#Also skin is reflective! Not something I just discovered. Just sharing information for whoever reads the tags <3

[revelio-obscurus]

Chapter 17/199 The Man With Two Faces

Today, we will be discussing Harry Potter through the theme of “Love.” How do we see “love” expressed or having an effect in Chapter 17 of the Harry Potter series? Of course, we have Harry’s mother’s love which is coursing through his veins and allows him to defeat Professor Quirrell (according to Albus Dumbledore)—this is perhaps the most obvious example of “love” we see in this section. But what about self-love? What about passion and desire? In this chapter, Harry again comes face-to-face with the Mirror of Erised, a magical object that shows us the deepest desires of our hearts (in other words: what we would most love to have or have happen to us). Finally, we will discuss the concept of making choices as it relates to love, self-love, as well as what we would love to have and have happen to us. 

What really stood out to me about today’s chapter was Harry thinking “I must lie” when Quirrell demands he look in the mirror and tell him what he sees. This is because I have been reading Book Five with my sister for months now, and in this book, he has the exact opposite statement carved into his hand by Dolores Umbridge: I must not tell lies.

What’s really messed up about Umbridge’s punishment, of course, is that Harry is not lying at all—and yet he is forced through this inhumane and torturous punishment. But through it all, what’s ironic is Harry sticks to his guns and continues to tell the truth, even as Umbridge is being rushed away by centaurs in Chapter 33 of that book.

I love that at the start of Book Five one of Harry’s father figures, Arthur Weasley, speaks to him before his trial, assuring him “the truth will out”! We don’t know if this will be the case, but Arthur works throughout the series to instill the values of truth and honesty in all of his children, including Harry. For example, in Book Three when he confesses his desire to tell Harry the truth about Sirius Black.

One might think, however, reading Chapter 17 of the Harry Potter series: “Okay, I get we shouldn’t tell lies. But in this case, shouldn’t Harry lie to Quirrell about what he sees in the mirror? Otherwise, Voldemort would know he has the Stone and he and his worthy follower would steal it.”

This is a good point. And we do see the benefits of lying throughout the series. One notable example is when Draco Malfoy lies to the other Death Eaters in Book Seven, saying he does not recognize Harry and this indisputably saves Harry from meeting his demise in Malfoy Manor (okay, it’s not certain whether he is “lying”, but I consider this canon). A second example would be when Severus Snape lies to Umbridge when Harry relays a secret message to him about Sirius during the Fifth Book—he tells Umbridge he has “no idea” what Harry is talking about, but later uses the secret information to round up the Order of the Phoenix.

That being said, if we turn back to this chapter, we discover that when Harry does lie to Quirrell, his efforts are for naught— Voldemort immediately calls him a liar and it leads to them meeting face-to-face anyway! Therefore, we can see that his lie did not help him avoid the inevitable. 

I think it’s interesting to see how we can go from “I must lie” to “I must not tell lies” from Book 1 to Book 5 and how, more often than not, Harry feels called upon to stand up and tell the truth—even if his voice shakes. Or even if he’s standing alone.

What’s immensely powerful about this scene in Chapter 17 is that Harry doesn’t even resort to using any magic or knowledge he is aware of to fight back against Quirrell and Voldemort. He actually is in such grave danger, that his body reacts instinctively: “Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell’s face.” Our instinct is something we find at our very core, as animals. We all naturally react to the environment around us just as our fellow animals do, and in times of danger, we are sent into “fight or flight” mode which is deeply encoded in our DNA. In my opinion, our instinct, as it is revealed to us during life-and-death scenarios, is one of the most honest and truthful things in this universe.

And what is the result of Harry’s instinctive grabbing of Quirrell’s face? “Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain.”

We know from Dumbeldore’s explanation later in the chapter that it was Harry’s mother’s love running through his veins that made it impossible for Voldemort, and therefore Quirrell, to touch Harry. It was the magic of this love that made it possible for Harry to escape the villain’s clutches.

Or was it?

Or maybe I should say, “Was it just his mother’s love?”

Was it really only his mother’s love that saved him?

This was Harry’s first time in his living memory coming close to death. He realizes the urgency of the situation right away, which is astounding for an 11-year-old child. He knows that if he doesn’t find the Stone, he is going to be killed. He knows that if Voldemort finds the Stone because of him finding it, he’s going to be killed. He knows that Voldemort is lying when he says that his parents died begging for mercy. (Note: his mother did die begging him to not kill Harry, this is true, but the way he is presenting the story to Harry is a lie in and of itself because of all the gaps and holes amongst his presentation of events). 

