Fanney Björk Ingólfsdóttir

Fragments of a Story

1.

It‘s hard for me to describe my surroundings. Maybe because I just keep looking down at my hands or maybe because the tears are blurring my vision. I can clearly make out my mother’s voice. How stern it is, rough as always when she is giving someone a piece of her mind. But at the same time there is a tremble in it now, a nervous vibration that I have not heard before. Almost as if the sternness is breakable, at the verge of shattering at any moment.

I think I will always remember how hard she is holding on to my hand. At first she had held it gently, using her thumb to caress the back of my hand ever so slightly, while giving me a supportive nod, encouraging me to tell the police officers everything. So that’s what I do. Or at least I start to.

I‘m not sure when my mother started tightening the grip of my hand. Maybe it was when one of the officers asked me if I had flirted with the man first, or maybe it was when the other one told me that I shouldn’t flirt with older men if I couldn’t handle them reacting to it. Either way, at least by the time they ask me if I know how much accusations like these can damage a mans reputation, my mother squeezes my hand so hard I think the bones will crack.

“She‘s just a teenager,” my mother keeps repeating. The first time she said it, it had sounded so important. By the last time she mutters it, in her shaking and no longer stern voice, it has lost all meaning.

A few weeks later a new police officer contacts my mother, saying he would like to meet me to give me some news. He asks if I can come to the police station. To which my mother replies, that I can not, I am not allowed to go anywhere. So the police man agrees to come see me. The office we met in is located in the childrens’ and teenagers’ mental hospital, a place I have grown very used to.

The new police officer is a large man, but he looks smaller while looking down and rubbing his hands together in front of me. He seems nervous, for some reason that calms me. He was sent there to tell me that the police has questioned the man. That he, himself, has met him. I am looking down on my hands, picking at a torn piece of fabric on my sleeve as he explains to me that the man had claimed me to be lying, that I was, in fact, mentally ill and unable to tell reality from my own imagination. The nervous policeman then adds, that he, himself, does not believe him, however, others do.

My case will go no further.

I can‘t help thinking how nice it is to at least be told that I am not to be believed by someone who does believe me. I wonder if that is why they sent him. If so. At least, that was nice of them.

By the time he‘s saying goodbye, it dawns on me, that maybe we do not look down on our hands because we are nervous, maybe it is shame.

He says he is sorry, that was nice of him too. And then he left, to return to his job as a police officer, a protector of the people, and I return to my room at the mental ward, as just another mad girl, that should not be believed.

2.

I am standing in the hallway of a mental hospital. I cannot remember how I got here. I was free, I was out, I was in my own apartment not that long ago. How did I get here? My blood boils in my veins and excitement creeps down my spine. I remember standing on a rooftop, screaming my lungs out. Who was I screaming at?

In my hand, I have a piece of paper, a drawing of cats. Dead cats. I remember that I drew them so that I could show them to the nurses. These cats, they are haunting me, taunting me constantly, trying to push me to ignite some turmoil. I believe myself to be a peaceful person. Or am I not?

The hallway of the mental ward is a long and cold one. It smells like chlorine. The walls are horribly yellow and bare. All the doors are closed. Behind one of them is my room. I share it with somebody. A person I have nothing in common with except for the fact that we don’t belong.

It feels like my body is coming apart. One cell at a time. I lean up against the wall. Putting the hand, that isn’t holding the drawing, on it. A desperate attempt to hold on to something concrete. If I keep my hand here, I won’t float away. I look back down on my drawing. I remember now that I was screaming at the cats. They were up in the sky. Gathering. Preparing for battle, and I was their leader. I did not choose the burden of leadership and I do not know why they chose to follow me. The ghost-like cats are running beneath my feet and meowing at me loudly. Their armor is shiny and lies perfectly on their transparent coats.

“You there,” I whisper, in the hopes of getting the nurse’s attention. She’s standing in the middle of the sickly yellow hallway. She sees me. But makes no effort to come closer. I try my best to tiptoe over all the cats, but they keep running and I almost trip a bunch of times.

