Stephanie's Smile

Stephanie stares at a picture of a young child.  A little girl with bright blonde hair, cropped short just above her shoulders with brown eyes alight with wonder, a wide grin outstretched painting the face of carefree ignorance. Innocence surrounded by a slew of other children, all smiling with equal amounts of blissful unawareness. Mrs. Morrow's first grade class is printed on the bottom of the page.  

Stephanie brushes away a clump of knotted hair from her eyes. Waves of rage bubble at the bottom of her stomach. A pulsating fury shoots throughout her body, taking over her extremities as her hands wrap around the elementary school yearbook and fling it across the room. Its pages flail as it bounces off the wall and comes to a rest on the peeling linoleum floor. 

Her apartment is in complete disarray. The floor is littered with trash and discarded clothing. A pile of dirty plates sit on the coffee table nearby. A dilapidated sofa sits filled with heaps of laundry left unfolded next to an overflowing hamper in the corner. It's the house of someone suffering a mental break of some kind.  A person in need of help. The only piece of furniture left untouched is the bookshelf adjacent to the front door. Each spine stands up straight in alphabetical order, organized by genre. The top shelf is mystery and thrillers, the second is romance, the third is autobiographies and a handful of cook books. The fourth and the fifth shelf is an overwhelming abundance of self-help. Untouched. 

The walls are covered in outdated wallpaper, a repeating floral pattern you’d see at your grandmother's house, with shiplap lining the ceiling. Stephanie studies herself in a sun-shaped mirror. The rapid beating of her heart fills her ears as clenched fists collide with glass. The mirror shatters, shards falling to the floor.

“God damn it!  Fuck!” She screams, as splinters of glass embed into her knuckles. Beads of blood form on her hands.

 Stephanie clutches her injured hand to her chest. A river of red drips onto the same peeled linoleum that now holds a crumpled copy of the North Star Elementary Schools 1998 annual. Stephanie looks around the room for something to wrap her hand but catches a glimpse of herself in what glass shards still offer a reflection. The same big brown eyes as the child in the photo stare back, blinking. The childlike wonder now replaced by something haunted, something dark and broken. Her bright blonde hair is succeeded by a mop of matted mousy brown. Greasy tendrils fall in front of dark circles.  A sense of grief takes over her body, an overwhelming shame forcing shuttering sobs from her chest. Her tears glide down gaunt cheeks, feeding into the grooves of knotted skin, dripping off a pointed chin and falling to the checkered ground, joining blood and broken pages. A morbid soup. She traces the upturned scar that affixes each side of her mouth, etching a permanent lie onto her solemn face. No amount of makeup can cover it. Plastic surgery is expensive and time consuming. 

Unable to recognize herself, she peers into the monster of her own making. The product of her own circumstances stands in her place, merely a ghost of that bright eyed child in her 1st grade class photo. 

“Fuck her. Fuck me.” she whispers to the room. 

Who is that person? Where did that happy child go? When did she become this broken version of herself? Darkened eyes slow blinking, questioning. 

Oh yes, that's right. 

___________________________________________

“Now, Stephanie, how would you rate your depression on a scale of 1-10? 1-5 being manageable. 10 being the most extreme.” A middle-aged mouselike woman looks up between curled ringlet bangs. 

Geraldine, psychiatrist, paid $150 an hour. 

“Does a 10 get me hospitalized? Because that sounds really nice. I could use a break” 

Geraldine scribbles something on her notepad. “Why do you say that?” 

Stephanie weighs her response carefully. “Just the hallucinations have been getting really bad lately” 

Geraldine looks her over, assessing her sunken eyes and jutting cheekbones.  

“And I've been having the same nightmare over and over. It’s been hard to get to sleep”

“What happens in these nightmares you’ve been having?” Geraldine crosses a leg over the other, her pen at the ready position.

