Chapter Fifteen
~After~
I’ve been quiet today.
I’m feeling focused.
I’m in tune with everything.
The incessant chatter of the patients and staff members in the mess hall buzzes in my ears and I do the best I can to absorb tidbits of information that will help me with my mission. So far, I haven’t picked up on anything useful. The only thing I’ve heard is a bunch of gossip from patient to patient.
Sometimes this place is like a soap opera. I can understand why though. When you’re cooped up and quarantined from the world sometimes that’s all that you have. It’s at times like these that I miss Aurora the most. We weren’t like the other patients. We didn’t indulge in their stories about the other patients. We were branched off, set aside in our own little bubble and no one cared to pop it. And we were content with that.
I’m sitting at my usual table in the back left corner, waiting for the right moment to make my move. My eyes shift from the clock hanging at the back of the hall to the kitchen door. Then, I cast a glance in the orderlies’ direction. They’re clustered together in a group in the upper right corner of the room.
My eyes drop to my orange, plastic tray and I push around some macaroni and slop with my plastic Spork, wondering how in the hell I’ve survived on the shit they feed us here for so long. I call it slop because it doesn’t have the usual light orange color of regular macaroni and cheese. It’s darker. Almost a rustic color. Almost like the cook infused it with blood.
Dropping my spork, I put my hand over my breast and feel for the folded up paper Dixie cup concealing my weapon and pray to God that I didn’t smash it when I shoved the cup into my bra. I make sure, I don’t lower my gaze from the staff members. I know all too well that sometimes its like they have eyes in the back of their heads.
They’re trained watch dogs with brain-washed minds.
All it takes is the slightest movement.
The wrong actions or words and they know exactly when to strike.
The kitchen door swings open and the sound it scraping against the hardwood floor pulls me from my thoughts. I glance to my left and watch it swing back and forth for a second before pushing my tray away from me and turning my gaze back on the staff members. I realize that this is my chance so I pretend like I’m scratching my arm pit and remove the Dixie cup from my bra. Hunching over, I peek inside the cup. The spider has a small body, but long legs and I stare at it for a minute until I see one of the legs twitch. Then I breathe a sigh of relief. My plan would still work if the spider was dead, but I happen to think it will be more effective if the spider is living.
I sit up and eye my target. She sits directly in front of me at the end of a rectangular table. Her hair is cropped short and is an ash-blonde color. I’ve been watching her for the last week. Non-chalantly of course.
Grabbing my tray, I get up from my seat and head to the trash cans adjacent to me. Just before I get there, I slide to my left, pretend to the falls and spill the contents of my tray all over the floor. Pixie cut turns around. “Let me help you,” she says.
“Thank you so much,” I say. But really, I’m using this moment to my advantage. I feel bad about it because she’s being so kind in helping me, but sometimes a person has to put themself first. So when she leans down, I do a quick sweep around the mess hall with my eyes. No one is paying attention. Then, I squeeze open the Dixie cup in my palm and dump the spider in her hair. I thank her again for helping me and walk to the trash cans while the two kitchen workers come out with mops and buckets.
Then I wait for it…
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
The scream is loud, piercing and I swear for a second the walls are vibrating. I hear staff members shouting. Footsteps pounding. Pixie is out of her seat and frantically swatting at her head. Chairs scrape against the tile. My eyes drop to the floor and I can make out my little friend, crawling across the floor. I smile to myself then slip through the kitchen doors.
~ ~ ~
I wait.
Three days pass and on the night of the third day, I lie in bed and wait for the lights in the asylum to go out. Lights out at Oakhill used to terrify me, but not so much anymore. I remember a time when screams were lullabies, flickering lights were a warning, and the basement was the ultimate torture chamber.
Now…
Not so much.
The sound of heels clicking against the tiled floor throbs in my ears and I hope and wait and pray that orderlies on the night shift disappear from my corridor and move on the next because exhaustion over-takes me and I fall asleep.
There are four wings at Oakhill. The patients here are separated into four categories and depending how insane they actually are that’s how you get assigned to each wing. Four is the worst. It’s where all of the solitary confinement patients are put. I’ve been there quite a few times and let’s just say I’m happy that I’m now in corridor one, the mildest wing in crazy-ville. I don’t know any of the patients in my wing personally, but I do know the severity of their conditions ranges from hair-eating to conversations with themselves. It’s also a major convenience that I’m in corridor one because all of the doctor’s offices are the end of it.
When the sounds of the footsteps dies down, I wait another ten minutes before getting out of bed. With quick and nimble steps, I swipe the fork from the top on my dresser and tip-toe toward the door. Once I’m there, I stand on my toes and stare through the square window. The hall is deserted. Shadows of various shapes and sizes climb the walls. I take a deep breath, grip the door knob, and insert the fork into the lock.