“What ‘s wrong with you?” the nurse asks as I reach her. Between us is a small, metal trolley filled with tiny paper cups. I look down. The cups are filled with pills.

“Poison,” someone tells me. I nod in agreement.

„What’s wrong?” The nurse repeats.

“It’s the cats,” I whisper and point down at them. “Look,” I hand her the drawing.

“What is this?”

“I need help getting rid of the ghost cats,” I am still trying to whisper but the cats hear me anyway. They are upset now. They run faster and bite at my feet. I am about to ask the nurse to get me away from them when she hands me my drawing back. She sighs and then tells me that if I can’t go out to have a cigarette without coming back in all confused like this, then I should no longer be allowed to smoke.

I am shocked. Hurt. The realization dawns on me that she does not know me, I don’t know her. She knows nothing! The skin on her face begins to leak. She starts shifting forms and black smoke arises from her aura. I suddenly realize that she is a petty human, with ugly intentions. In this moment I decide to no longer fear this unwanted army of ghost cats.

Maybe the time has actually come to fight.

“CHARGE!” I scream and point fiercely at the nurse. My army of ghost cats jump from the floor and attack her. She screams from the violent attacks, crying out in pain. She will know never to degrade me again! I laugh loudly.

But deep down inside I am aware, that she is not screaming, I am screaming, no one is laughing, and there are no ghost cats.

I do not remember how I got here.

I do not remember when I became the leader of this army. But in a small glimpse of a moment, I do remember, that before all this, I was in a lot of pain. And the world was not very kind to me.

I shake the thought, forget the pain. I look at the nurse. She is covered in cats. She is mad. Someone says something about a sedative. I turn around and make a run for the door.

Maybe if I run fast enough,

and all the cats launch at it with me.

It will break.

3.

I stare into the foggy mirror. Eyes hesitantly floating down my damaged body. With remorseful melancholy, my eyes trace the scars that crawl down my arms like crooked spiderwebs. Some have turned white long ago. Others remain red and swollen. I wonder when I stopped recognizing the sight of myself. I wonder if I ever did. A small voice whispers to me, telling me to add to this wounded web of hurt. Telling me I deserve nothing less than a bodysuit of pain.

I touch a small part of mangled skin on my right arm. I tread my fingers lightly over a small bulge. It does not move. It is not the one I am looking for. I continue searching my body for the one responsible for all of this. The one that resides underneath my collection of scars. I move my eyes away from my arms and onto my torso. It is as I have feared. The insect has moved. With a thumping ache in my head and lungs filled with needles, I slowly draw my shirt over my head and allow it to fall, limp on the floor. Looking at my bare chest in the mirror my eyes are immediately drawn to an uneven bulge above my right breast.

The insect.

It is neither white nor grey. Yet somehow it isn’t in any other color either. Instead of legs the insect has horrific tendrils that are covered in countless, stiff hairs. The tendrils stretch and expend in unworldly ways as the bug moves underneath my scar-riddled skin. Its tendrils appear to move independently and in chaotic disorder. The tendrils wrap themself around my nerves and holds me in a hell’s grip.

The insect had spent years settling into my body. At first it had been so little that I had hardly noticed it. It had been so small and sneaky. It had dug itself deeper and deeper into my unknowing body, and begun feeding of it. The insect had sucked my tendons, licked my veins and nibbled on my muscles. It had wrapped its limbs around my organs and begun to grow. The insects’ countless hairy tendrils lengthened and tightened their grip. My body is no longer my own. It has not been my own for a long time.

Letting out a heavy breath I move my finger closer to the bulge. It moves before I even touch it. I feel the pain shoot down my chest. After all this time, there is only a matter of moments until it reaches my heart. And if it does. It will all be over.