“Well, um, I wake up in this room. It's dark and I can’t see anything.” Stephanie closes her eyes, putting herself back into the world in her mind. “I can feel the wood of the chair underneath me and I try to stand. That's when I noticed the ropes at my ankles and the rope tying my hands together behind me. I don’t know how but somehow I know I’m not alone in the room.”

 Geraldine shifts in her seat. “How do you feel in the room? Are you sc-?

“I’m terrified,” Stephanie interjects, unable to hide the shake in her voice. Her eyes pressed together tight.

“Then I see a light. It’s a door” 

Geraldine shifts forward planting both feet on the ground and resting her elbows on her knees. “What happens next?” She asks.

“A man walks through the door, but I can’t tell who he is.” Stephanie’s breath hitches. Her chest begins to rise then fall rapidly. Geraldines expression remains unreadable, emotionless.

“I’m trying to break myself free. I’m fighting and fighting but nothing is working. I try to scream but nothing comes out.” Stephanie grabs at her neck, her hands trembling.  “My throat is burning but I can’t scream. My eyes are on fire but I can’t cry. He’s coming closer and closer and there's nothing I can do. And then he’s in front of me.”

“Who is?” Geraldine asks, unmoved by the panic in Stephanie’s voice. “Who’s in front of you, Stephanie?”

“My dad.” Tears begin to stream down her cheeks, collecting at the ridge of her scarred face. A glasgow smile once again forging a lie on her cheeks. A contortion that no longer exists. Not naturally at least. Stephanie begins to shake uncontrollably followed by blood curdling screams.

Geraldine jumps up from her chair, taking Stephanie by the shoulders. “Stephanie, you’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. He’s not here “ Stephanie begins to claw at her face, her arms, at Geraldine. “Stephanie, listen to my voice.”

Stephanie digs her nails into Geraldine’s wrists hard enough to make the woman let go of her shoulders. 

“We need assistance in here” Geraldine calls into the reception room. 

2 men in white scrubs stride towards Stephanie, one taking a syringe from his pocket and inserting it into Stephanie’s lower neck. Stephanie instantly falls limp into the 2nd man's arms. 

Geraldine’s stone-faced as she watches them carry Stephanie’s limp body out the door. 

___________________________________________

The nurse's stand is quiet save for the lowly receptionist typing in data onto the computer. Nothing but the occasional phone call from a neighboring ward to disturb the 5am stillness.  

That is until Dorothy walks behind the desk in a huff with a clipboard in her hands. 

“That much excitement already, Dorothy?” Asks a worn out receptionist.

“Miss Stephanie Perez is back. This should be fun.” Dorothy replies, placing the clipboard back onto its respective hanging file. 

“Is Stephanie Perez the one with the,” the receptionist draws circles over her mouth with a pointer finger. Dorothy nods.

“What happened to her?”

Dorothy leans into a whisper. “She watched her dad kill her mother and her sister when she was just 9 years old.” Dorothy shakes her head. Tsk tsk. “He shot her too but she survived.  Apparently, he didn’t show any signs before that night. He had a good job, didn’t drink, didn’t do any drugs, no evidence of abuse, he just cracked that one night. Just awful” 

The receptionist puts her hand on her heart. “Oh my god. But, then, how’d she get scars on her mouth?” 

Dorothy continues “Oh, she carved it onto herself. She’s been in and out of mental institutions ever since the murders. I mean, can you blame her? First her entire family and then her roommates. “

The receptionist's eyes widened. “Her roommates?”

“Oh yeah, two of her roommates died last year. Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Just sad.”

“What? Where was she?”

“I don’t know, out of town or something.” Dorothy exclaimed.

4 doors down, Stephanie lies awake in her hospital bed, taking in her gray surroundings. The room is illuminated by the early morning light spilling in through the slits of the blinds. A stinging in her forearms draws her attention to the IV poking her veins. She watches the drip feeding into her arm as a broad smile stretches onto her scarred face. Triumphant.