Trapped in Reflection

She's back. She followed me here, to this cheap hotel in San Diego. I knew, when I saw the view outside my second floor window of the dirty, puddle-strewn rooftop below, she'd be there.  She's pacing and muttering. At least she hasn't looked at me yet.

I could close the blinds. But if I get too close to the window, she'll talk to me, and I hate when she talks to me.

I should call Dr. Devlin and let him know that the Thorazine isn't working. Time to try the next med.

As I'm considering whether it's worth picking up the phone to make the call, or if I should wait until she's gone, she suddenly plasters herself to the window, eyebrows furrowed in anger over blank, dead eyes. She stares at me, pinning me in place with my own racing heartbeat and icy fingers of panic. 

"You are a mistake," she hisses, her voice insidious, and crystal clear through the closed window. "You should have never been born." She punctuates this with a slap at the glass that makes me jump. 

She gives me a nasty sneer that makes my insides crawl, and just like always, she walks to the edge of the roof, and falls off.

It doesn't matter if we're on the first floor, or the forty-first. She always exits by going off the edge.

At least I know she's gone. For now.

She left an oily handprint on the window. I get up on wobbly legs and snap a picture of it, even though I know it won't show up in the photo. I check. It doesn't.

I'm running late for my nine o'clock presentation. I had driven all the way from the Bay Area early this morning to do this, hopefully they'll be forgiving if I'm five minutes late. 

I drove because I don't fly. She shows up outside airplane windows, and I feel like William Shatner in that Twilight Zone episode. No amount of benzos can lull me into a relaxed state when I'm trapped in a flying metal machine with my dead mother shouting at me through a window twenty thousand feet in the air.  

When I drive, she's at the side of the road every few miles, but it's easier to ignore her. I don't know why she can't follow my window in a car, but I count my blessings every time I have to drive anywhere for work.

After an easy, five minute walk to the Core-Columbia district, I smooth the front of my tailored slacks and make sure my silk blouse is neatly tucked before entering the office tower.

The meeting goes well. The VC's offer my start-up a sizable chunk of change after the present psychiatric professionals approve the viability of the app. They confirm that tracking the efficacy and side effects of prescription medications on individuals with various mental disorders using fitness trackers would be useful in treatment management.

I don't tell them that I'm a test subject for my own app.

I'm happy that I manage to deliver my presentation while my mother lurks outside the boardroom, twitching and hissing at me through the wall-the-ceiling glass window.

At least she's always on the other side of the glass. She can't be in the same room as me. My mind seems to have created a barrier using glass to keep my hallucinations at a distance. To keep me safe. 

I forgo the dinner invitation, because I don't know how much longer I can hold it together. I need to call Dr. Devlin. This is the longest psychosis I've had in a while. 

Back in the hotel room, she's on that dirty roof again. I stand and watch her pace while I make the call.

"This is Dr. Devlin," his deep, soothing voice rumbles through the phone.

My mother stops pacing long enough to glare at me through the window.

"Hi, Dr. Devlin, it's Beatrice."

"Beatrice, yes, hello. What can I do for you?"

She stomps over to my window, her footsteps reverberating so loudly it makes it seem impossible that no one else can hear. Her pasty flesh hangs loosely around her jowls, wobbling with every step. She seems to be slowly decomposing. Every time I see her, she's a little more sallow, her eyes a bit milkier, her skin drooping a bit more from her frame.

"She's here," I inform him. "She showed up at my hotel, and taunted me through my entire presentation." A sob escapes from me. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"The Thorazine stopped working?" he asks.

"I don't think it ever did. It just…quieted her for a bit. She was always there, even though she was a little bit…faded.  More in my peripheral vision." 

My mother claws at the window, and I shudder. "Now she's very visible. And she's being disruptive." As if to prove my point, she bangs on the window with both of her fists. "She doesn't like me talking to you."

"Hmm. Would you like to check into an intake center?"

"No, no, I can still function. I'm…aware that she's not real."

There's a long pause while the clicking of keystrokes echo through the phone, as my mother cackles and points at me.

"Alright, Beatrice. I've written you a script for lorazepam, just to help you get some rest, until you can come see me to talk this through. When do you get back?"

"I'm leaving early tomorrow morning. I'll probably be home by noon."

"Alright, come see me in the afternoon. And I want you to keep reminding yourself that this hallucination is merely your mind's way of expressing the trauma of your childhood, of your mother's death, and your fear that you are like her. Remember, you have sought help for your condition, unlike your mother, who fell victim to her disorder because of her fear of medical professionals. You aren't afraid of me, are you, Beatrice?"

I shake my head before I whisper, "no." My mother sneers at me.

