I clear my throat and find my voice. “I don't want any more drugs.”
The man beside moves across the room and picks up a chart from the wall. He scans it briefly then focuses his attention on me. “They aren't drugs.” He hangs the chart up on the wall and walks back over to me. “They’re fluids. Potassium. Saline. When you came in you were severely dehydrated and malnourished.” He produces a stethoscope from his right pocket. “You were bleeding internally. We didn’t think he you were going to make it.” He dips the end of the stethoscope beneath my gown, but doesn’t touch my skin with it. “This is going to be a little cold.” He puts the two prongs in his ears and places the flat part beneath my skin. I twitch when I feel the icy metal on my chest. Something about this man’s actions seem mechanical. Like he’s so used to checking heartbeats he could do it in his sleep.
While he's listening to my heartbeat, I avert my attention to a wide rectangular window, watching as nurses pass in their uniforms. White dresses. White caps. I even see a few more men wearing lab coats. “I'm in a hospital.” Like a normal hospital with people who are actually here to help me.
“You are,” says the man at my side. “Do you know why?” He removes the end of the stethoscope from my chest and tucks it back into his pocket.
I know he's staring at me. I can feel his eyes touching me in various places. Arms. Cheeks. Lips. My gaze locks with his and breath escapes me. My heart hammers and I can feel it in my throat. My angel is so handsome—no—more than handsome. My angel is ravishing. “Yes and no.” I drop my gaze and play with the edge of the sheet I'm covered with. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes,” he says shortly.
I think about my childhood and how I always hated going to the doctor. Mostly because I hated getting shots, but as I observe the man next to me I have a funny thought. Perhaps I wouldn't have minded going to the doctor so much if my doctor looked like this one.
“Are you my doctor?” I press on.
A hint of a smile curls on his full lips. “Yes and no.” He takes my wrist and presses two fingers into it, feeling for a pulse.
I purse my lips wondering for a moment if he might be mocking me. The smile fades from his lips and it instantly changes his whole look. His face has taken on this hard edge and I'm amazed that a simple half-smile could add so much to it. Don't get me wrong; even with the hard edge this man's attractiveness cannot be hidden. In fact, all I can do is stare at his face. His long lashes are dark and thick curling up toward his eyebrows. His hair is the color of golden wheat and is parted on the side, every strand of it held in place perfectly by some kind of salve. And his amber eyes have flecks of gold around his irises.
“I was working the ER when they brought you in. Technically, I’m not really your doctor, but since I was the first one to examine you,” his eyes dead-lock with mine, “let’s just say I’m personally invested in the outcome of your recovery.”
“Oh.” My gaze doesn’t falter. In fact, there’s a voice somewhere telling me, I swear I could stare into those eyes for eternity.
He clears his throat like he feels uncomfortable under my scrutiny of him and walks across the room, picking up another chart. He's got broad shoulders and there's muscle definition in his bicep that I can make out through the thin fabric of his lab coat. “Jane Doe,” he says curtly.
I lift an eyebrow. “Jane Doe,” I repeat. “Who is she?”
He laughs and I notice the dimples in his cheeks and how every part of him is illuminated. He's like the sun shining brightly on a hot day. His teeth are straight, white, and glowing against his light skin. Still, the smile and laughter doesn't touch his radiant eyes and I wonder what it is about this doctor that makes him seem, hidden. Guarded. “She's you,” he informs me.
“But that's not my name,” I tell him.
“Well, when you were brought in, you were unconscious. You had no identification. We had no way of figuring out who you were. Now that you're awake, you can tell me.”
I squint as I make out a name tag on his lab coat. It's silver, shiny and when the lighting hits it, it flashes and I can make out his name. Dr. Elijah Watson. He stares at me for a second and his heavy gaze on me makes me nervous. Heat rises to my cheeks and a flutter bounces in my stomach. I'm nervous because I'm terrified of telling this doctor my real name. I don't know him enough to trust him.
What if...
What if he discovers where I came from? What if he tries to contact them? What if they come for me?
