Asleep

by Krystal Wade

  “So, you’re saying you appreciate Chicago?”

  “Of course.”

  Nodding, he wrote down her response. “Would you have friends in the city, anyone you know from the area?”

  Rose clutched the arms of the chair, squeezing. Her mother must have informed the doctor of Josh’s plans to move back to Chicago with his dad after finishing high school. And of course she’d think that the reason for Rose wanting to attend school in a city so far away from home, or any other city at all, instead of staying and going somewhere locally.

  The clock tick-tocked for several minutes as Rose tried to get control of her anger, all while Dr. Underwood switched between staring at her, writing things, staring at her. Eventually he picked up the little purple stone from the edge of his desk and rubbed it between his thumb and index finger, leaning back in his chair.

  He’d wait her out.

  That was his job.

  But Rose was done talking to him. It was all a trick anyway, just her mother’s way to control her, to control this situation.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  She watched him spin that stone, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on it, and not once did he look at her. Rose got up to leave.

  “Excuse me,” Dr. Underwood said, his voice curt and void of the pleasantness from earlier. “But you do not get out of that chair until I dismiss you. Do you understand?”

  Rose nodded.

  “No. Words, please, Rose.” He pressed both hands to his desk, the stone repositioned in its place along the edge. “Gestures don’t work around here.”

  “I—I understand.” She returned to her seat. “I’m sorry. I thought we were done. You weren’t speaking . . . .”

  “We were not.” After a few sighs and more writing, Dr. Underwood met her eyes again, the hostility gone, the friendliness back. “We’ll get back to that line of questioning later. It obviously bothers you quite a bit.”

  Rose nodded.

  “Words, Rose. Number one rule around here, especially for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” he pressed, not letting her get away with anything.

  “Yes, that bothered me quite a bit.”

  “Good.” Dr. Underwood’s eyes widened as he reclined in his chair and smiled, like he hadn’t expected her to relent so easily, like he was impressed. “I like asking the hard questions. It’s why they pay me the big bucks. You wouldn’t, by chance, want to tell me why that bothered you so much, would you?”

  A broad, radiant smile reached up to his eyes, and she knew he was kidding. But she also knew Dr. Underwood was telling her something with this today: He could be nice, friendly, warm, and chatty, but he was her doctor, and as such in a position of power over her, and she would do as told or face the consequences.

  Rose didn’t want to find out what the consequences were.

  Not at all.

  “Not today.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Dr. Underwood closed her chart and leaned back again, farther. One inch away from propping his feet on the desk and his hands behind his head. “I have two last questions for you this morning, and after you’ve answered them, you may go. Oh, but first your daily tip: I believe Nurse Judy would appreciate it if you got some exercise time since you missed it earlier, if you know what I mean. That nurse takes her job seriously.” He winked. “Now for my questions. I’ve seen some of your artwork. It’s quite incredible if you ask me. But what I want to know is do you consider yourself an artist?”

  Every time someone asked Rose this question her stomach did summersaults, nerves and nausea and whatever else taking over. Her whole being wanted to be an artist, but most days she only felt like an imposter, drawing half images that she’d end up throwing away or setting aside to pick up later even though she’d never pick them back up. But her father once told her to claim the title because she’d earned it. Every artist had bad days, months, years; every artist had pieces the world wouldn’t see whether they were already drawn or still cooking in the imagination.

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me then, Rose, why is it you haven’t drawn anything in over a year?”

  Rose gripped the edge of the chair again, her throat closing tight, but she knew she had to answer if she wanted to leave this room, so she kept squeezing that chair and forced the words out of her closed throat. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  5

  After the uncomfortable meeting with Dr. Underwood, an orderly came by to collect Rose. The same orderly who’d blocked her exit and allowed Thomas and Martin to inject sedatives in her arm yesterday. He led her down the stairs and toward the double front doors he usually guarded, keeping quiet most of the time, minus the loud breathing streaming through his nose and the keys jangling at his hip. The man was huge, all muscles and brawn and bulk and a close-cropped haircut. He filled his role as Defender of the Door to a T. But he smiled all the time, a nice, genuine smile, and his eyes were earnest and kind.

  A walking contradiction.

  He pointed down the dark exterior stairwell and said, “Your parents paid for some exercise equipment. If you’d like to use it, it’s down there in Room 5.”

  Rose stood there, dumfounded, not wanting anything to do with her parents or their equipment and unsure of how to refuse. “And if I wouldn’t like?”

  The guard hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “You could join everyone else outside.”

