July 20, 2011
By OhMySaraaa SILVER, Campbell, New York
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OhMySaraaa SILVER, Campbell, New York
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Favorite Quote:
"Sometimes it feels like the whole wide world has made itself my enemy, but I will stand up on my own two feet and raise, raise my head up." My Sanity On Funeral Pyre by Atreyu

Author's note: I wanted to write about something readers dont see everyday. I saw a artical about lobotomies online one day and started researching.

A broken mirror leans against a charred wall of what used to be a bedroom. Fallon sits next to the mirror frame, the sharp glass in front of her, and she tries to return the pieces back to their proper places. The shards of reflective glass slice easily through the skin, and makes various lacerations of diverse depths and sizes. The mirror’s gold frame has blood covering every inch of it. Fallon picks up some of the pieces and grips them tightly, her knuckles turn white. She doesn’t take notice to the warm liquid that slowly drips from her closed fists. The crimson droplets form dark puddles on her dirty, ripped up jeans.

The dim light coming from the cloud covered January sun, shines through the only window in the room, and casts a sickly pale color across the floor. Other than the natural light beaming into the room, it is dark. It’s almost time for the stars to come out of hiding, so Fallon enjoys the remaining sunlight. Her spine aligns perfectly with the corner closest to the window. She struggles to keep her green blue eyes open and tries to resist leaning her head against one of the walls on either side of her. She knows she cannot let herself fall asleep, so Fallon tries to refocus herself on the broken mirror. She replaces the pieces she forgot were in her hands and sets them next to the others on the blackened floor. All her movements are slow, her body drained from the lack of sleep. Fallon cannot remember why she shattered the mirror, but she knows it’s the one object that will keep her from losing her sanity.

With the few minutes of sunlight left, Fallon chooses the largest shard of glass from the floor and wipes it clean of the ash with her bloodstained shirt. She raises the piece high enough to see some of her reflection and is disgusted at what she sees staring back at her. Dark circles enclose bloodshot green blue eyes. Her lips are cracked from the dry winter weather and bleed easily. She is pale, her skin so whitish, she looks corpse-like. Long brown hair hangs limply on her shoulders and her pale neck and cheeks are smeared with ash, dirt, and blood.

Fallon puts the piece of mirror back on the floor and leans forward, and peeks out the large window. She places her cut up hands on the dirty floor and crawls slowly towards it, knowing she isn’t going to see anything pretty beyond the window glass.

The sky is a dark gray color now and the wind blows hard, and Fallon can hear it clearly. The neighborhood she sees from the two-story house that was engulfed in a fire not even a week ago, stands alone on the street. The families in this particular location have left, as well as the rest of the community. Fallon finds sanctuary in this burnt house, which offers her a hiding place from anyone who decided to follow her. She also hasn’t seen any sight of the doctors. Everything she sees from the window looks all too familiar. Out of the many towns she had passed through, Fallon has seen her fair share of the abandoned houses, buildings and businesses that are now becoming more and more frequent throughout the country with every passing day.

Fallon is on the run and she knows why everyone is leaving, fleeing for their lives. She knows that somewhere, when they try to find refuge, those people are going to run into the doctors, who are only in search for new eyes.

“It’s simple. It’s fast and is a solution to all our problems.” The voice of an old man cuts in and out of the microphone he speaks into. His gray hair is cut short and his forehead glistens from the tiny beads of sweat created by the stage lights. He wears a plaid shirt and jeans, very casual, and a white nametag with a messy cursive name is stuck on his breast pocket. The experienced doctor furrows his eyebrows, which makes the wrinkles on his forehead look deeper than what they actually are. Massive glasses are pushed up on his nose and without them the man is practically blind. As he concludes his speech he takes a deep breath, and waits for a response from the people that look up at him. The audience holds faces of the young and old. Eyes of many colors stare up at the man on stage and wonder what to do next. Minds of the wise and inexperienced ponder the old mans proposal. The old man’s hands start to sweat as he waits for what seems like forever for a response from his viewers, all of them physicians from across the United States.

The old man finally waits until the whispers start before he decides to make his way to the other side of the stage. His steps are somewhat quick, since there seems to be no reaction from the other doctors. He is halfway across the stage when a fellow physician stands, and walks slowly and calmly up the stairs. When he reaches the old man, he offers him his right hand, and says with a small smile, “When do we start?”

