Home > The Forgotten Girl(5)

The Forgotten Girl(5)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“Wait. Are you sure nothing happened at all?” he asks as I pick up my bag from off the floor beside the door. “You didn’t see anything… maybe something you thought was a dream?”

“Nope, other than I got a good dreamless nap, zilch happened,” I lie as Preston gets up from his chair and wanders back over to his desk. “How long was I out for?”

He checks his watch. “About ten minutes.” He lets his arms fall to the side. “Although I’m extremely disappointed, I have to say I’m not surprised. The studies I read through said in the beginning a lot of patients simply got drowsy. Hopefully next time we can progress further into it.”

“Next time?” Sighing, I turn around and face him. He’s standing behind his desk, loosening his tie as he gathers papers on his desk into a stack. “We’re doing this again? Really, Preston? I thought we decided a long time ago that hypnotherapy was not the way to go.”

“I know, but this way is different and I’d like to keep trying it, just for a little while.” Flicking the top button of his shirt, he undoes the collar. His finger must snag the button, though, because it ends up falling off and onto his desk. He doesn’t seem to notice however, taking off his tie completely and setting it aside. “But only if it’s okay with you.”

I want to say no, but I’m distracted by the button. Pick it up. Pick it up! A sickness of mine. The need to pick up every single fallen one. “I guess so,” I mumble, sliding the handle of my bag onto my shoulder, trying to ignore the compulsion to pick up the button. Pick it up, Lily entices. No f**king way, I reply. I already told you, it’s crazy to do that.

Everyone’s crazy in their own way.

“Good, I’m glad you’re on board with this,” Preston says, turning around to search through a stack of papers on the filing cabinet behind the desk while I zone in on the button.

Pick it up. Pick it up. Pick it up.

Shaking my head at myself, I quickly reach over the desk and snatch up the button before he can turn around. I stuff it into my pocket, as always wondering why I do it, but never being able to stop myself.

“This hypnotherapy is a little controversial,” Preston continues, oblivious to what I just did as he faces me with a paper in his hand. “But I think at this point in your recovery, controversial methods might be the only options.”

“Whatever you think. You are the doctor after all.” I point to his PhD on the wall, black bold letters with his name on it. Nonchalant as can be. Like I didn’t just steal a button like a psychopathic button kleptomaniac. “Or at least according to that you are.”

He offers me a small smile. “I’ll see you next Tuesday, Maddie.”

I wave as I walk out the door, keeping a neutral expression until I get outside and into the open. Then I breathe for the first time today, because soon I’ll be at work and I won’t have to try so hard to hide Lily anymore.

Chapter 3

Maddie

I once spent an entire day doing research about “voices in my head.” The findings where alarming. Psychosis. Schizophrenia. Multiple Personality Disorder. I’m sure if I told Preston, he’d crack open my head and give me a diagnosis but, that would mean living with the results. I’d no longer be able to hide the insanity—I’d have to accept what was wrong with me. So I try to keep Lily locked up the best that I can, only letting her out when I know it won’t harm anyone. Like when I go to work.

After my therapy session, I go home to watch the channel nine news at 6 o’ clock, a habit of mine that started while I was in the hospital. It’s the local station and living in the small town of Grove Wyoming, not too much goes on. Fire at the old millhouse, lost bike, found bike, car accident down on 5th Monroe and Maple drive. No injuries, just damage to the cars, which is causing traffic to back up. Alternative route suggestions. Then a quick clip on how to make pumpkin spice cake. Laughs, smiles, laughs. Yeah, get on with the good stuff, Lily whispers. The brief five minutes when the station gives a section to a more global headline, the brief insight to the grimier stuff, well usually anyway. Today ends up being a brief update on the disappearance of a girl, but there’s no details other than she’s been gone for a week and is still missing. “Keep an eye out everyone and if you have any information at all call this number.”

“Maddie, would you turn that off,” my mother shouts from the kitchen. “I hate it when you watch the news. Please, find something else to watch.” She says this every day. I’m not sure what bothers her about it, but for some reason she seems dead set on me not watching the news.

I click off the television halfway through the clip. It’s nearing five thirty, so I decide to go into my room to change into my go-to-work uniform. It’s a little early for work, but if I leave now I can make a much-needed extra stop on the way.

My room is a very stressful place. My mother decided to put up every single photo of me she could find, hoping it would spark my memory. All of them were taken before the age of thirteen because I got really camera shy when I hit my teenage years, something revealed to me in one of my mom’s stories she loves to tell about me. There are some of just me, some with her, and none with my father. Some of them are torn, like she ripped someone out of the photo. All the photos feel like pieces of paper to me, nothing more. And it makes me uncomfortable that I have to stare at multiple versions of myself every time I step in there, always feeling like I’m being watched by myself.

I turn on some music and then rummage through my dresser for something to wear, occasionally glancing over the walls and ceiling, cringing at how happy I look in most of the photos, all sunshine and rainbows, like there was no bad in the world. But there is. Just turn on the news. Just live inside my head for five minutes. Sometimes the girl in the photos doesn’t even look like me when I stare at her long enough. Like she’s just someone who shared the same face but had different thoughts and values.

After selecting an outfit, I close my dresser and start getting dressed. Slacks and a button down shirt, done up all the way to my chin. Black hair combed and gelled into place, so it’s plastered straight at the side of my defined cheekbones. Minimal makeup so my freckles are visible. No jewelry. Hideous loafers. This was how I dressed before the accident, I was told. And the dresser full of stuffy and boring attire confirmed this. That this is who I am. Maddie Ashford. Boring. Simple. Preppy. Conservative. I am Maddie and I look like a banker.

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