I spent a good two days, using all the strength I could muster, to bend all of the prongs back but one. I jimmy the lock for a minute, maybe two, then almost gasp out in delight when I hear the lock click. Then I twist the knob with my ear against the door, wincing as the hinges creak when I pull it open the slightest bit.
A sliver of light seeps through the crack in my door and after my eyes adjust to the light, I peer out into the hall. Then I slip through the small opening and close the door behind me.
I start walking.
Slowly.
With small steps and a wary feeling taking up residency in the pit of my stomach.
I keep glancing over my shoulder just to make sure I’m in the clear. The staff members at Oak Hill have a way of sneaking up you when you least expect them to. And it’s not until I’m a few feet from Dr. Swell’s office door that I can hear the soft whistling carrying down the hall. Then I hear the echoing footsteps. In a moment of panic, I slide into an open doorway to my left and tuck myself into a ball.
Then I pray…
I mean really, really pray.
Ever since Dr. Morrow left the institution the punishments have been less cruel, but still. I don’t want to spend the next three weeks in solitary for sneaking out of my room after lights out. So I wait…
I stop breathing.
I make the least amount of noise as possible and tuck my head between my legs.
The footsteps are getting closer and closer until finally they’re right next to me. There’s a pregnant pause. I’m at the point where I feel like I can’t hold my breath any longer or I’m going to pass out. I peek up from between my legs just as the orderly on the night shift breezes past me. Then I let out the longest breath of my life, relieved that my lungs are still functioning properly after holding my breath for so long.
Seconds pass.
Then minutes.
I listen closely and when I hear no sound at all, I make my move. I’m on my feet in seconds, hurrying toward the door. I palm my fork, ready to pick the lock on the door. But then…I wrap my fingers around the knob and turn.
The door creaks open and I stare down at the fork in my hand.
I smile to myself and slip through the crack into the office.
And here I thought Dr. Swell was smart.
She’s not as smart
as she thinks she is because if she was, I’m sure she’d remember to lock her door.
It’s not like that was going to stop me anyway, but still. In a mental hospital, you never know when a crazy patient might get loose and try to get her hands on her medical file.
Chapter Sixteen
~Before~
Sanity is a funny word.
Sanity.
Sanity.
To be sane. To have clear thoughts. To be able to distinguish the difference from fantasy and reality.
I used to think that my sanity was still intact.
That all my marbles were still in the bag.
That I would never…
EVER…
Let Oakhill get the best of me.
Now, I’m not so sure. Now I’m not sure if I really am sane or insane.
I don’t understand how I ended up back at Oak Hill
I’m still trying to process everything. I’m still trying to figure out where I belong. And I’m still trying to figure out how I ended up back at Oak Hill a second time when I can barely remember being here the first.
I am not right…
In the head.
I am not right.
But I’ve learned to cope with the delusion.
I can’t keep the screams of the patients from piercing my ears, but I’ve learned to tune them out. I can’t put a stop to the sadistic torture that takes place here at Oakhill, but I’ve learned to be a helping hand.
I can’t bring the dead back to life, but I can learn how to cope with my grief.
All in all, this whole situation feels too strange to describe.
I feel like I’m here, but not here at the same time.
Dr.Watson has me by the elbow and he’s escorting me back to my room while I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything that just happened. I am married. Dr. Watson is my husband. I gave birth to his child. Our child. Lights flicker overhead dancing along the neutral toned walls and my eyes drop to the floor.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about all of this. About the revelation that was just unveiled to me. Part of me wonders if Dr. Watson is telling the truth. Then again, why would he lie about something like being married to me? And, if we are really married how could he send me here? How could he just toss me aside like waste and allow the staff here to treat me the way I’ve been treated? Did he have a choice? By following me here is that how he’s showing his love for me?
We come to a halt in front of the door to my cell and Dr. Watson releases the grip on my elbow. I can’t look at him. I can’t face the truth. I want to go back in time to where I was delusional.
Soft fingers brush against my cheek and blood floods my cheeks. My face is hot, on fire, all from a simple fleck of fingertips. That has to mean something, right? “I know everything that just happened is a lot to process,” Dr. Watson murmurs. “I know you’re probably confused.”
Confused is an understatement. I’ve never felt so torn in my entire life. It’s almost like I’m road kill and the ravenous crows are picking me apart piece by piece and feeding on my flesh. “Dr. Watson, I—”
He places two fingers against my lips. “Not tonight,” he says. “No more thinking tonight. You need to rest.” I lift my head and lock eyes with him, meeting his heated gaze. “I’ll come for you in the morning.”
“But what about Dr.Morrow?” If the man had a grudge against me before that grudge has twisted and morphed into something close to full blown hatred.
“Don’t worry about Dr. Morrow,” he reassures me. “You will never have to deal with him ever again.”
“Thank you.”
