OOM: Room 130
When Veronica opens her eyes at last she lies very still for a long time, certain that she has drowned within the confines of her own mind.
A metaphor, perhaps, is in order.
You wake in the morning, and due to - your radio alarm, a lingering dream, a triggered memory: take your pick - a song begins to play in your head. Maybe it's just a tune, maybe there are lyrics. Maybe you even hum along in sync with the melody, or tap your fingers along with the beat. It's such a little thing, really, and you are content to let it rest there, serving as a backdrop to the rest of your daily thoughts.
But the next day, the song is still there. And now, with your attention drawn to it as it is, the tune is becoming a distraction, a frustration. You try to drown it out, or try to listen to something else, but it refuses to leave you. If anything, despite your efforts, it grows stronger, louder.
The next day is much the same.
And the next.
And the next still.
Eventually you hear nothing but song, you know only the words that form its lyrics. Your movements are punctuated by beats of the percussion, regular and measured; you clench your jaw in a sympathetic rhythm with the bass line. When others speak, their speech is piano chords, guitar riffs.
In time, you fade away, until only the song remains.
We return then, to Veronica, metaphor in hand.
She has been listening to the same song for more than a year.
For a long time it was background static, a quiet hum that Veronica, being quite clever, was easily able to tune out. But it has been gaining, and ever since the House it has been - for lack of a better term - loud. Enough so that Veronica has steadily been losing herself for weeks. And as she slips away, something else steps forward.
The first time she realized something was wrong, she was only moments from ordering that Madison Sinclair's expensive new car be crushed into a cube. But since that, it's only become more prevalent: Constant flashes of concocted memory of Logan and Madison, and of Duncan and Meg even, for some reason, after all this time; stretches of time where, though she cannot say why, she feels nothing but bile and bitterness toward every other human soul; sharp, biting headaches; blackouts.
The blackouts are the most worrying. They stretch for days now, coming on without warning, and Veronica wakes from them to find herself - by the lake, in the corridor, starting out the Observation Window - always somewhere different, with no idea how she has arrived there. It is almost a blessing when, this time, she finds herself in her own bed.
But it's dark, so dark, in the room, and Veronica lifts her arm to turn on the bedside lamp -
- her arm -
- her arm does not move.
She attempts to cry out, to force her body out of the bed, but all of this has no effect. She is trapped, so still, no longer in control.
Although Veronica is terrified, her heart rate does not increase. The pulse remains steady, loyal to one constant rhythm.
A metaphor, perhaps, is in order.
You wake in the morning, and due to - your radio alarm, a lingering dream, a triggered memory: take your pick - a song begins to play in your head. Maybe it's just a tune, maybe there are lyrics. Maybe you even hum along in sync with the melody, or tap your fingers along with the beat. It's such a little thing, really, and you are content to let it rest there, serving as a backdrop to the rest of your daily thoughts.
But the next day, the song is still there. And now, with your attention drawn to it as it is, the tune is becoming a distraction, a frustration. You try to drown it out, or try to listen to something else, but it refuses to leave you. If anything, despite your efforts, it grows stronger, louder.
The next day is much the same.
And the next.
And the next still.
Eventually you hear nothing but song, you know only the words that form its lyrics. Your movements are punctuated by beats of the percussion, regular and measured; you clench your jaw in a sympathetic rhythm with the bass line. When others speak, their speech is piano chords, guitar riffs.
In time, you fade away, until only the song remains.
We return then, to Veronica, metaphor in hand.
She has been listening to the same song for more than a year.
For a long time it was background static, a quiet hum that Veronica, being quite clever, was easily able to tune out. But it has been gaining, and ever since the House it has been - for lack of a better term - loud. Enough so that Veronica has steadily been losing herself for weeks. And as she slips away, something else steps forward.
The first time she realized something was wrong, she was only moments from ordering that Madison Sinclair's expensive new car be crushed into a cube. But since that, it's only become more prevalent: Constant flashes of concocted memory of Logan and Madison, and of Duncan and Meg even, for some reason, after all this time; stretches of time where, though she cannot say why, she feels nothing but bile and bitterness toward every other human soul; sharp, biting headaches; blackouts.
The blackouts are the most worrying. They stretch for days now, coming on without warning, and Veronica wakes from them to find herself - by the lake, in the corridor, starting out the Observation Window - always somewhere different, with no idea how she has arrived there. It is almost a blessing when, this time, she finds herself in her own bed.
But it's dark, so dark, in the room, and Veronica lifts her arm to turn on the bedside lamp -
- her arm -
- her arm does not move.
She attempts to cry out, to force her body out of the bed, but all of this has no effect. She is trapped, so still, no longer in control.
Although Veronica is terrified, her heart rate does not increase. The pulse remains steady, loyal to one constant rhythm.