When Quirrell destroys his own hands after trying to strangle Harry (they became “burnt, red, and shiny”) Harry knows that the only thing he can do is trust in what he knows to be TRUE (and not a lie). “His only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.” This submission to what is true is what allows his body to react on instinct, thus saving his life. One could also say that submitting to what is true is an act of self-love. Harry refuses to fight against what he knows to be true and trusts in himself, letting go to instinct. And that acceptance and trust in oneself is a powerful act of self-love that, in addition to his mother’s love, saves him in this scene.

**

Chapter 17 re-introduces us to Quirrell as a man with two faces. And in life, we also have two (or more) faces. But how often do we see our “true” faces reflecting back at us when we look in a mirror? What would we see if we looked into the Mirror of Erised? And when we see that, will we lie to ourselves or others about what we see? Many great people have lied while looking into the Mirror of Erised, for example Albus Dumbledore in Chapter 12 and Harry himself in this very chapter. And what do they gain from these lies?

Going back to our theme about “Love” today, I feel as if I’m being called to look into the Mirror of Erised myself—to find out who I really am, what I truly love and desire in my life. And when I look in the Mirror, I’ll then be faced with several choices. Do I lie to myself or to others about what I see? Do I keep it a secret for now because I don’t think others are ready to know? One might argue that’s why Dumbledore lies about seeing a pair of wool socks in the Mirror. Harry didn’t need to know what Dumbeldore’s deepest desire was at that moment. And Dumbeldore doesn’t have to share what he sees—but the fact that he chooses to lie instead of telling the truth highlights another very important point. Even wixen as wise as Dumbledore sometimes listen to that inner voice that whispers: “I must lie.” For whatever reason—and that reason might be justifiable or not. But either way, it is YOUR choice whether to lie, keep something to yourself, or tell the truth.  

It is our choices that makes us who we are, far more than our abilities. Today, I see many opportunities to make choices. I can look into the Mirror of Erised, or not. I can lie to myself about what I see, or not. I can lie to others, tell the truth, or say nothing to them about what I see. I can keep staring longingly at the Mirror, or I can take small steps towards my deepest desire in the real world.

When I imagine myself standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, I see myself reading, scribbling with a quill, making connections between books, films, songs, plays, art, and real-life experiences. As I start to understand the world and myself more and more, I am collecting my ideas and thoughts into stories, essays, and articles—sharing them with the world. In the Mirror, I see myself tying parchment to the legs of owls and sending them off into the world. I don’t always know who’s going to receive my writing. I only hope that whoever does can glean something meaningful from the words and start to understand the world and themselves just a little bit more.

#magical musings #harry potter

[thewrittenpost]

Entries of the Past

In our search for information regarding the acts of the Great War, spanning throughout generations, a set of journals was discovered buried on a family farm, just inside our borders. Having received them as a generous donation from the family, our scholars set to work preserving the stories within so they could endure for the future.

Changes have been made, to account for spelling and translating the older language to one more accessible to readers. There were also, regrettably, pages lost due to the journals’ lost time.

~Amelie Louring, Headmistress of the Royal Academy of Ronea

I started writing my thoughts as a way to fill the countless, empty, pointless days. Just a mindless task to keep the dark thoughts from making their way in... as they had for so many ways.

In writing them, I sorted them. Rambling at the beginning -if you’ve read this far, you know that. How my thoughts would jump from my childhood to an old man to a random memory that doesn’t connect at all. But things felt... cleaner, putting them on paper.

And in writing, I found myself a new purpose. Not a grand one; I had no intention of sharing my stories to the masses. But it was my chance, my purpose, to put myself on the page. Not the person the world would see, but the person I truly was. The truth is, the majority of what the world knows about me -about the people I served with- is just... off. Not wrong, but also not true. Watered down, a pretty picture that just barely touches reality.

I am not a learned man. I do not have the words to correct those on the street who see heroes and monsters, and I don’t have the strength to do so anymore. I can’t make speeches, or sing a tale to portray what we went through. This is all I can do, and pray that whoever reads this -if anyone does- takes something away from it.

I have already spoken of my actions during the Great War. How much pain and horror we -all sides- caused in the name of “honor”, serving masters who only cared for their own power. I have made excuses in the past, my ignorance and surety that we were doing right... bringing justice and punishment where it belonged, that we would have prosperity in this unified world we imagined.

I was wrong. And I will not -can not- go into it again. Once was more than enough, and I can’t bear to remember all those who were lost again.