I can't risk it.
I can't.
I don't want to go back there.
Ever.
Oakhill is like a leech, so decrepit with hunger that it fastens to you and bleeds you dry. It slowly sucks the life out of you. Every day another piece of you is bled out until you don't even know who you are anymore. I think of the patients who have been there a while. Aurora. Suzette. Aurora has been there two years and she still seems to be party herself, but Suzette? No. she's been long gone for a while.
“Well?” Dr. Watson's voice cuts into my sordid thoughts. “A name please?”
If I could change my name to anything what or who would I want to be?
Dr. Watson pulls a pen from his pocket and walks around the right side of my bed. He places the ball of the pen against the paper and looks at me with urgency. I open my mouth to give the name on the tip of my tongue—which is Mallory—but I don't get the name out.
I don't get my new name out because my attention shifts the window and I notice two police officers flashing a nurse with red hair my picture. Where did they get that? Or how did they get it? Dread seeps in through my pores and fear drags me down into a pool of terror to drown. Dr. Watson notices the panicked look on my face and follows my gaze to the window. He narrows his eyes for a moment then takes a small step away from me.
In an act of desperation I grab his hand. He tenses at my touch and his eyes drop to our linked fingers. He begins to pull away from me and I tighten my grip, tears welling in my eyes. His lovely eyes return to my face and regard me coolly. Sternly. With a lot of intensity. “Please,” I whisper, struggling to contain the emotion vibrating in my throat. “Please don't let them take me back there.” I realize that I'm begging and that I don't know this man. I don't know this man and I don't know what I expect from him, but the only thing I tell myself is that I have to do something. I have to try something. Anything. I can't just lie here and give up without trying something. If I don't try, I might as well just turn myself over to Dr. Morrow and let him fry my brain until I can't remember my name. “Please, Dr. Watson. Don't.”
His eyes burn into mine and for a second I have hope.
Maybe he'll help me.
He yanks his hand from mine and all of the hope inside of me scurries away, like a terrified child into their parents’ arms. My heart falls from its cavity into the pit of my stomach and I choke on a gasp stuck in my throat.
Dr. Watson walks to my door, lowers the blinds on the window, cutting off my view of the police officers. Then he gives me one, last cold look over his shoulder and exits my room, closing the door behind him.
I sink down into my sheets and sob softly into my pillow. I don't know why I thought he would help me and now, not only am I frightened, but I'm embarrassed as well. Mentally, I curse at myself for being so foolish to think that begging would work on a man like, Dr. Watson. Just from his mannerisms I can tell he has ice in his veins. There's no feeling there.
No warmth.
He must be dark and empty inside.
I think of a saying Mommy used to preach often; Beauty is only skin deep.
That couldn't be more true about the man I just met. He is beautiful on the outside, with his flawless fair complexion, dimples, radiant unusual eyes that drizzle like warm honey, and glowing white teeth. But on the inside, I now know that he's something else entirely. I decide to put my own words into the phrase Mommy used to mention.
Beauty is only skin deep but evil cuts straight through the soul.
Chapter Twelve
~Before~
The patients here get free time every day.
I enjoy my free time.
I spent years and years and years being told what to do or where to go or how to act, so being able to have a tiny bit of freedom is a blessing. The downside is you only get it if you're on good behavior. My nightmares make me a troublemaker to the staff, so my free time is limited. But when I do get it, I relish it and am determined not to waste a second of it.
I take a seat in front of the wide, rectangular window and gaze out into a sea of green. The way they landscape the lawn of the institution reminds me of a palace courtyard and I wish they'd let us outside to roll around in the lush green grass.
Then my attention shifts to the charred remains of what used to be the men’s' facility. A few months before my arrival one of female patients here, somehow managed to sneak over there and coat the wooden floors with kerosene before setting it on fire. Needless to say, I overheard some of the patients talking, and no one ever saw that patient ever again.
There was a rumor going around that the female patient had fallen for one of the male patients over there and became more psycho than she already was when she discovered that he was having an affair with one of the other female patients.
