The Dead House

Patient File [Johnson-C-0399524], Session #62


Friday, 3 December 2004

Carly Johnson now refuses to sleep and has been self-harming to prevent it. She has broken the mirror in my personal bathroom and lacerated both arms up to her elbows, which needed fifty-seven stitches. She is now under careful observation. I am considering sedation therapy, but reluctantly, as it may trigger another catatonic episode. I must admit that I am unsure of the next course of action. I will write to Dr. Sparrow for a consult. I was hoping to avoid permanent readmittance—or worse: removal to the B Ward—but unless I see some signs of improvement, that may be the only course of action.





52



The Johnson Claydon Diaries

Seventeenth Entry

For a little while, or so they tell me, I was catatonic. A while, they say. Shock, they say. Denial, they say. A bump, they say. A bump before I continue on my road to recovery.

At first, I refused to believe, but then… the dates don’t match up in my head. And Jaime was here. They showed me the CCTV footage. The way she looked at me, curled herself into my lap… the way her mouth opened wide before she began to sob her little tears—tears that no child should ever produce, but which seemed so familiar to me… the way Mrs. Bailey said, “This is sick! I refuse to allow Jaime to suffer like this!”

And I didn’t stir. I didn’t move. Jaime sat sobbing in my lap, clinging to my hospital gown, and I didn’t even blink. Jaime… I’m so sorry— I’ve looked at my arms.

So… maybe…

Maybe I am crazy broken. Maybe I do need help fixing.

Oh, Dee. Maybe Lansing is right.




Eighteenth Entry

Don’t look at me like that, Dee. Especially when you’ve failed that girl in the reflection. See! She’s still reaching!





Inpatient Session Recording #65 [Ref: Johnson-Inp-0033]

Monday, 6 December 2004, 4:15 PM

Claydon Youth Psychiatric Facility, Somerset

Dr. Annabeth Lansing (AL) and Carly Luanne Johnson (CJ)

(CJ): I want to talk to Jaime.



(AL): Why?



(CJ): I need to explain to her… what’s going on.



(AL): I don’t think that’s a good idea, Carly.



(CJ): You have to let me see her. Or just talk to her—a phone call. That’s all.



(AL): I can’t do that, Carly. Not after her last visit. You saw the tape.



(CJ): Exactly! You showed me what I did—I need her to—[Swallow] I need her to understand.



(AL): Carly, Mr. and Mrs. Bailey have filed a restraining order against you. It’s being considered. Until we know the outcome, I can’t allow you to contact her.



(CJ): But… but I… I was sick. You said I was sick, right? And… I’m a minor. Can—can they really do that?



(AL): They’re her guardians now. But… no, I don’t believe they will get the order, so take a breath. Calm. But while it’s not been decided, you can’t speak to her.



(CJ): [Muffled sounds] [Quietly] Kill me. God, please just kill me.


[End of tape]





53





The Johnson Claydon Diaries

Nineteenth Entry

I’ve learned, in my tragic little life, that memories are like water. Not solid, like some people think. Once something happens, it isn’t set in stone. It can change.

You can make yourself believe anything if you lie to yourself long enough.

I’m good at lying to myself. I’m good at it because I have to be. If I believed the life I was in half the time, I would have jumped off that roof and taken Carly with me a long time ago. My biggest secret, Dee, is so pathetic that I can barely bring myself to write it. But I must.

Write it, you coward!


I am afraid of the dark.

No, not just tense. Not just tense at all, Dee. I am was am a child of night—I even need it… and I am petrified of it. Some kind of joke, right? But it’s true. And more than I’m afraid of the dark, I fear the light (ha ha). I fear the sun, and I fear the exposure. So, really, I’m not fit for life. One or the other, kid. And if I face that truth for too long, Dee, it’ll break me. So I have to lie to myself to survive.

But lying is a habit, and it’s addictive. You lie. It breeds. You lie again. It grows. And one day you wake up and realize that everyone around you has this weird idea about who you are, and you don’t recognize the person they’re describing. You don’t understand why they’re treating you the way they do.

Or not treating you.

It’s like you have a cancer.

I’ve pushed everyone away. Even Carly. I live behind a veneer of Teflon that I worked hard to grow and then to maintain. I could blame it on the accident murder accident death fact that our parents left us, left me, but it would be unfair. Because the truth is… I was like this before they died. I pushed them away too, and now nothing I do will ever change that.

They saw a drunk, when I was broken.

They saw sarcasm, when I was sobbing.