Keep reading for a sneak peek at a passage from Lark's journal entry!!!
Book: Fragile Facade, Blind Barriers Vol. #3
The way time passes here… there’s something so off about it. Some days eons seem to pass with each breath and it feels as though I’ve been wandering so long that my feet should ache. Yet, when I look, the silver hands of time have barely made one rotation. Other days I live in a chemical haze. I attempt my morning routine, only to get lost in my reflection; hours pass with each stroke of the brush through my hair. One minute I am sitting by the window, admiring the gladiator sandals between the glossy pages of this month’s InStyle as morning sunlight warms my cheek. I blink and a chill runs through my bones. I look down to find I am still sitting in the same chair, the magazine closed and returned to its place atop the side table. The only light now comes from the bulbs recessed in the ceiling above.
Hours after my initial arrival, I saw my first jailer in the flesh. She introduced herself as Joanie and I felt true panic for the first time since being taken from my family’s Manhattan home. I’ve seen her face. I know her name, I remember thinking. I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to know that neither of those facts is good for me.
Joanie brings me three meals every day. She appears in the doorway with a tray in her hands and asks whether I’d prefer to eat in the makeshift dining room with the others or in the privacy of my room. I always choose privacy. “Don’t you want to make friends with the others?” is her standard follow-up question.
“Why the fuck would I want to make friends with ‘the others’?” is my standard reply.
I don’t know or care who “the others” are. Friends are not something I want from this place. I’m scared and I’m alone, but I prefer this to being with people I’m too scared to trust. I’d also prefer Joanie drop the charade. This place is not a luxury spa. I’m not on vacation. No, I’m trapped, being held against my will for reasons I don’t understand. My wrists aren’t bound with ropes and my ankles aren’t chained to a chair, but that doesn’t mean I’m free. My ability to leave is exactly the same as if my restraints were visible to the naked eye.
It really does seem as though they want me to treat this like a time to relax, just a little getaway, no big deal. Really, the airs of civility here are almost laughable. Almost. The latest editions of my favorite magazines are procured and arranged on a table in my room. Movies still in theatres are waiting inside the sixty-inch flat screen to be watched. Lululemon’s newest yoga mat, a twin of the one in my bedroom at home, sits in the corner. Copies of the same paperbacks that line my bookshelves are arranged on the ones here. It’s as though they’ve been watching me, studying me, learning my likes and dislikes in hopes of bribing me.
Ludicrous, I want to shout. Stop pretending! I see through the façade! I want to scream the truth until my throat burns from the effort. This isn’t a homey bed and breakfast. I am a prisoner. Bind me up, I want to tell my captors, act like the jailers that you are!
Yet I never summon the nerve to say anything of the sort. Because obviously the results of such an outburst would be as unwelcomed as the outburst itself. So we all pretend. Or at least, pretend to pretend. I play the part of the well-mannered guest, even as the desire to rage against Joanie and her cohorts eats me up from the inside out.