But I have never spoken of the end. The day it all changed. Not to my family, my poor sister and nephews who took me in and bear with an old man’s presence. Not to singers who want new tales to sing, not to any living soul. Not even on paper have I documented that day. I have done everything I could to forget... and I have failed. But I was-

[Pages lost; cause unknown]

-hero. Who could have believed him? He was no warrior no fighter. He fled from conflict, hid from battle and somehow expected respect from those who risked everything? He thought a war spanning generations would end because he claimed it was the goddess’ will?

Even now, it is hard to believe Korith would have chosen him. But that is the way of it, isn’t it? The goddess chooses those who are needed... and the world didn’t need another destroyer.

It needed someone of faith. Something with the strength to grow and rebuild, to break down the walls we built. The world needed him.

And it was kings who tore him down. Who had him torn apart, as an example to those who would leave to the hero’s side, to choose the goddess over their expectations.

I was not involved. I wasn’t. The only thing I saw was anger and blood, but those were not new sights to any of us. Our innocence had been lost long ago. We knew, of course we did, what would be done when the king’s loyal dogs, his famed torturers entered the tent.

But to this day, I will swear I never heard him break. Not a single scream, although it must have been horrible; other confessions exist that would admit the same thing.

I thought it made him a fool then. Why not give them what they want? You won’t be given your life, but at the very least it would give you release. End the horror, and find peace in a quick death instead of the slow.

Now I envy him. My faith, renewed by that day, has never been and never will be as strong. His will, unbroken to the end, is one to strive for... one I can never forget. He carried a belief that if he held on, the world could only be better, even if he weren’t there to see it.

And he had hope, something the rest of us had forgotten. Hope that he shared willingly to the world, and that lives on in every person that has come since. In every survivor, every birth, every change... parts of his vision for the world. If only-

[Words illegible due to water damage]

-a light so blinding, you couldn’t see the person standing next to you? A piercing light that reached the depths of your soul, exposing and burning the dark stains you never wanted anyone to see? To know that all your monsters were there for all to see, and to know all the demons those around you carried?

Would you understand the weight it puts on someone, to bring them all with you through a long life? To bear the weight off all the sins that were exposed in that light?

It scares me, how easily it seems to be ignored. How easy it would have been for me to push it aside, to never mention it. To pretend that memory had failed this old man, to dismiss it all as an old man grasping for some reason behind it all.

I was never a pious man before that day. But having seen the goddess, I know how true it all is. Perhaps not faith, like her hero and so many others have, but an undeniable knowledge of what lies beyond. In her light, I knew what waited for all of us in the dark. Maybe I’ll even welcome it, because there I can hide. Shadows welcome shadows, it is said, but the light... nothing has scared me more than that.

But now I must move on, before my courage fails me. I must speak of the goddess, before I run out of time.

I’m sure there is little I can say that hasn’t already been said. But nothing you’ve heard in the songs can compare... this won’t compare, but at least it will be my truth.

The light faded eventually, just enough for us to see she was there. Like every story we had ever been told, a living storm in the shape no different than a mortal woman... and although all was still like the dead, I could feel an uncontrollable force in the air. There was no doubt: to move was to be struck down. To escape the penetrating light, you had to be swallowed by infinite darkness.

And Korith did not care for our fates either way.

Disdain is too strong of a word. Indifference doesn’t quite fit. I don’t know the word that would match what her gaze felt like... anger over her hero’s fate, but also... nothing. She cared for us soldiers in the way that we cared for rates in our food, or the bugs under our feet.

She could destroy us, and then forget we ever existed. Maybe that’s the fate we deserved, a punishment the world could never pretend away.

Instead, she demanded peace. If we mortals could not be trusted to rule ourselves without destruction, then she would enforce this “truce”... one way or another.

And she would prove it.

I can’t tell you how many more died in those next moments. But protests died before they could finish being voiced; bolts of light turned them to ash before the first words came out. All around the field, regardless of home or rank, they were just... gone, in a blinding hot flash. And in the blowing ash, beasts from legend flew, crystal reflecting their queen’s attacks as a warning to the others. Every side of the war lost, humbled under power we had believed to be legend.

You’ve likely heard of the destruction, in stories or songs. It’s easier to handle that way, prettier and easier to accept. But what lives in my mind? I wish it were the way the songs tell it; perhaps the regrets would have died if it were.

But I remember the suffocating pressure in the air. I remember her terrible beauty, and the painful grace of her destruction... bolts of lightning dancing under her skin to explode in the skies. Not one song can accurately portray how the light we take for granted as good can be as monstrous and terrifying and cruel as the dark.

I would have welcomed the shadows then... as I will shortly. Yes, I can feel my time is coming, that soon I will rejoin my comrades in Thearial’s realm.

