Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

remember after Mama coming home was her lying there on the white linoleum floors
and Dad rushing through the door screaming, “What have you done? What have you
done Belladonna?”
Why is he instantly blaming this on me and asking what I had done? This was Jolene’s
idea and she is the one that asked me to conspire with her. Why isn’t he hounding her?
After the police arrived, I watched Jolene get tackled to the ground, almost feeling
the pain myself. She fought with every muscle and bone in her body, making me weak. I
watched as they restrained her arms and legs to the stretcher. They gave her a shot, which
instantly stiffened her body and cut off all motion. With a dumbfounded look on my
face, I pondered what she had been injected with as I watched the life ejected from her at
the same time the needle was.
I do not know where they took Jolene, but Dad did not seem to care-- not that he ever
did. I did not understand why Jolene was placed in an ambulance and shipped off. Mama
was the one hurt, not Jolene.
It’s like waking up from a nightmare.
“Jolene is a figment of your imagination,” the psychiatrist tells me.
“But I remember her. I remember her telling me about the horrible things that
mother would make her do when we were children. I remember seeing the white powder
smashed up in her food and her convincing me of Mama’s plans,” I argue.
“Jolene never existed. There is no documented record of Jolene being your sister and
your dad would certainly know if you had a sister. You created Jolene in your mind years
ago and now you are using her as a coping mechanism for your mother’s murder, one
that you organized on your own,” the psychiatrist explained. “Don’t worry, you are in a
safe place now and we will take care of you here,” he continued.
As I fell asleep that night, the white walls surrounded me, caging in my existence. The
tiny 2X4 window, shaped like a rectangle, running vertically with the door, was the only
way of seeing the outside world. The echoes of Mama’s voice saying, “It’s time for your
medication, dear” flooded the room and ran screeching into my ears. I drifted off to sleep
and started to picture harsh lines of blood splattering the empty white walls. I awoke,
holding my throat and gasping for air.
*The administrators rushed through the door and into the room to find the sharpened
razor blade on the floor with no idea how it had gotten there or how Belladonna could
have gotten it. Belladonna lie there, surrounded and drenched in a puddle of blood. The
emergency signal transmitted through the air and voices filled the walkie-talkies. Help
was on its way, although, everyone knew there was no helping Belladonna. Implanted in
the pillow, beneath all the feathers, there lie the medication that had been stuffed away
for the last week*
In that moment, I watched Jolene wave goodbye to me as doctors stood around not