The Line Begins To Blur

Prologue

Where do I even begin? How do I even start writing about the shit show that is my life? I've always had this problem; trying to figure out how to start a paper. I loved writing papers for school but I never had a clue on how or where to start. I would just start typing vigorously until all of my thoughts stopped and then I would force out some opening lines that I hoped my English teacher wouldn't judge too hard. Now, some years later, I'm faced with the same stupid problem. Except this time I have my therapist sitting six feet behind me, staring at me while I write in a journal about my life and what led me to be in an asylum.

Dr. Richard Zaccardi, what a scum bag. He's been assigned to my case for the past nine months and I think it took him the first three just to stop staring at my chest during our sessions. His long, greasy brown hair was slicked back behind his ears, his clothes were a size too big for him and he always smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. I had no idea how he even kept his job here at Portland Asylum.

It's still hard to believe I've only been here for eleven months. It feels like it's been years since I was thrown away in this black hole. The first two months I spent locked in solitary. The walls and floors were bare in the cell, and the only bit of furniture was my hospital bed and the IV rack that was next to it. The only bit of decor was the camera in the upper left corner of the room with its constantly blinking red light.

When I was finally 'well' enough to be moved to a normal room, I was forced to come to these therapy sessions. Nine months of being told by Richard how damaged I am.

I barely remember the day I was brought here. I was still in a haze from all of the pain killers and anti-anxiety meds that were pumped into me at the hospital after I was found. They said I spent four days in the ICU in a coma. Thank God for that, I guess, considering my humerus was broken in half, I had a severe concussion, deep cuts all over my body, a couple of broken fingers, my left cheek bone was fractured making my eye swell shut. I don't remember much of it; the accident, the fight, the gun shot. I tried so hard in the beginning to make those memories disappear and I managed to suppress most of them but there are two mental images I cannot rid myself of, the first being his eyes. Those beautiful hazel eyes that haunt my nightmares. I've never truly hated anyone in my life, not even my step mother. Not until he came into my life, turning everything upside down, making me fall in love and then completely destroyed my heart, body and soul.

My name is Scarlett Murphy and currently I am a patient at Portland Mental Asylum. So far, I've been diagnosed with depression as well as suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Dr. Zaccardi is trying to convince the board that I am mentally unwell. That because I was kidnapped and mentally manipulated for such a period of time that my memories are impaired and I now suffer from extreme anxiety attacks and fits of anger. This way when I go in front of the judge, I'll have as he says a get out of jail free card. That I wasn't acting on my own accord.

The sad part is, is that after all this time I've had to think, I do believe I was acting on my own. The second mental image that haunts me is me pulling the trigger of a gun, killing someone.

Let's start about a couple days before I met Declan Byrne, the man who shattered my heart.

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