"That's good. That's very good, Beatrice. I'm here to help you. Do you trust me?"

I'm startled by the question. The demanding tone feels a bit sinister. But I answer in the affirmative, even though the truth is that I don't trust him. Not really. But I'll do whatever it takes to make my mother leave me alone.

She was a hateful woman while she was alive, and her death has changed nothing.

I mumble goodbye to Dr. Devlin, only belatedly wondering if he had ended the conversation. I suppose I ended it by saying goodbye. 

I shake my head and mutter "god, I'm an idiot," which makes my mother cackle, her expression one of approval.

She approves because I'm acting like her. Talking to myself, chiding myself. I'm a long way from banging my head against the wall in self-punishment, like my mother was prone to do, but it all starts somewhere. 

"I'm not like you," I tell her, trying to be forceful, but failing.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You're not?"

When I shake my head, she throws her head back and laughs. "Then why are you talking to me? I'm not real, am I?"

She's never sounded so reasonable, and I'm struck silent, unable to respond.

"You are like me," she hisses. "I will haunt you until you die. Just like my mother haunted me. Like hers haunted her. We're cursed." 

Suddenly angry, I snap, "We're not cursed! We're schizophrenic! We have a mental disorder that is hereditary, and it makes us see things that aren't real!"

She laughs. "Is there a difference? It will take you in the end. I will take you in the end."

"No, you won't," I say with less force than I want. "I'm not like you."

She tilts her head as she considers me. "No, you're not. You haven't made the mistake I did. You don't have a child. You were not supposed to be born. I wasn't supposed to have you." She pounds her forehead with a fist. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, so stupid. Stupid man, tricking me." She points at me. "Men will trick you! They'll make you think they can chase me away, but they can't. Nothing can. Not your doctor, not your little pills. Nothing. I will be with you until the end."

"Go away," I whisper. "Leave me alone."

She grins, a sinister smear across her ghoulish face. "You know how to make me go away. You know what you have to do."

I shake my head frantically.

"It's so easy," she says amiably, through the rotted teeth of her smile. "You simply go to the edge, and fall. Like this."

With that, she skips to the edge of the building and turns to face me, offering a disturbing smile before spreading her arms wide to the sky and tilting back in peaceful surrender.  

I heave out a shuddery breath, relieved that I'll get a small reprieve. She'll be gone for a little while. This is the pattern. I'll get nice and comfortable, and she'll show back up. 

Knowing this, I'm still determined to enjoy a little bit of sane time.

I go to the drug store around the corner and fill the prescription from Dr. Devlin. While I'm paying, I also buy a bottle of water. I pop a pill before I even walk out the door.

By the time I get back into the room, the lorazepam has already kicked in, and although I know my mother will be back soon, I care a whole lot less.

I change into some casual clothes, and head back out in search of some food. 

The sun has recently set, and people are filling the streets, most of whom are in costume.

I somehow forgot that today is Halloween. The costumes and the happy people wearing them are lifting my mood. I take them in, mentally tallying the most popular ones. There are a lot of Harley Quinns and Jokers this year. Michael Myers of all shapes and sizes. I giggle as I see a sexy one, in a form-fitting, low cut jumpsuit, showing off some very voluptuous curves, with the creepy white mask with attached hair. She stares at me through the eyeholes of the mask as we pass each other, her head turning to watch me. It unnerves me, and I quickly face forward and continue my search, maneuvering around the growing throng of people. 

As I walk through the Gaslamp Quarter, looking into all the restaurants, searching for the most appealing ambience, my mother walks with me in each window, instead of my own reflection. 

Luckily, the lorazepam has made it so that this isn't as disturbing as it usually is. 

I stop at a Mexican restaurant, drawn in by the bright, festive colors of the decorations, and the saucy, cheesy plates on the tables. 

I'm quickly seated, and chips and salsa are brought to my table. I peruse the menu, ignoring my mother sitting at a table outside near the window. She's staring in at me, but at least she's quiet. 

The restaurant is decorated with brightly painted skulls and candles everywhere. On the walls, framed pictures of people are hanging, some black and white. I examine them carefully, trying to see if they're anyone famous.

"Hola señorita," the waiter says, drawing my attention away from the photographs. He nods towards them. "Those are family members who have passed on. It is for Dia De Los Muertos."

I nod politely as the waiter points out the various family members and tells me their names and how they were related. 

When he finishes listing off the aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, he asks if I'm ready to order.

I'm feeling pretty good, so I ask him to bring me the house special, whatever it is.

"Absolutely. It's an old family recipe, you'll love it." His face brightens and he points at one of the black and white pictures. "It's hers, actually!  Tia Rosita."