The priests say that all souls can be redeemed, if they truly wish it. And I wish I could believe that. How could we be worthy of the peace that would come with it? How could I be worthy of it?

See, when we saw our own sins -and the sins of the others- it became a curse. A curse that made it clear how small and broken and how unfixable she saw us. And a curse to make us see how dark and shattered the world was, not just by our own actions but of everyone else’s, and those of the past. We had been judged, and we were not worthy of peace... it was granted only for the sakes of those who had already been lost.

Many people could not bear it. For too long, in our ‘era of peace’, I heard word of deaths happening one after another. Of people who took their own lives, for their own reasons; I can’t claim to know the regrets and thoughts they carried. But for too long, I wondered if I would also join them. I considered it, but at the end of the day... something always stopped my hand. I would die eventually, but I could not find it in myself to take it into my own hands.

I don’t know why I felt the need to admit that, to admit that while I would welcome Death as a friend, I would never seek him out. Why setting the truth of all my thoughts on paper is so important. It just... was.

I am tired now; I grow tired quickly these days. So I will end this now, in a similar place to where I first started my writing.

I am an old man, heavy with fear and secrets and lies and regrets. I have been a son, a solder, a monster and a coward. In my early years, I followed the world into chaos and let it consume me; in later years, I tried to be a better man, to teach those who pick up our legacies to be better than all who came before.

But at the end of it all, I am merely a man who will accept the darkness coming at last. Who will welcome it with open arms and accept the judgement coming, no matter what.

But I hold a prayer, for you reading this and the world to come. A prayer that you can stand proudly in the light when your day comes, and with Korith’s enforced peace comes to an end... I hope you have learned from our cruelty to stand together, and live in harmony.

When I embark on my final journey, I wish you -the future- all the strength I have left to give.

Best wishes. And may all the blessings of the gods be with you.

[Final Note: The following scrawl was found, a scrap of paper inserted into the back of the final journal. Written in a language thought dead, we at first believed it to be a piece from another’s work. However, handwriting samples have proved it to be the author of the journals, and as such, it was included to keep as complete of a collection as possible.

From darkness to light and returning to shadows, against the terror of this world and the next... hold fast to all the good you will bring. Stand proud with others to banish the monsters and greatness will follow.

#my writing #long post #Korith's Month #little bits of a journal someone wrote #Korith #just to be safe I'll put some trigger warnings #there's no strong mentions but I still want to be safe #tw: blood mention #tw:death #tw:suicide mention #I'll reblog this later with my tag list

[khelinski]

Snow White Mondays

For whoever is reading this - if you have any talents at all, don’t give up on it. Harness it. Perfect it. Keep at it.

And share it.

Exactly ten years ago, Karii Lynn wrote this story. A year later, she shared it with me.

She’s been gone for two years now...but...her words live on.

This is a tough read, but it’s a great read.  She was a natural writer. I wish she had more time to write more.

💙💙💙

October 12, 2010

Snow White Mondays

By: Karii Lynn

She always visits me on Mondays. Or maybe Wednesdays? Sundays perhaps? I've no idea honestly. They might've changed the names of the weekdays for all I'm aware.

All I'm aware of is those bright days filled with long blonde hair and hazel eyes. Her beautiful voice telling me stories of useless everyday drama. Sometimes she'll even sing, though only loud enough for me to hear.

Every Monday she brings me a daisy. My namesake flower, so of course I’ve kept them all.

On these days I forget. I forget about the mirrors.

_______________________________

New York State Psychiatric Institute

Daisy Todd                                                                               Case No.: 446, 7058                                                                  

Admission Date: 10/12/15   Date of Birth: 9/7/1992

BACKGROUND INFORMATION: Ms. Todd was born in Chicago, Illinois. She currently resides in New York City.

Her father passed some years ago and the mother does not seem to want any contact. She does have a girlfriend who regularly visits.

Ms. Todd does not currently appear to be following a career path. Instead she seems to be selling artwork from her Bronx apartment.

_______________________________

It's Monday again.

Melody is here. My singing beauty. My snow white princess.

She tells me about her boss, Madian. She doesn't like him. He makes her eyes turn blue. I've decided I don't like him either.

When it's my turn to talk, I speak of leaves. It must be April by now, right? It's been winter for so long in my room. It’s so white in here. Sometimes I think I see snow falling from my whitewhite ceiling. I brush it off but it refuses to budge. Often, I try to push it into piles and organize it on the floor.

When I tell Melody this she smiles sadly. Then she kisses me on the forehead and leaves.

Another Monday gone. Now I'm left alone, alone with the reflections.