  “I’ll take option two, then. Thanks.” Rose reached for the door, but the orderly blocked her with his arm.

  “My job is already hard enough, and you seem like a nice girl. Can I trust you not to run?” He held Rose’s gaze, like he wanted to beg her with those tired gray eyes, like he wanted her to trust him and like him and honestly not make his job any harder.

  She wouldn’t run. Not today. Today she would survey the grounds, find its faults, its weaknesses. Running would be for another time. “You can.”

  “Then have a nice afternoon.” He pressed the metal bar on the door and held it open for Rose. “Keep in mind the fence wraps all the way around the grounds. Have fun.”

  “Got it.” One less thing she’d have to investigate.

  The instant Rose stepped beyond the doors, a weight lifted off her chest, one that had prevented her from breathing deeply for the last twenty-four hours. She sucked in all the crisp October air she could, picking apart the fall scents trapped within. Pine and earth and wet leaves. The sun hung near the horizon, painting the sky with bright orange rays. They glistened off the trees, made everything brighter, full of life. If she focused on nature, she could pretend the institute wasn’t looming behind her, ready to suck her in and never let go, but pretending could only go on so long. She knew she was trapped.

  The feeling filled her up, threatened to sweep her away, and Rose’s fingers itched to release all that emotion into art. They itched for the feel of canvas, for the scratching of charcoals across a blank slate. Nothing would come of her attempt, just like nothing had come of the attempt before that, or the one before that.

  Rose had to get back inside. She had to get away from all the glaring reminders that she hadn’t drawn anything in a year. A year. What art school would accept a student who could no longer create?

  She pulled on the handle, but the orderly stood there with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What’s the hurry? Your time isn’t up yet.”

  “Oh, come on!” Rose stomped her foot, wishing someone, anyone, around here would just allow her to decide something for herself. “I don’t want to be out here.”

  He shook his head at her. “You made your choice. Now you have to live with it.”

  The orderly backed inside, closed the door, and left Rose standing there alone, her shoulders slumped, powerless.

  “It’s better out here.”

  Rose jumped at the sound of MacGregor’s quiet voice, but when she spun around to respond, he was already stalking off to
the far edge of the yard. He took a seat on the ground near the thick black gate. Definitely not one of the institute’s weaknesses. The massive barrier stood at least ten feet tall and sat atop two feet of red brick foundation.

  She weighed her options, which amounted to zero, and decided to risk sitting next to him. The grass was thick and cold and somehow the most normal thing she’d experienced in the last day. Crossing her legs, Rose leaned forward, resting all her weight on her elbows.

  MacGregor made eye contact with her, solid, lasting more than a few fleeting seconds. He was intense in a way she’d never seen in someone her age, quiet and thoughtful, as if he planned out everything before he said it. A breeze blew his hair into his eyes, and he swiped it away before saying, “Good choice.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, amazed she still had his attention.

  MacGregor picked a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers, his gaze still on Rose. “Inside, you’re monitored from every angle, every room. Outside, they leave you alone.”

  “Yeah, that’s kind of their job, isn’t it, MacGregor?” Add paranoia to his list of odd traits. She sat up straighter, wondering if this risk was worth it. Rose should be walking the perimeter, looking for gaps in the fencing, in the thick concrete and brick foundation beneath the metal slats or a tree low enough for her to climb over. Not sitting down, not participating.

  He dropped the grass and fell silent for a while, mindlessly rubbing the large bruise on his neck. “You can call me Greg.”

  The entry gates had a security house located just outside the fence. She’d never make it out that way. However, the ends of the building weren’t guarded. Rose wondered about the back, whether now would be a good time to get up and investigate.

  “Hear me?”

  “Huh?” Rose muttered, remembering she had company.

  “My name. You can just call me Greg.”

  “Oh.” MacGregor was an odd name, not something she’d ever heard before. “Is that a nickname or something?”

  The corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile. “Greg . . . kind of hanging there in the middle of MacGregor.”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “I meant MacGregor. I’ve never heard it before.”

  Tension froze his shoulders and hands. He stopped rubbing at his bruise. He stopped looking at her, his gaze cast to the side, out into the distance where there was nothing but trees, hills, and rocks. “Last name.”

  She never understood why people opted to be called by their last names. Parents spent hours and hours, likely days, weeks, and months, coming up with baby names. And then the child just up and decided one day that the name they chose was pointless. Bet those parents wished they’d just left the first name space on the birth certificate blank. “So what’s your actual name?”