“Don’t look at me.” Fallon’s whisper is harsh. Her cut up hands shake, her eyes fixated on the mirrors pieces once again.

“Stop.” Anger seeps through tight lips, cracked and dry with a red tinge to them, bloodshot eyes tear up. Fallon’s hands turn to fists, then quickly cover her face as angry tears roll down her dirty cheeks.

“I said stop looking at me!” She finally screams, anger turns to rage. Fallon stands, her body placed over the mirror, she raises her right foot and brings it down as hard as she can, repeatedly. The glass makes cracking noises beneath her feet, leaving the mirror in more tiny shards all across the floor. Her breathing is hard and unsteady, and even though her body is tired, her newfound energy makes her pace the room. Pulling at her hair, Fallon screams again, and again. Over and over she shrieks until her voice turns hoarse.

The door of the room creaks open, making Fallon turn around quickly, her heart pounding. She tilts her head to the side puzzled that the door has opened, almost like it is teasing her since she has not left this room since her arrival. The only view she has is through the window. She eases her way through the door frame, taking small steps out into the hall, cautious. To her left the house seems untouched by the flames that has seemed to engulf the right of dwelling earlier that week. Her eyes hurt from the light coming into the broken window at the end of the hall. The breeze from outside is cold, the wind is strong, making her shiver, and raises goose bumps on her skin. Fallon takes a step toward the right side of the house, slowly.

A million thoughts are racing through her head as she takes a step toward another open door, her heart pounding in her chest. Have they found me? If so, then how? She takes a deep breath, inhaling cold air that burns her lungs. When Fallon decides to take the risk of being captured she takes a step into the open door frame on her left. She is relieved when she sees nothing other than some burnt furniture, and other debris that is on the floor.

She relaxes a little, less tense than before and turns, making her way back to the open door to explore the rest of the house. She exit’s the door, and a dark gloved hand covers her mouth, a scream barely escaping her lips.

“Fallon, Fallon, Fallon. We’ve been looking for you, but you already knew that.” The voice from behind her is one she recognizes, but she cant put a face to the smooth, calm voice. She tries to fight, but he is too strong.

“Please don’t struggle. It only makes my job so much more difficult.” Fallon’s eyes widen as she sees more men coming up the stairs. They are all wearing white doctors coats, with nametags, all of them casually dressed. A frail looking old man makes his way up the stairs after them, his glasses pushed up on his nose, soft blue eyes behind the frames. Fallon recognizes him immediately, becoming more afraid with every step he takes toward her. She fights harder, but the man behind her holds his hand over her mouth and both her hands behind her with one hand. She tries to scream, more tears coming down her face.

The old man walks up to her, puts his hands behind his back and looks her up and down. “My dear child, what has happened to you?” Fallon tries to distinguish if his tone is caring or cold. His eyes are hard on her, and he reaches a hand up to her face, making the man restraining her release his grip. She has no energy to run anymore, using every ounce of strength she had left struggling and fighting to get away.

“You left without saying goodbye to me Fallon. You know I hate it when you don’t say goodbye to me,” His voice is now cold, colder than the wind rushing through the broken window behind her, “And you skipped our appointment. That displeases me. Do you not like talking to me Fallon? Would you rather talk to your mirror like you always have?” He looks into the first open door, spotting Fallon’s mirror frame. He walks into the room where her mirror is, and she cant resist following him, her steps small and cautious. Fallon stands near the doorway not quite inside, but very close, peering in. The old man looks at the mirror’s shattered pieces that lay on the floor, shaking his head.

“Fallon let me see your hands,” He says and walk back to her. Fallon clenches her fists, not wanting him to see the cuts. She didn’t even want to meet his eyes when he looked at her. He had always commented on them when they talked in his quiet, cold office.

“Look at me Fallon. Let me see your hands.” Fallon spies the nametag he has placed on the breast pocket of his shirt, making sure he is who she thought. Dr. Harold Riley, her doctor, her therapist, and unfortunately her grandfather.

