Escape From Asylum

by Madeleine Roux

  “He’s having a seizure!” she cried. “Oh God! Oh God, help us! Help him, something’s not right!”

  It took five straight minutes of theatrics before he heard the door to the ward open down the hall. His heart pounded hard and fast in his chest. It was working. This was just part one, and they weren’t even close to being out of the woods. He threw himself back into the screams, writhing on the floor, letting his jaw go slack.

  Kay kicked his shoulder gently, letting him know they were opening the door. Now was the crucial moment. As soon as the bolt scraped in the hinges, Jocelyn began her performance. They were probably accustomed to hearing Lucy throw fits, but not her.

  “Something’s wrong,” Kay bellowed as the orderlies finally filed into their cell. With his eyes screwed shut in mock-pain, Ricky couldn’t see much of what was going on, but he felt them kneel and take his pulse. “There’ve been bugs all over this damn place for days now. I think he got bit by something. He’s been acting funny, the girl, too.”

  “Shit, I told the warden we should hose this place down more often,” one of the orderlies was muttering. “God, this just had to be tonight, didn’t it? He’s going to kill me.”

  “Shut up and concentrate. He feels feverish,” the other one said. The two of them knelt on either side of Ricky, one trying to steady him as he flailed. “Don’t give him that,” he said suddenly. “We don’t know what’s wrong, we can’t just shove a needle in him while he’s having a seizure.”

  Across the hall, Jocelyn wailed louder. No sedatives. “We should get the warden,” the one taking Ricky’s pulse said. “Where the hell is he, anyway?”

  “Meeting with his guests, of course,” his partner replied. “God, that noise. Would someone check on Heimline? They’re all having bad reactions to something!”

  He heard footsteps scurrying in the corridor, and soon Dennis was no longer pounding on the door but pounding on something else. Ricky’s eyes flew open as he heard the first orderly scream in shock and pain.

  “Who let him loose!? The ward isn’t secured!” This came from down the hall. It sounded like Nurse Kramer, her voice rising in shrill panic. “Oh my God, get him back in his cell and—”

  Her scream was cut short by a loud, gasping crunch that made the hairs on Ricky’s arms stand on end. The orderly left with him dropped Ricky where he lay, fleeing into the corridor.

  “Ricky, get up.” Kay was kneeling over him, shaking him. He was already trembling. Her eyes were wide with fear when he collected himself, climbing to his knees and then stumbling to his feet. “Dennis is . . .” There was another scream as something was slammed into the wall outside their door. He heard a gurgle and a whimper, only loud enough for him to make out over Jocelyn’s tantrum. But she sounded different now, genuinely afraid.

  “We have to get out of here,” Ricky said, turning and sprinting for the door. Kay followed fast on his heels, but they both skidded to a stop as a huge shape darkened the way. Someone was on his back outside the door. One of the orderlies. He wasn’t moving and his neck was bent the wrong way, a bluish mark already spreading across his throat.

  “You have to calm down.” Ricky stared up at Dennis, who had finished throttling every staff member in sight. His thin hair was plastered across his forehead with sweat, that same forehead bright red and bruised from slamming into his door repeatedly.

  “Ricky, we have to go! We have to run for it, now!” Jocelyn stumbled out into the corridor, her eyes brimming with tears. He could tell she was doing everything she could not to look at the carnage all around them. A trembling hand closed over Ricky’s shoulder and tugged.

  “Close the door,” Kay whispered. “Close it now. For God’s sake, close it.”

  He did, grabbing the handle and slamming the door shut without another thought. They were locked inside, cut off, their chance for escape to the upper levels gone. And worse, he could hear Jocelyn shouting his name, and then it turned to a whimper. He heard her feet on the stone outside as she tried to make a run for the outer ward door.

  Then there was a grunt and a thump, the sound of a skull hitting the floor.

  “No! Dennis! Dennis, stop! You know me! You know me!”

