He never gave real thought to his words. Had he done so, I’m certain that his interpretation would be very much like my own…
“Your brain can no longer tolerate its lone occupant, so I’m going to give you some meds. They’ll either cure you, or kill you in some way.
Either way, you won’t get out of this without losing yourself completely.
On the bright side, you died inside long ago, for all intents and purposes. Though I can’t guarantee any of this will help, remember it’s for your own good…”
After a few months of taking poison, the realization hits me, on this gorgeous Mayberry morn, that he was right:
Elle doesn’t live here anymore. She was simply too hard to handle. Her roar is now a whisper, and her love of all things mysterious has been contained in the vacuous chasm once occupied by her soul. Gone are the silly daydreams and imaginations that made her life colorful. In their stead, a screen, blank and bland, reveals only chemically induced normalcy. People who know her think this is a wonderful improvement. She does not share their opinion.