“Fallon. Please don’t make this difficult.” Dr. Riley grabs her right wrist, and squeezes. Fallon clenches her teeth together trying to ignore the pain, but winces when he squeezes harder, and her tight fist opens slowly. Dr. Riley sees the filthy open wounds on her hand and shakes his head once again.

“These are going to get infected if you don’t see a doctor.” She jerks her hand away from him, and takes a step back.

“I don’t need a doctor,” she hisses.

“Oh, my dear you do. You are very sick, do you remember? We had an appointment to fix all your problems. All those mood swings you have, it’s not healthy. You wouldn’t have to talk to your mirror anymore. I was going to make things all better for you. Painless you would be.” Fallon can’t help but look into his eyes and tears of anger start to pour from her eyes once again.

“No! No! No! I don’t need you or anyone. You weren’t going to fix me. You were going to put me in a house and burn me just like you did everyone else!” Dr. Riley’s eyes grow wide and his mouth opens slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, you don’t think I saw it. But I did. I saw what you did to those people. I saw the way you and your little doctor friends here, knock every one of your patients out cold before you hammered into their eyes. Yeah, I saw it. I saw doctors slaughter people, lock them in houses and then set them on fire. They laughed. Failed experiments they called those people they killed. I saw everything. I ran and escaped from you. I wasn’t going to let you make me into one of them. A robot, an emotionless human being, unable to think or feel. I wasn’t going to be deemed unsuccessful after whatever it is that you do to make people that way and then be burnt.”

Fallon feels strong again, defiant, and determined. She holds her head high, her hands turning into fists again.

“Well then,” Riley’s voice, “You really have strong opinions about what we are trying to achieve, yet you really know nothing about it.” He takes a step toward her, and starts to circle her. She doesn’t move. He moves around to her left side and strikes her. His right hand comes in contact with her left cheek and causes her to lose her balance. Fallon falls to the floor, half catching herself on the wall to her right. Her cheek stings, but Fallon doesn’t cry. She has no more tears left to cry.

“You see Fallon, if you would’ve gone through with the procedure as planned, you wouldn’t have gotten slapped just now. You wouldn’t have even spoke in the first place. You see, what we do is perform lobotomies. It makes people easier to control, and makes people with disorders such as behavioral, mental or emotional disorders better.” Dr. Riley didn’t look at her but starts to pace back and forth. The men that came in with him have formed a blockade, making it impossible for Fallon to escape. She sat on the floor, glaring up at Dr. Riley as he continued to speak.

“It was used in the 40’s and 50’s. That’s where I got the idea. I proposed it at a conference about a year ago. You should remember when the testing first started. I performed the first lobotomy in the hospital you were at. I trained all of these doctors you see around you. So maybe things got a little out of hand. My colleagues got a little carried away, and got experimental. I always encourage growth and the testing of new ideas. What you saw was just a moment of experimentation with failed results. We couldn’t have people who were lobotomized running around all the time especially if their procedure was unsuccessful. They could’ve harmed themselves or others.” He stops pacing then, and Fallon isn’t sure if he is done giving his speech or not. She takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly.

“Well now that you know all about what happened, we should move on. We have an appointment, don’t we Fallon?” A smile spread across Dr. Riley’s wrinkled face, and he runs his hand through his gray hair. Fallon feels a tugging at her arms and legs as the other doctors lift her and carry her down the hall. Screams find their way up Fallon’s throat, and she thrashes, struggling to free herself from the grips of the doctors. They carry her into the kitchen where a stretcher is awaits. They lay her on it, some of the men hold her thrashing limbs while the others strap her down. Fallon feels helpless, realizing what is happening to her.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Fallon yells at Riley, feeling a man hold down her head, while another places a strap over her forehead, tightening it make it impossible for Fallon to move.

“Because my dear child. As my granddaughter I must make an example out of you. I was just fortunate enough that you had been in the psychiatric hospital as me.”

Fallon couldn’t believe his words, and she tries to fight against her restraints. She cries out, even though she knows no one can hear.

“Don’t cry now my dear. I will make everything better,” he says having one of the other doctors pull her eyelids back as Dr. Riley places the long sharp metal instrument up against her skin. He holds the hammer in his right hand. “Now show me those beautiful eyes…”

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