they chasing me?

I don't know.

I don't know.

The dense canopy of trees smothered the woods.

My head was pounding so violently, it took me a few seconds to realize I had collided with a tree. I could taste to blood in my mouth. Just as I was able to drag my adrenaline-filled body from the earth, my feet caught on some upturned roots.

Breathing was painful.

Left for dead. Cold, anxious, alone.

When I think back to that midnight afternoon, to this day none of it felt real. Everything was out of proportion. I felt the faint horror one experiences when going to see a flick at the drive-in. It was like a nightmare in someone else's story.

I don't remember how I came to be at the hospital. I now know some Canadian couple pulled off the highway to help some 'bedraggled young thing' they found 'crying and disoriented'.

My therapist once told me people handle trauma in different ways.

For my thirteen-year self, it was as if I didn't belong to my own body.

I was a viewer. A narrator.

But I suppose I always found comfort with words.

North Harbor Hospital was one of places that doesn't feel real. Like a twenty-four hour grocery store, the lighting was harsh and glaring, and the all that could be heard were shuffling feet and the occasional beep of some machine on wheels.

A nurse was shining a flashlight into each of my eyeballs. I resented the touch of her dry hands. Another youthful nurse with braces hovered behind her, a clipboard in her arms and anguish written all over her face.

A flash of silver as she bit her lip.

Head injury, she noted.

Nothing felt real save the poignant stench of the sterile hallway. I was so spaced out, I can barely recall being lead from the waiting area to the overnight bed.