He nods then turns to walk away. “Goodnight Adelaide.” He stops and looks over his shoulder. “I love you.”
I open the door to my room and offer him a sad smile. It crushes my heart to hear him say those three words. Such beautiful, haunting, and moving words. I can’t say them back and that makes me feel even worse. Those words are sacred and I know that there’s no way I can say them to a man I don’t even know.
Chapter Seventeen
~Before~
28 days.
I’ve heard it takes 28 days to break a habit.
28 days to start fresh.
Start anew.
It takes 28 days to transform a person.
But I must be different—no—I am different. Because it’s been 28 days since I’ve learned Dr. Watson, I mean Elijah is my husband. It’s been 28 days since he started treating me, trying to jog my memory. And it’s been 28 days of hopeless sessions, frustrated growls, and weary sighs. My memories are ivory eggs that cannot be cracked.
Or at least this is all what I’ve been led to believe or what I’ve been told.
I’ve started to notice something about Oakhill, too. I’ve started to notice that it bleeds people dry, but not of blood, of hope.
When you first are brought here, you have this will about you. I had it when I first arrived. I convinced myself that I wasn’t crazy. I told myself that I would find a way out. That’d I’d escape. Those thoughts are long gone now. I know with certainty that I won’t get out of here twice, so I’ve accepted my fate and that’s that.
I sit in the rec with Aurora while she colors. She’s humming some show tune, but I’m used to her humming. It’s almost soothing now, comforting. Her singing, now that’s a different story. Merilee Winters stands at the large glass plated window and stares out into the courtyard. It’s winter. There’s no sign of life. Everything’s dead. Including most of the patients living here.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Merilee chants along with the hands of the clock hanging on the wall. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
“Merilee’s acting particularly nutty today,” I mention to Aurora.
Without lifting her eyes from the coloring book Aurora answers, “Yeah. Electroshock.”
My eyes drop to her petite, dainty fingers as they scribble various colors across the pages. “When?” I gasp.
“Yesterday. I saw them haul her away.”
Maybe I’ve been here so long that I’ve managed to tune out the flickering lights and vibrating walls. And all the screams from the patients blend together anymore. It’s like the score for a motion picture. “Why?”
Aurora shrugs. “She smuggled a fork from the cafeteria. Put it in her underwear. Then during morning meds tried to stab Marjorie with it.”
“But, why?” Merilee is definitely crazy, but she’s never been dangerous.
“I think they’ve fried her brain, one too many times.” The certainty in her tiny voice startles me.
Chills me to the bone.
I start to shiver and then pump warmth back into my arms.
“You’ll never have to worry about that though,” Aurora gazes up at me through her lashes, a flicker of disdain in her chocolate eyes.
I glare at her and drop my hands to my sides. “Why do you say that?”
Aurora sets down a black crayon, tilts her head to the side, and narrows her eyes into slits. Then her eyes drift toward the open doorway. “Because you have your own personal knight in shining armor.”
Turning slowly I cast a glance at the doorway to see Elijah propped up against the frame. The muscles in his biceps bulge as he crosses his arms and nods at me.
~ ~ ~
The metronome needle sways back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
A gentle ticking cuts into the quiet and I swear I can feel the slow beat from the medical instrument throbbing in my temples.
Dr. Watson, I mean Elijah sits across from me with a penetrating gaze and his hands folded on top of his desk. “Open your mind, Adelaide.” His voice is gentle yet firm.
But what he doesn’t understand is that I’m trying, but I can’t.
Sometimes I wonder if he fully understands how bad I want to remember, but it’s like my mind won’t let me.
It feels like a shield made of iron and no mental weapon can stab through it.
I feel like this is my new mantra; Open your mind, Adelaide, being that every time I have a session with him it’s what he says juts before I allow the gentle lull of the metronome to pull me under. I have to admire his tenacity. His determination and will to make me remember, but I always feel like I’ve let him down when my session is over and he’s left with nothing but a void of a wife who still has no recollection of her time with him or her life with him at all for that matter.
A violent scream bleeds through the walls of the office and stunts my descent into the land of picking through my memories trying to put the puzzle back together that is my life.
I shiver at the sound of the agony in that scream. I picture Marjorie restraining a patient. I picture the malicious smile on Dr. Morrow’s lips. Pulling my knees to my chest, I rest my head in between my knees. “Please doctor, I mean Elijah,” I cover my ears with my hands, “please make them stop.”
Elijah is up from his seat in a flash, dashing toward his office door. He closes the door. I hear the lock click. Then he’s at my side. He places his hand on my shoulder, and the warmth from his touch seeps through the flimsy material of my hospital gown and eases my shivering. I peak up at him through my lashes as he tucks my hair behind my ear. “Better?”
Beautiful Nightmares (The Asylum Trilogy) Page 7