Sometimes she’d scream just to feel the bliss of the sharp prick. The faces and voices didn’t understand...she couldn’t ask—that would constitute as divulging information; nonetheless, the sharp sensation led to sleep—a reprieve from the conscious grayness and suffocating nothingness. Life was no longer real. Perhaps it never had been and it never would be...
Sometimes Claire remembered black voids. Those thoughts didn’t frighten her; on the contrary, the black overpowered the gray—consumed the nothingness and filled her with the promise of intense emotion. Nothing about Tony had ever been gray. There were always colors...blues, greens, reds, and browns. So much could be assessed by the shade of brown. The memory of that brown becoming black made her heart beat faster, pulse rage uncontrollably, and body hunger for the passion only he could provide.
At times, Claire fantasized about Tony’s eyes—starring endlessly at anything, remembering his ability to communicate with a simple glance. The sight of something dark brown or black electrified every nerve within her body, but when she saw chocolate brown, it sent her entire being into spasms.
Claire stopped caring, months or years ago. Time was no longer relevant. She had a new goal. It was to wait until he returned, held her, caressed her, and loved her. Until his gaze filled her being, until he consumed the nothingness and made the grayness go away—until he brought the color back to her bleak world.
Claire had been walking outside with a faceless voice. The voice had been talking, and she’d been walking. The air was warm and the sky was clear. Claire assumed it was blue, although she only saw gray—the way things appeared on black and white television. The woman beside her seemed familiar—yet not—as she spoke on and on.
Claire didn’t try to listen; instead, she concentrated on walking with the talking woman. This obedience earned her temporary exodus from her desolate room. It was a compromise she could sometimes stand. As they entered the building and walked through the cafeteria, Claire peered beyond her bubble, long enough to see someone familiar. The realization sent her back—immobilized her—memories sped by—colors flooded her gray. She couldn’t compartmentalize fast enough.
Before Claire knew what happened, she was on the floor. Shoes and voices were all she saw and heard...
Meredith couldn’t react fast enough. She knew the woman across the room was Claire. Despite her dull, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and her too pale complexion, Meredith recognized her sorority sister. It was her eyes. Yes, they lacked the luster of their youth, but Meredith had no doubt—the too thin woman with emerald eyes was definitely Claire.
Meredith wanted to call out, but if she did, she’d blow her cover. Briefly, their eyes met, bringing a momentary spark of recognition. Before Meredith could move, comment, or anything—Claire fell to the floor as if she’d been struck. Suddenly, she was lying in a fetal position, shaking her head, and mumbling incoherently.
The woman who’d been walking with her calmly knelt beside Claire and made a call. Within seconds, they were surrounded by other members of the facility’s staff. Meredith moved forward in seemingly slow motion as they scooped Claire onto a gurney and slid an IV into her arm.
Meredith’s ragged breath pulled at her chest as the needle entered Claire’s skin. She quietly eased herself closer to the woman she once knew. By the time she was beside the gurney, Claire’s emerald eyes held little sign of recognition. Under the guise of the commotion, Meredith gently touched Claire’s forearm and moved her lips near Claire’s ear. “Claire, it’s me, Meredith. Please help me tell your story.”
The trembling woman before her slipped away. Her last gaze toward Meredith was one of relief as the peaceful calm of medication overtook her body. Helplessly, Meredith watched the gurney being wheeled away.
The pain in her arm was back, but so was the calm. Before the dreams began, Claire tried to process the identity of that woman. She felt an undeniable belief that she should know her, but it wasn’t right. The woman didn’t belong here, not in her safe haven. Claire’s thoughts were scattered...her story. No, the story wasn’t just hers.
The story belonged to so many others, so many others, who like her, would never be able to tell the world what happened; so many others, who were now silenced—now and forever, yet Claire knew every word—she’d lived it.
Tell her story? No...some things were better left unknown!
People are stupid; given proper motivation, almost anyone will believe almost anything.
—Terry Goodkind
Sighing, Claire fastened the final clasp on her luggage and turned toward Phil. “I’m glad you didn’t need to fly back to Iowa, to meet with the Iowa City Police Department.”
Golden flecks shimmered in Phil’s hazel eyes as he responded, “Well, Mrs. Alexander, it wouldn’t be very husbandly of me to let you travel to Venice all by yourself.” Nodding toward her midsection, he continued, “Especially, not in your condition.”