_______________________________

PREVIOUS MEDICAL HISTORY: Ms. Todd appears to have no previously noted medical conditions. She has never been to a counselor or therapist. The trigger for this change of behavior is unknown.

_______________________________

I miss painting. And drawing.

The canvas was always blank and waiting. Waiting for me to change it, influence it. And oh, the things I could do. I was wonderful, wasn't I?

"You always were so self-centered," Melody smirks playfully. Yes I'm sure I was. It's hard to remember days without snow. The snow and cold.

I don’t know what I might paint if I were even allowed. I’ve nearly forgotten color, something that was once so important to me. I believe first, I would paint my room yellow. Then, maybe I would paint a daisy. A painting of every daisy Melody has brought me on our Mondays.

They would be lovely works of art. Museum worthy no doubt.

"You’re so narcissistic! Do you remember what you used to say, baby? Remember? 'I'm just soo curious!' Personally, I think it was just an excuse to look at yourself longer," she says laughing softly. She’s having a good day.

A cold sweat breaks out over my face. Curiosity. It killed the cat. The cat, the cat. All dressed in black. The cat who looked in the mirror too long. The cat who discovered the secret on the other side. It took her on a horrible riderideride.

I can see them now. Melody helped me forget, but now. Ohgodohgod.

My eyes are closed. When I open them I find I'm under the bed, a safe place in my little ice igloo.

"Watch out, babydoll," I warnwarnwarn my Melody. Can't have her pretty face hurt by them. "Can't you see them?!" Their creeping, crawling, slithering.

My eyes are closed again. I'm lost, drowning in my fear. When I come around again, my arms are trapped to the bed. Trapped by white, ice tendrils.

Melody leaves me. One sad green eye covered by her hand. This is not entirely rare. The dark figures often get her before she leaves. I'm quite a bad hero.

Goodbye, Monday.

_______________________________

PRIOR TO THE INCIDENT: According to Melody Artem, the patient's girlfriend, Ms. Todd was displaying unusual behaviors about 6 months previously. Losing sleep, obsessing over insignificant things, and uncleanliness of her living space. Ms. Artem also described a serious obsession with mirrors.

Apparently Ms. Todd proceeded to smash all the mirrors in her apartment. Behind them, scribbles covered the walls. "Cannot have it", "leave me alone", and "not crazy" are among the various phrases.  

_______________________________

"If I should call you up, invest a dime, and you'd say you belong to me, and ease my mind..."

So happy together. My Melody and I. How she used to hold me tightly all the night through. Warmth, skin, and true love. My forever girl. That one that you can never live without.

The white maidens that the tuck me in say we're so adorable together. I think they watch us when Melody comes to see me on Mondays. Maybe that's why she sings so quietly? How very rude indeed.

Sometimes I remember what colors are like. On the outside. When I wasn't dangerous. That's what the maidens say at least. They say I cause the bruises on my dear Melody’s face. I beg to differ, but who shall listen to my frail vocals? Just because they can't see...

Anyway, color. The dates. Sweater dates were my favorite. October, of course. Walking the corn mazes pretending to be lost, donuts and cider in hand. Stopping for kisses and peeing in the dense spots, laughing all the while.

That ended of course. When I stopped eating and discovered what lay on the other side. Who watched when you thought you were alone. They can't take what you don't have, right? The smaller I was, the less there was to steal.

Melody wasn't happy, though. She didn't understand. She used to bake me lovely meals, absolutely delicious delights. My favorite food every day. Chickenchickenchicken. But I would turn my head away after a few bites. I had to. Really, I did. I wasn't trying to make her cry. I tell the maidens that every time they bring me my mashed potatoes. It wasn't my fault. Blame the darkdarkdark figures.

I try to tell her this on Monday. To apologize. But I get choked up on darkness and have to stay under the bed again. On the bright side, I had a nice visit with her feet.  Converse, I believe. I thank them for carrying her to me every Monday.

_______________________________

INCIDENT REPORT: Patient was found in her home by her girlfriend. Ms. Todd had broken every mirror in her home (there was an unusual amount considering the apartment size) and proceeded to harm herself. Clumps of her hair seemed to have been ripped out and it appeared to have been several days since her last meal. Garbage was plentiful and the apartment was a mess. Paint was splattered everywhere and most of her prized art work was in tattered ruins.

We are unsure of her intentions, logical or otherwise. Since arrival, Ms. Todd has displayed many psychotic symptoms including, but not limited to: muttering, hallucinations, disordered thinking, trouble concentrating, repetitive and regressive behaviors. Due to these factors, Ms. Todd has been unable to give us an accurate account of the cause of her actions and is being kept in a separate inpatient ward.