  Ricky couldn’t stop him. The door had locked them in. He pounded as hard as he could, trying to draw the man’s attention. Lucy was screaming now, too, but it did no good. At his side, Kay banged on the door, too, yelling, pleading . . .

  “You know me!” Jocelyn managed to cry out one last time.

  “I know you,” came Dennis’s low, monotone voice. “I know you would look so perfect posed, posed and still in the White Mountains.”

  Ricky huddled against the door and covered his ears. He couldn’t listen to it. He couldn’t listen to the sound of his friend die.

  They were moved back to the first floor and into clean, separate rooms—fragrant with fresh paint—two days before the government inspection occurred.

  It should have felt like a victory, but Ricky was numb. Only a select number of patients were interviewed to make sure they were being treated correctly. Ricky and Kay were not among them for obvious reasons. That morning, Ricky suspected his breakfast had been heavily drugged. He slept through the entirety of the inspection, waking up with what felt like a massive hangover.

  Any movement outside his room was strictly policed. He had no idea which room Kay had been put in, or where they had stashed Lucy. No doubt Dennis was either dead or chained up somewhere. He had to wonder how they explained his murders.

  He moved through the days riddled with guilt, crippled by it, full of questions. It could have been different. The plan was messy and ill-conceived anyway, and it had gotten Jocelyn killed. He no longer had nightmares of Lucy, but of that last cry from Joss, just before Dennis took her life. And what had changed? They weren’t in the basement anymore, sure, but now he was alone again and they had succeeded at precisely nothing.

  The warden came to him finally, a week after Jocelyn had been killed. Ricky hardly cared. It felt useless to fight now. Whatever the warden had planned for him he’d have to suffer alone, all hope of escape lost now that they had been separated and broken. The only shock was that the warden seemed cold, removed. He expected gloating. He expected smugness.

  “Of all the outcomes I foresaw,” the warden began, standing close to the door and a good distance from Ricky. “This was not one of them.”

  “Just go away,” he muttered, turning toward the window and staring out at the lawn. Sometimes a car passed by and he would feel a flare of hope in his chest. Then that little spark would die as quickly as it had come. “I’m done talking to you. I’m done playing your stupid games. Do you even care that Jocelyn is dead?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t leave you alone,” the warden said. He was speaking between his teeth, as if every word were a chore to squeeze out.

  Ricky deflated, readying himself for whatever came next. The chair, probably, maybe another attempt to “treat” him into submission. That was fine. He felt defeated anyway.

  “No, you will be the one going away.”

  Ricky froze. He played the words over again. When they began to make sense, he twisted to glare at the man. “Getting rid of me. How? Feeling brave now that the inspection is over. You can clean up all you want, but they’ll come back and next time they’ll find something. You can’t hide what this place is for forever.”

  “Oh, I wish that was what I meant,” the warden replied coldly. “You’re leaving. Your mother has returned for you and I cannot hold you against her will.”

  “You’re lying.” He didn’t want to say it but he had to. It just couldn’t be true. This was another lie. It was always another lie with the warden. But he didn’t lie about Dennis, did he? He was dangerous. He was a killer and you didn’t listen and now Jocelyn is dead.

  “Get up.” The warden stepped to the side as the door opened and a nurse bustled inside. Most of the staff had been replaced in the aftermath of Dennis’s mayhem. He hardly recognized
anyone anymore. None of them were friendly, none of them wanted to help like Joss did.

  Still in a daze, Ricky stood, letting the nurse undress him. He finally began to help, going through the stupefying motions of putting on his real clothes, clothes he had arrived in. They hung on him now comically, as if they were sewn for a teenager twice his size.

  The nurse left without a word to either of them. He cringed whenever he saw one of their paper hats go by. It only reminded him of Jocelyn, how he used to perk up with hope whenever she entered his cell. The warden gestured to the corridor and waited, and Ricky marched to the door. He didn’t hold his head high. He didn’t so much as glance at the man as he passed by. There was still a chance, a good one, that this was all a deception.