The blackened, pointy hunks of wood remind me of the way I feel inside, damaged.
Destroyed.
Scarred for life.
Sometimes I wonder if I'll always feel this way or if eventually I'll be able to say that I lived and loved and it was magnificent and at the same time tragic, but it was my past. Sometimes I wonder if that image of Damien smiling at me just before his knees hit my bedroom floor will ever fade. It's remembering his last moment that always kills me. It's seeing that smile in my mind that always sends me over the edge. And it always comes to me at the most inopportune moments.
It's like just when I think I'm going to be okay, that beautiful, haunting smile hits me. Just when I think I'm whole again. I see that loving look in his eye, telling me that to him, my life meant more than his. It's at that moment that I crumble all over again. I crumble like the men’s' facility after spending hours engulfed in flames. I am nothing but ash and soot.
My emotions overwhelm me and tears pool in my eyes. I blink them away and I swear that for a moment, I swear I can see a set of sapphire eyes staring at me from behind. Even in the reflection of the window they're vibrant and now my tears have morphed into sobs and I do the best I can to hold them back.
As I continue gazing out the window, I feel something whack me in the back of the head. I dry my eyes quickly, not wanting to expose my private moment of grief and then I touch my occipital bone. My eyes drop to the floor as a red crayon rolls across the tile. I scowl over my shoulder at Aurora. Her big brown eyes are wide with amusement and she throws her hand over her mouth, laughing. I sigh with frustration and pick up the crayon. I walk over to her and drop it on the table. “Did you lose something?”
She gasps in mock surprise and answers me in a faux southern accent. “I certainly did, ma'am. Thank you kindly for returning it.” Her smile is sickeningly sweet. She fists her left hand and holds it out in front of her. “Here, let me give you a reward.” She rolls her wrist, turning her hand palm up and flashes me an obscene gesture.
I clench my jaw, shake my head, and plop down in the chair next to her. “You're nuts, you know that?”
She laughs. “So you are you.” She sweeps her hand across the front of her like one of the pretty game show hostesses on “let's make a deal.” “Hence, why we're here among the nut jobs.”
“I don't embrace it like you do.”
She scoffs, “I do not embrace it.”
I roll my eyes. “You're in denial. You know, Dr. Morrow tells me that overcoming denial is one of the first steps to aiding in recovery.”
Aurora bends over and picks up a blue crayon. Her vibrant red curls bob up and down as she draws blue raindrops on a blank piece of paper. “Dr. Morrow is an idiot.” She starts coloring hard and the tip of her crayon snaps off. “I don't really think I'm crazy and neither are you.”
“Sometimes, I think otherwise.” I shudder and wrap my arms around my chest. I think of the way I act at night when my dreams take over my mind and I swear I can feel my dead boyfriend lying in bed next to me. “I hallucinate a lot. That's not normal.”
“It's not crazy either,” Aurora points out. She stares at me, her eyes narrowed. “Do you ever think you might not hallucinate if you stopped taking your meds?”
“What?” I gasp. “I can't do that. Marjorie watches me to make sure I take them.” Plus if I don't take them, they stuff me into a straightjacket like sausage being stuffed into a skin casing.
Aurora shifts in her seat and picks up a red crayon. “She watches me too. I still manage to not take them.” She lowers the red crayon to the paper and draws little hearts in between the raindrops. “Do you know hallucinations are a side effect?”
My mouth falls open. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you not been taking your meds?”
She shrugs still focused on the paper. “A few months, maybe. You should try it sometime. I feel like a new person now that I'm not on them.”
A loud commotion in the corner of the room interrupts our conversation and our heads snap in the right direction at the same time, Suzette slaps a cup of her meds out of an orderlies' hand. “No!” she screams. Then she pulls her knees to her chest and starts bouncing on the sofa. Her voice drops down a level and she chants, “I don't want them from you. I don't want them from you. I don't want them from you.”
