Blue Aspen

by Tenaya Jayne

  "I want my journal. It’s in the drawer of my bedside table."

  Dr. Phelps fished it out and tucked it under his arm. I knew the second he could he was going to riffle through it. The next thing I knew, I was being led outside to a van. I had a surge of fear. I didn’t want to go to a hospital. I didn’t want to be poked at and analyzed.

  I had an overwhelming urge to try to run from them. I wanted to scream out for Vincent. I wanted him to appear, to prove them wrong so they would let me go, but I did as Vincent instructed, I submitted. The back of the van was like a padded cage.

  "Please," I begged. "Please, let me have my notebook. I want to write in it while we drive."

  Dr. Phelps didn’t think too much of this. But Uncle Jack, wanting to redeem himself, grabbed it from under his arm. Dr. Phelps tried to grab it back, giving Uncle Jack a very dirty look but Uncle Jack returned his gaze and held his ground.

  "What do you think she’s going to do? Kill herself on the way with her pencil?" Uncle Jack demanded.

  Dr. Phelps sighed and shrugged. He unhooked my arms and I was put in the back of the van with my notebook, the notebook you are reading right now, whoever you are.

  And now here I am, on my way to Aspen Grove Psychiatric Hospital to await the day when Vincent will come for me. So this is my story, our story, thus far. There will be more, not that you will ever know the rest of it. But know this, and truly know it, Vincent and I have a never-ending future.

  2. Dr. Patricia Verell

  "I saw a dream that frightened me; my fantasies in

  bed and the visions of my head terrified me." Daniel 4:5

  Lightning flashed across the polished floor tiles and shiny surfaces of the kitchen. The stately house was dark, and from the meticulous, executive exterior, looked completely devoid of life. The lone occupant of the house had not budged since she had arrived home from work, three hours earlier, not even to turn on a light or remove her coat. She placed her laptop on the kitchen table, turned it on, and sat down in front of it. The light from the screen made Patricia look ghostly and shone on her glazed, unfocused eyes.

  She had stopped reading and was now lost in her thoughts, so to speak. Patricia wasn’t actually thinking, she had thought her brain into an unintelligible snarl and was now communing with her vexation. She nuzzled and encouraged her bad humor. Since it wouldn’t go away, she almost enjoyed wallowing in the wretched feeling. It was a rare occasion that she let up, even in the slightest, on the vice grip of control that she held on her own feelings. Tonight it felt good to just acquiesce.

  On the other hand, what was the point in working herself into a tantrum if Jon wasn't there to see it? She didn’t want to cry and scream and throw things unless he witnessed it. Patricia smirked at the thought of how Jon would react if he saw her in a fit. She sighed raggedly and rubbed the back of her neck.

  It wasn’t that she actually missed him, but she was so very lonely that any company would be good, even his. Jon was always gone these days. When they were first married, he would always stay in contact when he was out of town. In the beginning, things were warm and affectionate but marriage, like plants, will wither and dry out with neglect.

  The state of the marriage was as much her fault as it was his. It wasn't a great sorrow to her. There had never been any real love between them, not even in the beginning. Jonathon Verell was one of the most highly paid and sought after building designers in the world. He was almost old enough to be Patricia’s father. She had married him at the age of nineteen, using his extensive income to further her ambitions, and he had received the trophy wife he had always longed for. They both had known the other’s intentions and had plunged ahead, unperturbed.

  Patricia blinked. Her eyes were dry from staring at her computer for so long. Her stomach growled, forcing her to become more lucid. She looked around the kitchen, realizing the house was dark.

  A rumbling thunderclap shook the windows. She rubbed her eyes and looked back at what she had been working on. Her mind instantly snapped back into working mode and she was Dr. Verell again. The screen reflected the file of Dulcee Elders, her new assignment. She always liked to familiarize herself with her new patient's histories before she met them.

  Patricia's awkward colleague, Tom Phelps, had prepared Dulcee’s file in his usual cryptic manner. This was the first time she had seen it. She had to slog through her annoyance of anything Phelps touched before the information could sink into her brain.

  There were some strange circumstances around the girl’s admittance to the hospital that she intended to look into. Dulcee’s father had died when she was six, foul play suspected but not substantiated, mother was a drug addict, abusive. Dulcee’s school record was exemplary and she had graduated two years early with a full ride to college. Dr. Verell was strongly reminded of herself. Then when everything seemed to be looking up for Dulcee, she has a psychotic break. She displays signs of post-traumatic stress and possible schizophrenia.

  Dulcee had been a patient of Aspen Grove for two weeks. She shows strong resistance to her anti-psychotic medication, despite regular dosage increases. Dr. Verell already doubted the diagnosis of schizophrenia, because although she displayed telltale signs, she wasn't paranoid. The file was neat and informative, but it had big holes and left Dr. Verell feeling unsatisfied. There were a few places in the file that would say, see notebook. Dulcee's notebook was in her briefcase. She hadn't looked at it yet.