I smile and tell him that I can't wait to try it.

My mother is still sitting at the outdoor table, almost motionless, but grinning a sickening smile at me. A tooth falls out of her mouth, onto the ground, skittering across the cement.

The waiter brings me an icy, red drink in a large, chunky, stemmed glass and presents it to me with a flourish. 

"Señorita, would you like to try a Rosita? It's our signature cocktail, named for Tia Rosita. Jamaica y rum. On the house."

I hesitate. I don't know what alcohol would do to me with the level of psychosis I'm at. Not to mention mixing it with a benzo.

He looks so earnest and happy to be able to offer this to me on this very festive holiday, I don't have it in me to turn it down. I can just take a few small sips.

"Thank you, so much," I say, and he does an adorable little bow as he places it on the table in front of me.

"Enjoy! Your food will be out shortly," he says before rushing off to the kitchen.

I take a sip and moan. The sweet tang of the hibiscus is so refreshing, and it balances with the rum nicely, so that I can barely taste the alcohol. 

I had forgotten to ask for water, and the chips made me thirsty. I take another sip, which quickly turns into a deep pull.

A loud, slurping sound erupts from my straw, and I realize I finished my entire drink.

"Whoops," I giggle. 

I can't help but check to see if my mother is still there. And she is.

She's holding a glass that matches mine, and she lifts it in my direction, as if she's toasting me.

Well, that's unnerving. 

Luckily, I'm feeling pretty good, so this doesn't bother me as much as it probably should.

I eat my dinner, enjoying every bite, and ignoring my mother while I do so.

When I finish, I pay, leaving a large tip, and head out through the now considerably larger horde of people wandering around in costume, going in and out of bars in the Gaslamp.

I weave through costumed party-goers. The ones dressed ghoulishly seem to stare at me as I pass. But I know it's probably my imagination. My psychosis. 

As I head back towards my hotel, I'm dreading facing my mother through the glass.

In my room, sure enough, she's back on the roof, grinning at me through the window. A large chunk of flesh falls from her face, and lands on the dirty surface with a sickening squelch.

"Soon. It'll be soon, Beatrice. You're gonna be me, and I'm gonna be free, and you're gonna have no one to haunt but yourself," she says, before throwing her head back and laughing in a raspy, throaty chuckle. "Poor little Beatrice, stuck in the glass, rotting away, all by herself," she chants in sing-song before laughing again.

"Shut up," I hiss. "SHUT UP!"

"No!" she hisses, her face serious. "It's my time, and I will not be silenced."

And with that, she is suddenly in the room with me.

"No," I shake my head in disbelief. "No!"

She chuckles. "Yes! The time has come."

Without thinking too much about it, I grab my purse and run out the door, leaving the rest of my things behind.

Looking behind me, I see her following down the narrow, dimly-lit hall of the hotel. The flickering, overhead lights briefly illuminate rotting flesh falling at her feet with every step.

I turn right at the elevator, taking the stairs down and exiting straight into the parking lot. If I can just get into my car, she can't follow me. I'll just blow past her on the freeway, and go straight to Dr. Devlin's office. This is an emergency.

I peel out of the parking lot, almost losing control of my car as it fishtails out behind me.

After weaving through traffic, panicking as my mother is at every street corner, every curbside, walking toward me, I finally make it to I-5. 

My headlights light her up in the darkness on the side of the road every mile or so. She points and laughs as I speed past her, only to see her a minute later.

At the last second, I decide to take the Pacific Coast Highway exit. The narrower road might make it harder for her to stand on the side of it. If she's in the middle of it, I'll happily drive right through her.

I laugh to myself. It's not like I could get charged for vehicular manslaughter of a hallucination.

The farther I travel without seeing her, the more hysterical I feel, and my giggle turns into a hearty, belly laugh that I can't control. 

"It's your turn to fall now, Beatrice," a gurgly, wet voice breathes into my ear, hot, fetid breath bathing me in its stench.

"Wha…?" I turn to see my mother in the backseat, grinning at me with most of her face rotted off. 

As I turn, I yank the wheel with me.

My mother is gone, and I'm falling, falling, falling. A splash, and a deep ache in my head.

Dizzy, I watch the headlights pierce the murky water, even as the car sinks deeper.

Water quickly fills up the car. I can't think straight. How do I get out of this? I'm so dizzy. So tired.

The window won't lower with the controls, so I slap weakly at it. Of course, the glass doesn't give. Of course I'm trapped behind it now, as the headlights flicker out.

At least my mother is gone, I think, as my world goes dark, and I wish with all my heart that I don't have to come back. That I don't have to stay behind the glass.