Aurora is up from her seat before I can stop her and she's already making her way over to Suzette. I jump up too. “Aurora, don't!” I call after her. When a patient loses their last marble it makes me nervous. I’ve seen some of the other patients get hurt during one of these fits. The last thing I want to see Aurora hurt.
Her head snaps back to me and she shakes her head. “Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing.” This is a quality that I love most about Aurora. I've spent the last few weeks studying her and I've come to the conclusion that her snappy, yet at times hard demeanor is just a front. It's a front to hide the fact that she's vulnerable. Also caring. To me vulnerability is beautiful. It is beautiful because it means you're human. You have feelings.
Aurora doesn't make it to Suzette in time.
She's only a few steps away when the orderly puts his hand on Suzette's shoulder.
After that everything falls apart and chaos ensues.
Aurora mutters, “Shit.”
Suzette lets out the loudest, piercing scream I've ever heard, followed by, “Don't touch me! Don't touch me!” Then she bites down on the orderlies' arm before scampering to the opposite side of the room. She huddles in the corner, trembling in fear.
The orderly clutches his arm, grits his teeth, and forces out, “Fuck.” Then he dashes from the room.
Aurora is at Suzette's side, whispering comforting words into her ear, sweeping her up into her arms. All of the patients in the rooms eyes are focused on Suzette, mine included.
This is the first time I've ever seen her have an outburst like that. I'm not sure what triggered it, but I am sure that Aurora knows because of the way she's cradling, Suzette in her lap, smoothing back her hair, and trying to comfort her the way a mother would comfort a child. Seeing this reminds me of my own mother and the way she'd kiss my knee when I'd skinned it.
It's too heart-wrenching to think about.
So I look away.
Several members of the staff invade the room. I don't know who exactly because I can't bring myself to look in that direction, but I can hear the squeaking from the soles of their shoes as it rubs against the tile floor.
“Stop!” I hear Aurora shouting. “It's not her fault! She has issues with men!” Then I hear a lot of grunting, followed by Suzette sobbing, and I assume the staff members are trying
to pry Aurora away from Suzette. “God damn it!” Aurora again. “Don't you morons read our files?” There's a loud bang. Now Suzette is screaming. I finally muster up the courage to look in their direction. Aurora is slumped against the wall, wincing as she touches the back of her head. Suzette is being dragged from the room by two nurses and she's reaching for Aurora, a glimmer of fear present in her hazel eyes. “Rory!” she cries, her fingers clawing at the air in a desperate attempt to get Aurora's attention.
Part of me feels useless and awful, sitting here and watching everything, but I honestly don't know what I could have done to help.
Getting up from my seat, I walk over to Aurora and extend a hand to her. She slaps it away with a scowl. “Thanks for all of your help.”
I remain in my spot, my hand still directed toward her. “I didn't know what I could have done.”
With a shake of her head and a grunt, Aurora takes my hand, grips tightly and I help her to her feet. Her balance is unsteady, but she uses her free hand to steady herself against the wall. “Something, Addy. You could have attempted to do something,” she mumbles.
I follow her back over to our table and Aurora hisses, rubbing the back of her head. “Damn that was painful.” She widens her eyes and blinks. “I'm still seeing white spots.”
“What happened, exactly?” I inquire. I don't bother telling her that I couldn't look.
“Marjorie.”
“Oh.” I look down at my hands. I, as well as every other patient at Oakhill knows exactly how forceful Marjorie can be and that she knows exactly how much pain to inflict to get her point across. “I'm sorry.”
Aurora shrugs. “Eh. It's just a bump on the head. I'll go to the infirmary in a little bit and get an ice pack for it.” That still doesn't really explain what happened, but I take it as that's as good of an answer as I'm going to get.
My attention shifts and I stare out into the empty hall. Even though it's deserted now, I swear I can still hear Suzette's high-pitched squeals. I swear I can still smell antiseptic wafting through the air like they were going to rub Suzette down with cotton before stabbing her with a needle. “Where do you think they took her?”
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