  Dr. Verell shivered, the cold of the house coming to her attention. She sighed, turning off her laptop, and got up from the table. She turned the thermostat up and began to flick on lights around the house. Her house felt like a tomb. Of course, a large house came with marrying Jonathon, but he was hardly ever there. It was nothing more than a status symbol, but she was the one who had to live in it. On most nights, it was common for Dr. Verell to entertain thoughts of getting a small apartment for herself. Jon probably wouldn’t care as long as she played her part of loving wife for parties when he was in town. She made herself dinner and ate in front of the TV.

  "You’ve got to be kidding me!" she snarled.

  She had been surfing the channels for fifteen minutes, nothing but romance! Then the network’s ad announced loudly it was the countdown to Valentine’s Day.

  "Super," she muttered sarcastically, turning off the TV and throwing the remote aside. Dr. Verell finished her dinner in the presence of her reflection on the dark screen. It was better company than oozy, gooey actors gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes.

  After collecting her briefcase and laptop, she headed upstairs to her office. She considered it the best room in the house. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she felt totally like herself. Dr. Verell’s home office was, if anything, vague. The professionally decorated space lacked any personal touches. She went through her usual routine of transferring files from her laptop to her desktop before committing an hour of time to EBay. Hunting for worthwhile antiques was cut short however, when the storm kicked up a notch and knocked out the power. The house was plunged into utter darkness.

  "Well, so much for that," she said to herself.

  She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and fondled it for a few minutes before turning it off. Trying out new apps bored her. She sat still at her desk watching the lighting. When the lights did come back, Dr. Verell was feeling relaxed from the sound of the rain and decided to get ready for bed. Before she left her office, she took out Dulcee’s notebook. She looked at it for a second. It was just a basic lined notebook. On the cover was a drawing of a heart with the name Vincent in the middle of it. She assumed the pages were oozing with angst. Dr. Verell yawned and tucked it under her arm before going to take a shower.

  She nestled down into the king-sized bed alone after laying out her clothes for the next day and braiding her damp hair. Switching on the reading lamp, she picked up the notebook and began to read.

  A few pages in and Dulcee’s words had her by the throat. Dr. Verell had not intended to re
ad the whole thing, but she did, finally turning out the light in the early hours of the morning. She felt a physical taxation that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. Something had happened to her as the words burned into her mind. She had brushed against Dulcee’s disease and was now infected. A fissure in her character had unwittingly let the intruder in, and once she fell asleep, she dreamed…

  The lightning flashed and the power went out again. Dr. Verell sat up in bed and looked around her. In the corner of the darkened room, a small flickering blue light caught her eye. The lightning flashed again and silhouetted a figure sitting in the chair by the window. He stood up. She got out of bed, facing him. His eyes were burning, they were the blue light that had caught her attention. He cocked his head to one side, looking at her in the darkness. A fierce chemical response unlike any she had ever experienced pulled under her skin.

  "Dulcee?"

  She made no answer, let down by his mistake. He moved forward.

  "Dulcee, is it you?"

  He moved forward a little more and then stopped. She knew by the sound of his intake of breath that he realized he had the wrong woman. Her heart sank. She didn’t want to be the wrong woman, not now, not with him.

  "I could be her," she whispered. "I could be anyone you want."

  He moved closer, she could feel his breath on her face, but in the darkness, all she could see were his eyes. The fire had gone out, extinguished by the ocean, cruel, treacherous, and coldly beautiful. This ocean could drown you in a second. You drown willingly.

  "No," he whispered. "You’re not her, and you never could be."

  Dr. Verell’s heart sank deeper in disappointment. He seemed to be sneering at her.

  "And this," he said, reaching out and roughly grabbing a handful of fabric at her waist, "is not yours."

  She looked down. She was wearing Dulcee’s blue satin nightgown. Dr. Verell gasped and made to cover herself as Vincent ripped the gown from her body with one swift jerk of his arm. She was amazed she was not naked. In place of the blue nightgown, she was now wearing a red one, exactly the same, except in color. She looked up into his eyes and could tell he was now smiling at her, leering at her.

  His eyes moved over her body slowly. "That’s better."

  When the alarm clock sounded Dr. Verell sat bolt upright in bed drenched in sweat. She was shivering cold and felt slightly sick. She got up and went straight for the shower, hoping the warm water would relive her of the chill.

  As Dr. Verell got ready for work, a few miles away Dulcee Elders woke up from an uneasy sleep, also.

  3. Psychobabble

  "You have taken my companions and loved ones from me;

  the darkness is my closest friend." Psalms 88:18

  Dulcee sat up in bed and covered her face with her hands. She fought back the tears that were pushing behind her eyes. Not today. She thought. I will not cry today.

  A sorrow so deep it penetrated the marrow of her bones was eating its way through her. The pressure the pent-up tears were building in her head was sparking a headache. This made Dulcee smile. It wasn't the same type of headache that she used to have, but it jolted her memories all the same. What she wouldn’t give to have one of those headaches again, because of what it would mean.

  Unconsciously, Dulcee clawed at her marred chest. The self-inflicted wound had healed, and her skin was discolored and textured with scars. Her fingertips traced along the raised skin over and over because she couldn’t tear it again. The matronly nurse clipped her fingernails so short, they were useless.

