1r de Batxillerat “Bloody feet” Belén Macías i Pérez

“Bloody feet” Belén Macías i Pérez / 1r de Batxillerat

LLENGUA ANGLESA_2N PREMI

Blood dripped down my eyebrows at a slow pace, it almost felt as if I were drowning inside a pool of honey. A dense liquid flowed through my face. Little to no air for me to breathe. My eyes were closing sloppily and the fear was no longer anywhere near to be seen. I was long past horror and did not have any will to go back to the life I could still redeem. How I was still alive is probably a miracle I won’t ever be able to decipher, yet I don’t want to specifically know the reason for that, nor do I want to experience that unconsciousness that hits in waves and leaves a trail each time with greater pain. God is a heck of a lot better playing at this game than I am, testing my luck like this again would probably mean I am out of my head, that I am an adrenaline junkie or that I am a descent of the devil. I’d rather keep the true reason to myself.

The rope tied to my wrists started to make friction against my skin; just another injury I’ll have to take care of after I’m out of this hell-hole, or shall I say “heaven-hole”? At this point, I am not capable of knowing which side I’m on. The scratching of my nails against the hemp did not help the constant itchiness that left burns, reddening my hands. The tip of my fingers seemed to tear up with the droplets of blood that sketched the skin from my wrists to my nails, to the floor. Scratching, scraping, filing, one after another, then again, repeat. File, scrap, scratch; scraping, filing, scratching, yet again until finally, blood rushed to my nearly purple fingers. The dry veins on my fingers were drowning in the blood that was dying to get through my bonded wrists.

My fingers traced the back of my pants until they perceived the pocket knife hidden behind them. I grabbed that tiny knife as if it were my last action; my final wish. From behind the iron chair, I started cutting the duct tape that immobilised my feet, as well as my legs.

200 Freedom had never tasted as sweet and mellow as it tasted in that moment, my feet got to the ground, I stomped firmly as I was getting up from the coldness of the metal chair, I took a step forward, proceeding to the door I could see in front of me. I had analysed the tiny room I was in-prisoned in for hours on end, that door was the only way in or out. No air vents, no windows, nothing. My hand was trembling slowly, unsureness filled my body. What else could I do? I had to get out of there and I had no other options.

I opened the door steadily, trying as hard as I could to not make any sound. Sweet music played in my mind while I walked slowly through the corridors of the abandoned hospital they had put me in. I have to admit, I appreciated the ghostly scenario, it made me feel as if I were the ghost in a movie, only goal to possess any living thing that crossed my path. I gained more composure on every step I took; my feet could feel the bitterly cold flooring. The colourless walls that surrounded me seemed to go on for an eternity. I could swear I had walked for hours until I had to stop to catch my breath. My stomach grumbled, and my hands pressed it as an involuntary reaction.

I had to start running. I needed to find another door, a window, something that would assure me I could escape that prison. Something that would convince my lonely soul that it was not alone, that some form of civilisation was still there. I ran and ran; my feet were sore, blisters formed on my soles. The scenario I passed changed in no way on my unending journey.

How would I ever escape a jail I had formed inside my head? I looked down to my hands, my wrists, which were once before burned, scratched up, now were clean, no redness left to be seen.

I looked to my feet, blistered up once, now safely covered in fuzzy socks. I looked up, in front of me was a mirror. I stepped closer, analysed the form that should be me. I could not recognise a single feature in that person. The table where the mirror was placed was covered in loose files, files, most I could identify had my name written in several places, “Dahlia Castle”. It was always followed with some type of diagnosis.

My name sounded foreign in my lips, as it had never been there before, as if this was the first time I said it.

This can’t be. It must be an error; I was running for my life. I was tied up, beaten half to death. What sickly game was I forced in? My heart started beating unhesitatingly fast. My hands lost sense, my eyes blurred until everything I could see were distant shapes of what I could recognise just a minute before. My nose tried to inhale but nothing came in; making my lungs compress for one last time until everything stopped. I fell on the carpeted floor, although I didn’t notice it. My head empty of thoughts would never recover. I was in-prisoned the day I was born, but today my soul could fly with freedom for the first time until it disappeared in a serene sea of fullness.

Dahlia Castle. Diagnosed with schizophrenia. Treatments with second-generation medications and psychosocial therapy fail to manage the condition. Hospitalisation is required at all times. Electroconvulsive therapy has been considered. First-generation prescribed antipsychotics are listed: Chlorpromazine (4 doses every 12 hours), Fluphenazine (1 dose every 2 hours), Haloperidol (8 doses every 24 hours), Perphenazine (3 doses every 6 hours), …