  “Don’t count this as a victory, Mr. Desmond,” he hissed as Ricky passed. “You might be gone, but you are not forgotten. I’ve been inside your head. There’s no freedom in this. There is no escaping your own mind. Ah, there they are.”

  Ricky almost ran into the two people coming down the hall toward them. It was the tall, sandy-haired man that resembled the warden. His brother. He had a boy with him, younger than Ricky, and the boy had the same sandy hair, though his was curly and he had a frank, open face that fought the severe cheekbones that seemed to run in the family.

  “Good to see you again, nephew,” the warden was saying, kneeling to greet the young boy. “You’ve grown so tall since the last time I saw you, Daniel.”

  The boy glanced up at his father, the warden’s brother, and frowned, shying away from the doctor.

  “We have the same name, you see,” the warden added. “So we will be fast friends.”

  “Are you sure about this?” his brother was asking. Ricky drifted down the hall, catching a few last words before losing track of their conversation. A chill ran hard down his spine, and he didn’t know whether to run or dash back and warn that poor little kid.

  “He’ll be in good hands here,” the warden said with a light chuckle. “After all, he’s my blood.”

  Butch wasn’t there to collect him.

  His mother waited in the lobby, wringing her purse out like a sponge. She had worn the same sunflower dress again, the one she only put on for special occasions. On the long walk down the hall, Ricky had swept the place with his eyes, frantically searching for signs of Kay. He couldn’t leave without her. There was no future for him outside of Brookline unless she came, too.

  “Oh, my boy wonder!” She didn’t wait for him to get through the lobby door. This time when she hugged him it felt real, and good. Her tears dampened his face again and he held her back.

  “Have you been eating?” she implored, pulling back to search his face. “Rick, honey, you look so thin.”

  “Just a side effect of his medications,” Nurse Cruz, Nurse Kramer’s apparent replacement, interjected smoothly. She had been the one to complete Ricky’s final paperwork. “I will have Nurse Edmonds arrange the proper prescription for you.”

  “Yes,” his mother said, but she only glanced at Cruz. This nurse was much younger than Kramer, and softer spoken, with the kind of gentle demeanor Ricky could see the warden walking all over. “Yes, thank you. Thank you for all you’ve done, but it’s time my son came home.”

  “It is at your discretion, of course, Mrs. Kilpatrick, though I would advise against removing him from our care at this time.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way but I heard about the inspections on the news. It’s . . . It’s troubling to hear that kind of thing. I’d feel much better knowing Ricky was home with us. I’m sure you understand.”

  Nurse Cruz dipped her head, sighing. “Yes, well . . . I understand.”

  “The warden spoke so confidently about his improvement when we were last here, it really does seem like the right time to bring him back. This way he has time to prepare for the school year,” she replied steadily, though her voice wavered. Ricky kept quiet; he had no intention of telling her that he was done with school and done with her. He would be leaving, and soon, but first he needed her to get him out.

  “I’m sure he’s excited to be back in school. Rick has a bright future if he can just concentrate. We’re getting him an algebra tutor.”

  “That sounds good, Mom,” Ricky said convincingly. “But I can’t go, not without my friend.”

  She frowned, glancing between him and the nurse. “Your friend?”

  “She’s not sick, Mom, she doesn’t belong in here and neither do I.”

  The nurse made a soft, fake tsking sound in the back of her throat. “I’m afraid nobody but his parent or specified guardian can check him out of Brookline. Don’t worry, Mr. Waterston will be safe and sound with us.”

  Ricky fumed, his energy returning all at once as he whirled on the nurse. He calmed himself at the last second, remembering that he was supposed to look improved. All better. His voice dropped at the last second. “I’m coming back for her,” he whispered. “You had better keep her safe, because she’s getting out of here and I’ll be the one to do it.”

  “I’m sure,” Cruz said, calmly, staring through him.