  Dulcee was waiting for Vincent. She'd done what he told her to do, but he hadn't come or let her know how long he would be, and he was too far away for her to hear him whisper. Now stuck among the insane, Dulcee was starting to feel she was becoming one of them. The occupants of Aspen Grove ranged in age, psychosis, and volume (as in loudness while screaming). The only thing they didn’t vary in was sex. In all the areas Dulcee was allowed everyone was female, with the exceptions of some doctors and orderlies. Dulcee shunned everyone vehemently and had thus created a snobby reputation for herself. She didn’t care. Everyone was too unhinged to form consistent coherent opinions about others anyway. She wasn’t looking for friends.

  The jaws of despair consumed Dulcee with an endless hunger. Her life had turned from a wonderland into a cold, sterile cage. Long, straight, grey walls with endless grey doors; numbers, fluorescent lights, and white coats haunting the halls like ghosts. These were the ingredients of Aspen Grove. Everything was a shade of grey, even the sunlight filtering through the barred windows was grey. It was more a prison then a hospital at least that was the consensus among the patients. The insane care nothing for healing, they only care about the means of escape.

  "Leave me my madness! Insanity is freedom!" They all seemed to cry out under the surface of the pharmaceutical fog.

  Dulcee knew the doctors thought she was schizophrenic and Vincent was nothing more than an alter ego, that all they had shared was a hallucination, and that she heard voices. But Dulcee hadn't heard Vincent whisper since she arrived. He maintained a dead silence. She knew her behavior was being watched, and that it looked quite insane indeed. Every night and sometimes in the day when she sat on her own, she spoke to Vincent, begging him to respond. She was always mumbling under her breath, often breaking into tears, and constantly rubbing her scared chest.

  Today Dulcee was scheduled to begin one-on-one therapy. So far, all she had been forced to endure was group therapy, and she had found keeping her mouth shut and staring at the floor was the best way to bear that torture. But this one-on-one stuff was going to be more challenging to skate through. She was just thankful her therapist was not going to be Dr. Phelps. But Dulcee wondered how long she would have to run this gauntlet for Vincent to fully forgive her and come to take her away.

  The matronly, fifty-something nurse who clipped Dulcee’s fingernails came in with her morning assortment of medication. The woman never said a thing. She handed Dulcee her pills, watched to make sure they were swallowed, and went about her work with stoic, dead eyes. It didn’t take long for the haze that Dulcee hated to admit to herself, sometimes felt good.

  Dr. Verell arrived at work a few minutes later than she usually would have. She was trying hard to shake the strange feeling still lurking inside her. She went to her office first and ran through her schedule for the day. She made sure to bring Dulcee Elder’s notebook with her. Her fingers were itching to open it again, but she put it in her desk drawer and tried to forget it. She tried to forget him. Hoping her colleagues were in the staff lounge having coffee, she got up from her desk and went to join them.

  The usual morning chitchat met Dr. Verell as she entered the staff lounge. After getting herself some coffee she sat down with her friends, Dr. Jean Price and Dr. Carl Wilkam. Dr. Verell sighed contentedly, instantly feeling better. Here were her equals, somewhat. They were at least her peers. They were having an animated discussion and laughing freely about Dr. Phelps’ antics the previous evening.

  "I can’t believe him sometimes!" Jean laughed.

  Dr. Verell would have asked what all the fuss was about, but at the moment she was still feeling odd, not at all herself. She just wanted to sit and listen to them banter back and forth for a while and let the chatter center her. She knew her friends wouldn’t let her sit quiet for long, but she enjoyed observing them. Though both in the same field, Jean and Carl were quite a contrast. Jean’s appearance and manner were a product of breeding and wealth. Her white blond hair hung down her back in a perfect French braid every day of the week, and the black rimmed glasses she wore were only a prop. Jean could see fine without her glasses, but it completed the look of severity she thought complimented her profession. But that was work. Outside of work Jean was a real wildcard, and enjoyed raucous parties and nightclubs.

  Carl, on the other hand, felt his appearance put the patients at ease. He was an attractive man in his late thirties, health conscious, with wavy hair that was alway
s in need of a trim. He talked with his hands a lot, and had an easy smile that over the last year had become more strained, since his wife had left him.

  As she knew they would, Jean and Carl both gave her their full attention when she didn’t slip easily into the conversation.

  "Hey, you okay?" Carl asked. "You don’t look so good."

  "Thanks," Dr. Verell said sarcastically. "I just didn’t sleep very well last night."

  "Something on your mind?" asked Jean.

  "Just my new case, Dulcee Elders."

  "Oh," they said in unison.

  "Downcast Dulcee," Carl added.

  "Wasn’t she assigned to you yesterday?" asked Jean

  "Yeah."

  "It’s not like you to get in a twist over a patient so quickly," Carl said.

  "I know! I haven’t even had a session with her yet. There are just some strange things in her file that don’t seem to fit together. I already doubt her diagnosis."