Lauren Sanders has been left to start a 'new' normal life with her aunt and cousin after her family died. Everybody knows almost everything except for two things: Lauren's parents' mysterious death and her schizophrenia.
Lauren goes out on a mission...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
I remember sitting in the dimly lit room, the gray walls seem to close in on me, suffocating me with their drab uniformity. The cold, metallic scent of the cell lingers in the air, a constant reminder of my confinement. I knew what it felt like to become a prisoner of my own thoughts, but I never knew the exact feeling of being locked up in a jail cell, like an actual prisoner who committed a heinous crime.
The past few days have been a relentless onslaught of confusion and chaos. My grip on reality has become more tenuous, slipping through my fingers like sand. The whispered voices, the lurking shadows, and the suffocating paranoia have returned with a vengeance. My psychotic episodes, once dormant, have taken over my life again, gnawing at the edges of my sanity.
I'm trapped in a mind that plays tricks on me, weaving a sinister tapestry of delusions and paranoia.
It started as faint ripples like a stone dropped into a calm pond. But those ripples grew into waves that crashed against the shores of my mind, eroding my sense of reality. At first, it was subtle: a fleeting movement at the corner of my eye, a whisper that vanished the moment I turned to face it. But as days continued to pass by, the whispers grew louder, more insistent, again. Shadows danced in the periphery of my vision, twisting and contorting into grotesque forms, again.
I would wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding against my ribcage as if it wanted to escape. The lines between dream and reality blurred, leaving me disoriented and anxious. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves outside my window, sent me spiraling into panic.
I knew I had to let go of the idea of having the chance to trust my own perceptions again. I thought I saw a miracle – a chance to escape it. I felt it, perhaps I was just really delusional, and I had to accept that because this is my reality.
And then, I remember the incident that shattered whatever fragile semblance of normalcy remained. The Sanders' Couple Murder. My parents, the very people who had always been my anchor, were found dead in their home. The authorities cast their accusing gaze on me, their only living daughter.
The weight of the accusation hung heavy in the air, like a storm cloud ready to unleash its fury. I wasn't just accused of murder; I was accused of killing the two people who had loved me unconditionally, and who had supported me through every trial and tribulation. The thought was a dagger to my heart, and I clung to my fragmented memories like a lifeline. But even those memories felt distant, distorted by the tendrils of my psychosis.
In that cold, dimly lit jail cell, the gray walls closed in on me. The cell felt like a reflection of my own mind—claustrophobic, isolating, and suffocating.
I remember the feeling when I pressed my hands against the cold walls, tracing the rough texture with my fingertips. I couldn't shake the feeling that these walls were a manifestation of my own mind, a barricade that was built to protect me from the world outside. For a moment, they were my prison, a tangible reminder of the reality I could no longer grasp. For a moment, I saw a miracle, again.