  “We were leaving,” Ricky added, taking his mother by the arm and leading her toward the doors. “Please, Mom, can we just go now? I’ll explain this on the way back.”

  “All right, honey,” she said. Then she paused and turned, putting out her hand to shake the nurse’s, but she was gone. Flustered, his mom kept her eyes over her shoulder, trying to find her as Ricky pulled her through the lobby and out of Brookline.

  “Thanks for springing me,” he said, feeling the sunshine on his face for the first time in weeks. He breathed deep, feeling it hitch, saying a silent promise to Kay that he would return. “You heard about it on the news, huh? I’m glad. It wasn’t great in there, Mom. They didn’t treat us very well.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s . . . I know. I shouldn’t have let you go, but there was that night with you and Butch, and it just seemed like you were so out of control. I didn’t know if I could even help you anymore.”

  The birds were silent as they walked down the drive. A few college students picnicked in the open grassy area down the block from the hospital. He wondered if they had any inkling at all of what madness went on just next door.

  “It wasn’t just the news, sweetheart. It was something you kept saying,” his mother murmured, frowning. She was patting his wrist, walking arm in arm with him. They hadn’t done that in years. “That you were in good hands. I just kept thinking, that may be so, but you should be in my hands. I should be the one taking care of you.”

  “It’s okay,” he told her, feeling another surge of hope flood him as their family car came into view in the drive. “I mean, I’m glad, but I think I’ve learned to take care of myself. There’s a lot I need to tell you. About what happened in there, about me. About this special girl I met. About Dad. About where I’m going next.”

  New York, One Year Later

  He had walked through Central Park to get there. That wasn’t necessary, of course, but he had left his apartment early. Very early. He didn’t want to admit just how nervous he really was. What if she didn’t show? What if things had changed too much?

  The letter in his hand was wet with nervous sweat. It had been read and reread and folded and refolded until the words on it looked more like muddy hieroglyphics than English. That didn’t matter—he knew the whole thing by heart.

  The birds sang loudly overhead, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs thick on the air, almost like the park was a carnival and not a snippet of green relief in the midst of a sprawling city. Sometimes he missed Boston’s parks, but New York’s had their own funny charm. He whistled a little as he walked, trying to remember all the records he had to show her as soon as they got back to his tiny walk-up in Queens. There was a stack almost as tall as he was in the living room, the musical gems she had missed while still locked away.

  What would he start with? Three Dog Night? No, probably too predictable. Not the Archies, either
, that was too saccharine and mainstream. Johnny Cash would be the first record, he decided. You could never go wrong with Johnny.

  The pathway dumped him out onto Fifty-Ninth and he paused, jittery, unfurling the mangled letter like a treasure map and checking the directions for the sixteenth time that morning. A curl of fog wound through the grass behind him, the last cool breath of morning before the summer sun baked the park. He took a right and made it to the end of the block, then stopped, finding the little metal sign marking the bus stop. This was it. Now all he had to do was wait.

  He scrubbed at a stain on his sleeve and sighed. Most of his clothes were dirty or torn now, since every penny of his money went to rent and records. His mother would fuss if she ever saw him looking that ragged, but he didn’t think she would be seeing him for a long, long time.

  It was just a shirt. The grease mark on the wrist was like a battle wound—he had gotten that while bussing tables the night before at the only jazz club in the neighborhood that would hire him. If he was lucky, whoever played that night would let him help pack up their instruments and speakers at the end of the set. There was nothing like feeling part of something cool and good, even if for a moment.

  He looked up at the sky—even there, even with the whole city spread out in front of him—he still felt the warden encroaching every now and then. There would always be a few remnants left inside him, he knew; dangerous, stifling walls he would have to continue knocking down and flattening for the rest of his life.

  A sudden screech drew his attention from the airplane flying overhead. He smiled and shifted nervously, shoving the letter deep into his jeans pocket and shielding his eyes to watch as the bus came to a squealing stop, the front right tire rolling up slightly onto the curb.