___________________________

I'm so very tired of white. Bored perhaps? I wish it were red in here. Red walls, red floors, red stars.

When I felt like getting out of bed one Tuesday (for it couldn't have been Monday, my Melody's chair was vacant.) I try to paint. I discovered once with my mirrors that there is paint hidden under my skin. How useful indeed. This way I shall never run out. Very good for my budget. I should tell Melody this secret, she can take it with her to economics class. What a hero she will be.

Unfortunately, the snow maidens do not like my painting. They bumbled about howling about the wounds. “How did she manage this?!” How indeed. Teethteethteeth. They stitched my paper skin back together though, thus stifling my masterpiece.  Oh the woes of an artist.

I am put on punishment. Forced to spend several days strapped to my snowbed by icicle handcuffs. How they make me cold.

Maybe I am dangerous? A danger to myself and to my dear, sweet, lovely girl. Why did I do that, I wonder blankly. As I watch from my straps, the janitor cleans my paint from the wall and I continue to wonder.

Maybe I am crazy. Psycho. Loonytoons. Bananacrackers.

But then the whispers come from beneath my bed, and I know that I'm not the one who cannot see properly. "Silly thoughts you're having, Daisy darling. Do you doubt?" I spend the next few Mondays convincing them of my belief. If I say the right things they won't touch me as much, my dark and painful lovers.

Oh, where is my Melody?

_______________________________

It didn't used to be like this. She used to be normal. I'm not sure what went wrong, what I did wrong.

We began dating my freshmen year, her junior. It was confusing and new, but we fit together so perfectly. There were rough patches, but nothing any normal teenage relationship doesn't go through. We were so in love, but I suppose even the strongest of love can’t save someone from themselves.

It was normal enough. We moved to New York two years ago. We decided to get separate apartments like we'd always planned. Though I would've been completely satisfied living together, Daisy had always liked her independence and space. So while I attended NY Medical College, she sold paintings, sketches, and anything art related from her home. I was often jealous of the easy life she led as I dragged my book bags up the stairs to her sixth floor apartment.

I noticed the changes about six months ago. I'm not sure what caused them. Did something happen she didn't tell me about?

The first sign was her refusal to eat normally. It started off with little things. First claiming to hate foods she'd previously liked. Then refusing to eat healthy amounts of what she would tolerate. Eventually, I don't think she was even eating five hundred calories a day.

I tried everything. I cooked, I brought takeout, I took her out. Nothing. I ordered, screamed, begged, and sobbed. Nothing. Daisy just turned away from my emotions and back to her paintings. She always said it wasn't her fault. What wasn't her fault?!

Then came the mirrors. It seemed like every time I visited there was a new one. Tacked up lopsided, leaning against a wall, and even on top of the refrigerator. Not only that, but her paintings began taking on a sinister theme. Twisted limbs and dark shadows seemed to reoccur the most.

Everything came crashing down the day I forced myself into the apartment. She hadn't been answering my calls all day, but I'd been unable to get over there until late because I had work. It had been almost three weeks since I'd been inside her home. She kept claiming to have some masterpiece she was working on that I couldn't see. I had reluctantly agreed to give her privacy.

That was the biggest mistake I have ever made.

When I arrived on October 11 and received no answer at the door, I got a spare key from the building manager and let myself in. The sight I met was horrifying.

Daisy was sitting in the middle of her studio apartment, naked and bleeding. She was surrounded by her blonde hair (stained pink by blood) and shards of mirror. Muttering about darkness and rocking, she continued to carve line after line into every inch of available skin. She didn't notice me. Since October 12, 2015, Daisy Todd has been a patient at the New York State Psychiatric Institute.

It's been 3 years. _______________________________

PROGNOSIS: Based on observations, Ms. Todd appears to suffer from Disorganized and Paranoid Schizophrenia. Hospitalization is recommended, but not required. Patient is being prescribed Clozapine, an antipsychotic.

_______________________________

My baby came back today. They haven't let her come since I tried to paint on the wall. (Silly Daisy, you're not a child. You should know better than to paint on the walls. Badbadbad.)

She holds my hand for a long while, a faraway look in her eye. Is she tired of our Mondays together?

"No, darling, I'm not. It's just..." She doesn't finish. I feel quite curious, maybe even worried. Doesn't she love me anymore?

"You know I do. I promised forever didn't I?" Her eyes are red. Were they that way when she arrived? I cannot remember.

My mind is spinning. Maybe she doesn't want my forever anymore. Someone else has come along, I'm sure of this. My baby darling dear.

