I swore feverishly, tossing and turning during the long, sleepless nights. I swore and I swore never to go back to that room, never to let curiosity be the end of this cat. I worked myself into a sweat fending off the images that assaulted me. I could tell you of the most horrible nightmares… but I won’t. These were terrors that came to me in my sleep, not during my waking moments like the ones I record here. Let the world call me crazy, I will write with a shaking hand what I saw and leave these waking nightmares to rest in ink forever.
The night I dove from my apartment window, an ambulance had taken me to the hospital where I was treated for two dislocated knees, a shattered ankle, a broken shoulder and collar bone, and--when I finally recovered from the fog of a serious concussion--severe hysteria.
The paramedics had held me down as I thrashed and shrieked, oblivious of my physical wounds. ”There is a little girl in that room! She needs medical attention! A demon has destroyed her poor arms and--oh my God, her face!” One of my rescuers administered a sedative and in moments I was comatose. I was transported to the Hedrick’s County Hospital and sent immediately into surgery. I cannot recall the operations, nor a good portion of the recovery period, except that I spent most of the time in a hospital cot behind a blue curtain.
For the first weeks I merely lay there, unable to do more than speak softly and incoherently with the doctors. Based on what they could interpret they decided to send me to psychiatric counseling. During the weeks following this decision I spoke to a psychotherapist for an hour every day. I tried to convince her of what happened, but never to any avail. The popular opinion was that my delusions were caused by the concussion coupled with the emotional trauma of my other injuries. In short: I was thought to have bumped my head and lost my marbles.
The therapist, the doctors, and even the police investigators explained it to me in their attempt to bring me to my senses: No evidence of my story was found when my apartment room was searched. There were no witnesses, no blood stains, nothing whatsoever to proof that a little girl had been mutilated. In fact, no little girl matching my description was found in or anywhere near the building, let alone one without arms.
Had I gone mad or was a demon deceiving the authorities? I had no idea what to believe considering what I had seen--and there was no doubt in my mind that I had seen those awful things--but I cannot dwell on these thoughts. This story was not over, and I was now determined to bring my mind to peace.
So I put on a charade and put an end to my delusive rants. Within a week I had convinced my therapist that the post-traumatic breakdown had subsided and I was once again thinking rationally. Demons didn’t exist and there was never any little girl. I had fallen from my window--perhaps jumped in an attempt at suicide--and the resulting traumas had caused my mind to become overwhelmed and temporarily deluded. The following week, leaning against a stubby, wooden cane, I limped out of the hospital.