My heart is all I have left now. I grab a knife from the table besides me and without hesitation I thrust the blade into the muscle above my right breast. The tip of the knife plunges straight into the bug’s body, which twitches violently and lets out a loud whine. The pain blurs my vision and the loud wailing cuts into my hearing. But I keep going. I drill the knife deeper.

My fingers are sticky with half-clotted blood. For I moment I think the metallic smell of blood is so strong that I can taste it, but I quickly realize that I have bloodied my tongue. I look up and relax my jaw. Blood seeps into my mouth and tickles the back of my throat as it drips down and lands on the knot of anxiety that I have carried in my stomach for years. I look down again. In the fresh wound, I see a glimmer of the bug. It’s hairy body writhing deep underneath my breast tissue, tucked away within my muscle.

I cut the insect out of me. Its hairy tendrils are tearing at my nerves but I don’t stop. I use my left hand to finally sever the insect from my body, by forcefully pulling it out and throwing it on the floor in front of me. The Insects fragile body is bare, rough and wrinkled. Its exposed tendrils shrink into almost nothing. The insects body seems so puny and completely incapable of harming anyone as it lies in front of me, helpless on the cold floor.

Sticky with blood and covered in drops of sweat, it curls up and shudders. The now deprived body shrivels up when it can no longer steal nutrition from me. The insect struggles, helpless and sore. I stand there firmly, and watch it agonize.

I watch as the insect dies.

Thank you so much for reading these short and very personal pieces, distorted memories from my past. These short pieces are creative non-fiction and are a part of a larger collection that I am currently working on. I have been working on writing down some of my experiences in creative ways since I myself love reading about other people’s stories. I have learned so much from survivors and activists that I could never begin thanking all the strangers that have impacted my life in so many positive ways. However, sometimes writing down these memories can be hard, visiting a difficult time in one’s life can feel both overwhelming and painful.

I have been blessed with so many good things in my life and I am grateful for so much. I live with many privileges that unfortunately many live without. Life has however been difficult at times and traumatic events have impacted me greatly. At a certain time in my life, due to these events, it felt almost like my mind simply shattered and the uneven pieces dispersed into many different worlds.

For a long time, it felt as if my thoughts would bleed through the cracks of my mind and leak down my body until they formed bitter, sticky puddles at my feet. My words drifted away and for a long time my voice became silent. My memories tore apart like earthworms in the hands of a child.

I felt locked inside a world that I never truly belonged in and I lost sight of who I truly was. I still struggle with that. I still have a hard time knowing who I truly am. But I intend to find out. Most of all, I want to be whole.

So, every once in a while, I will sit down to write at my laptop and visit another world, another time. I break out of the collective reality and step into the fear. Stepping cautiously.

I am on a mission to collect every tiny fragment of my mind. With each fragment I find, more of my thoughts return. My memories are coming back together. Not all, just a few. Some of them are twisted and bent, others shiny and soft. I write them down and sneak them into stories. Because I fear losing them again. I feel guilty, I feel ashamed, I ache inside. I feel joy and often grateful.

Im starting to remember why my mind was shattered to begin with.

I keep going.

In the shared reality, I rest between visits to other worlds. I cry, I scream, I gather my strength. Before I start another journey. Sometimes it‘s difficult to keep the monsters on the right side of the door. Sometimes their screams and noises bleed into the wrong reality. Sometimes its hard to know the difference.

I face it.

I keep going.

I will find every single piece.

I will be whole again.

And to you dear reader, if you have a story that you want to tell, I whole heartedly believe that there is someone out there that needs to hear it. Do what you must to take care of yourself in the process and remember that your story matters. You matter. And there are so many of us that can’t wait to hear from you.

Fanney was born in 1990, she is an Icelandic writer and is currently pursuing a master’s degree in creative writing at the University of Iceland. She co-wrote a book “Boðaföll” about alternative approaches to suicidality and self-harm along with five other authors. Fanney has lived experience of distress and extreme states and firmly believes that diversity is one of the most beautiful things about humanity and that it should be celebrated.