I shake my head, trying to bump the silly thoughts outoutout. They make my Melody's eyes water. My onion-like thoughts.

I wish I were better. I just don't know how.

I'll try harder.

_______________________________

Daisy Todd                                                                               Case No.: 446, 7058   Date of Birth: 9/7/1992                                                               Admission Date: 10/12/15   Release Date: 4/7/19

_______________________________

It's Monday but it feels different. The door is still open and Melody is already inside.

The doctor comes in, the head wizard. His cheeks are red and his expression flustered. "I don't really think this is wise..."

"I've already signed the papers." Melody seems determined. I can't imagine what about. Maybe she's trying to get the maidens to paint my room a different color. Yellow perhaps? How pleased I would be.

Suddenly, my icicle handcuffs are gone, my feet are on the floor and Melody is wrapping a coat around my shoulders. A coat!

But that's not all! I'm leaving the igloo, out the door and into the...is that sun? Oh, sunlight indeed! The colors! It is spring after all! I survived the harsh winter.

"Yes you did, honey," Melody tells me rather tiredly. "We're going home now."

_______________________________

Home.

Such a simple word with such a grand meaning.

Here the walls are all different colors. I'm led through the kitchen. Royal blue. Shown the bathroom. Pumpkin orange. Introduced to the living room. Forest green. And last, our bedroom. Crayon yellow.

This is true love indeed.

I peek cautiously around every corner I'm shown. No mirrors. No shadow figures can get me here. Not really. Not quite.

Though I've spent many a Monday in bed, the first thing we do in our new home is sleep. Lying on the bed curled together, her nose pressed into my hospital hair, feels foreign yet familiar. Like a long, lost memory. You never forget how to ride a bike, you know. I suppose this is the same thing.

As I drift away, comforted by the arms locked around my waist and the warm breath on my shoulder, I can feel Melody shaking.

"You'll be okay, baby. Maybe not the same as before, but it'll work. I'll fix you. We never even have to leave this bed if you don't want to. Anything to make you happy and alright. Apple cider and donuts everyday if you like. We can paint all over the walls or watch every movie from the video store or read every book you’ve never read. Oh my poor darling, nothing matters except that you're back with me. In my arms, safe..."

Sobs wrack her body. I roll over and press my face into her neck. Squeezing tighter, I mutter softly how lovely yellow the room is and float into safe oblivion.

_______________________________

Home has rules:

1. Must take my white pill at proper times. 2. DO NOT SKIP TAKING IT. 3. Must eat my required three meals a day. 4. No mirrors may be purchased or brought into the apartment. 5. No bodily harm may be done to myself. 6. No putting myself down. 7. Privileges such as: driving, working, leaving the house, and painting must be earned. 8 All cleaning supplies and sharp utensils are to be kept locked away. No snooping. 9. Must call Melody immediately if anything happens while she's away. 10. Must attend therapy appointment weekly.

_______________________________

Melody has spent the first week home with me. She took work off. Oddly, I don't remember her having a job when I entered the snow world. But I don't mention this. I don't think I want to know the answer.

But today is the first day I'm to be left alone. Melody seems more nervous than I. Silly baby. She writes down her cell phone and pager number on four different sticky notes and posts them around the apartment, in case something happens and I can't get to one of the other three.

I laugh quietly and push her gently out, "I'll be fine, promisepromise." She runs her hands through her long hair several times, but eventually leaves.

I sit on the couch. And wait.

I wait for them to come. My painful lovers.

They don't. And I believe I might be safe.

_______________________________

Life goes on softly for several months. I eat leftover toast when I get up and paint for several hours after. I avoid looking in corners and focus on my work, the task at hand.

My paintings are different now. I no longer paint severed arms, legs and heads. Or the blood that flows so freely below the softsoft skin. I pretend that I don't want to paint the shadows. Instead, I paint trees, leaves, and oceans.

I do not paint snow.

In the evenings, Melody makes dinner, often refusing my help. I've never been any good at cooking. Or anything related to kitchens really. Even Koolaid is almost too complicated for me.

Afterwards, we watch TV and make deadpan jokes about the ridiculous shows. Melody writes medical reports and I read fantasy books. Sometimes I consider looking for jobs, but then the cold fear washes through me and I press deeper into my novel.

I don't want to go out there, especially by myself. I'd be so open to attack. All those...the shadows. The creeping bodies and reaching rough hands. I don't tell this to Melody.

Everything went smoothly for a while.

But it wasn't meant to last.

_______________________________

I am pacing. Anxiety racing through my body.

I've broken a rule. Two actually.

I've stopped taking the little white pill. Nine days now. It was making me sick, you see. Blocking the reality and my creativity.

Except that the shadows are back. Squeezing through the cracks of the doors, the windows, the closets.

That's the difference. They stay trapped on the other side of the mirror if you don't know they're there. But once you do, it releases them. Freed from their glass prisons, they creepcrawlscrape their way towards you.

Why? What did you do? You looked in the mirror too long, that's what. It's your own fault. You deserved this, you baddirtywhore.

I was only walking home, took the alley shortcut. Dirty. Pretty girl. Out they came. Handshandshands. Ruined my shirt, my skirt. Slut. How pretty I was that evening. Your fault. The mirror. Shouldn't have looked into the mirror for so long after. Vunerable. Beauty. They saw my soul, tried to have it. It's mineminemine. Go away.

Go away. away. away. away.

_______________________________

Daisy's acting strange. Sometimes, I think I hear her talking to herself. It's indistinct, but still. I've checked her pills, but she still seems to be taking them normally.

I don't know what to do. I'm so scared. I don't want to lose her again. I don't think I can bear spending every evening in that hospital again. Watching her deteriorate on that impersonal bed, in that impersonal room.

I'll call the doctor in the morning.

_______________________________

REPORT UPDATE: 12/21/19

Patient's girlfriend, Melody Artem reported recent unusual behavior. Ms. Todd seems to be withdrawing into herself and is displaying alarming signs. Talking to herself, depressing paintings, strange bruises and scratches, and weight loss. Patient appears to be continuing to take prescribed medicine.

Ms. Artem works long hours and cannot watch Ms. Todd constantly. The hospital is considering revoking Ms. Artem's custody rights if Ms. Todd becomes further unstable.  

_______________________________

I found a mirror. Hidden behind a photoframe in the hallway. I knew they were getting in somehow. Their doorway.

This time, I'll stop them. Stop the hands that touch.

I willwillwill.

Daisy the hero. Blood soaked beautiful hero.

_______________________________

It's been about three weeks now since Daisy started changing. I've tried to ignore it, but I can hear her chanting in the bathroom again. It's frightening.

"Daisy?" I'm knocking softy on the bathroom door, trying the keep the fear from my voice. "You alright, baby? Can I bring you anything?"

No answer.

I try the handle. Locked. Shit. _______________________________ I've stolen the mirror from behind the photo. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.

Close. Red. Dark is creeping. Do you see it? Slipping beneath the door? The tub is filling up behind me. Black. The midnight beast. I ignore it, I'm on a mission.

SuperheroDaisy.

_______________________________

She's humming. Humming Spiderman. What the hells going on?!

Walking to the bedroom, I begin pulling open drawers, searching for the bathroom key. When I fail to locate it in my dresser, I turn to hers. Dread washes over me. I begin pulling open the drawers, removing shirts, socks, shorts.

A pile of pills hidden between her underwear. Her Clozapine. That explains alot. And beneath her sweatpants...

"Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

My head whips around. I choke on a scream.

"Pretty isn't it? I used to watch 'Snow White' constantly as a child. Sometimes I dream about the wishing well." She's smiling widely, no fear in her eyes, only triumph.

In her hand she's clutching the sharp remains of the only mirror in the whole apartment. It's covered in blood. Across her arms she's made long gashes. Her shirt is torn and the scars from before have been ripped open. Her bare legs are almost completely covered in red, pale skin nearly gone from view. Slices trace her facial features, almost artistically.

The most noticeable thing about my horrifying Daisy however, is the pride radiating off her in waves. She's proud of what she's done. More proud of this disaster than of any painting she's ever sold. Almost as if she's won something. That's the most frightening thing of all.

"Come on h-honey, let's go get you cleaned up," my voice is shaking uncontrollably.

She's shaking her head, frowning. "I'm fine, babydoll. All better. See?" She spreads her arms wide and spins, not seeming to notice the blood staining the carpet in the process. "I actually just wanted to lie down for a few minutes. Just a few. Please?"

"I..." What do I say? "After a shower, alright?"

I convince Daisy to bathe. She doesn't seem to notice the cuts or feel any pain from them.

Afterwards we lay down in bed. I'm shaking and scared, but this is still my Daisy and though she hurt herself, she won't hurt me. I'll take her back to the hospital in the morning; it's the only thing to do. There's no hope. But for now I just want to enjoy my last night with her. God, I love her so.

"Hold me?" Daisy's green eyes are pleading and scared. I do. Outside, snow begins to fall.

#karii lynn #the ballad of candybomb & grief #Snow White Mondays #lgbtq #mental hospital #mental health #true love