  He returned his gaze to her, the tension from his shoulders falling, making him look vulnerable and maybe a little frightened. “Phillip—”

  “Phillip. I like that. Much better than Greg or MacGregor. Would you mind if I call you that instead? I’m sure your parents would appreciate it.”

  “Don’t.” The word came out of his mouth more like a growl.

  “O-kay.” Rose couldn’t look at him anymore, couldn’t think about him or his names and his rocking and weirdness. It hurt too much, to think people might see her that way, or she might become like him.

  They sat there in silence for quite a long time, the sun trekking lower in the sky. The rays became a vibrant pink and illuminated the mountains with gold. An hour might have passed while Rose took in her surroundings, maybe two, and her fingers and toes were freezing. She definitely hadn’t exercised, but she liked having the time, even if she weren’t alone—which would have been preferable to Phillip/Greg/MacGregor’s company.

  Rose got up to leave, figuring a walk around the fence would warm her up, at least get the prickly cold out of her extremities and give her an idea of how large the grounds were, when Phillip got up with her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, wiping grass from her pants.

  “Did they do this to your arm? Do you have more bruises?” Too-many-names guy grabbed her bandaged right arm and looked it up and down, then the left. He swiped at her hair to look at her neck, but Rose swatted his hand away.

  “Stop touching me.” Being alone definitely would have been preferable to this. “I don’t have any bruises, okay? And I did this to myself.”

  A fantastic, glorious, life-saving whistle blew across the yard. The patients sprinkled across the grass got to their feet and started making their way to the door. The whistle must have indicated the end of exercise time.

  “See you later.” As Rose ran inside, she glanced up and spotted Dr. Underwood standing at his window, leaning on his palms and taking in his captives. She entered the building and headed to dinner, thankful Phillip/Greg/MacGregor didn’t sit at the same table. After, she skipped anything else Dr. Underwood and Nurse Judy might have had planned for the evening and went straight to Hall A. Exhaustion had made its way into every muscle, especially the muscles of Rose’s right arm, and she escaped into her room to inspect her injuries.

  Each time another layer of the gauze unraveled, her arm protested a little, telling her not to loosen any more. But she kept going, unwinding and unwinding until she had a large pile in her lap. The skin around her elbow was purple and black, an indication of how hard she’d hit the ground. Rose hardly ever bruised, and when she did, the marks normally disappeared just as quickly as they appeared. She also had a large, open wound right on the bone. She needed ointment and more gauze.

  “Pretty bad, isn’t it?” Nurse Judy asked, holding out medical supplies like she’d read Rose’s mind . . . or had been watching her from somewhere else, like Phillip/Greg/MacGregor had said.

  That thought made Rose squirm on the edge of the bed.

  Judy set the supplies down on the rolling table and then pointed toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you go wash up so we can dress this properly?”

  Rose gathered the soiled things and carried them off to the trash in her private bathroom, wondering how many patients actually had a private space like hers. Phillip—yes, she’d call him that in her head and Greg to his face—most likely, since his room was located right across the hall. But how many others? And why? Dr. Underwood said her parents’ money hadn’t bought Rose anything.

  She pondered these things as she rinsed the day’s worth of grime off, brushed her teeth, and got dressed. A few minutes later, Nurse Judy returned, ready to take charge of her patient. She swabbed the skin with burning alcohol, dabbed it with a clear ointment, and then dressed it with gauze with the care and tenderness of a mother for her small child, even taking time to blow away the sting of the chemicals.

  “There.” Nurse Judy smiled and crumpled the wrappers into a ball. “All better.”

  Stretching out her elbow, now sporting a much smaller bandage, Rose inwardly grinned at how much better it felt. “Your daughters are very lucky.”

  “Tell them that for me, would you?” The nurse tossed the scraps in the wastebasket in Rose’s bathroom and collected her soiled clothes from the hamper. “They only ever seem to think I’m out to get them.”

  Rose thought of her own mother, how she really was out to get her, and held back a sob.

  Nurse Judy must have sensed Rose’s sudden shift in mood and touched her cheek. “Thinking of your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “She must love you very much. Letting go and asking for help is difficult.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me!” Rose shouted, hating herself for yelling at her kind nurse. Rose couldn’t look the woman in the eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t be the first patient to yell at me, and coincidentally you’re not the first patient to be in denial.” Judy swung the rolling table closer to Rose and indicated the medicine cups. “Hopefully tonight treats you a bit better than last night, dear.”

  �
�I hope so too.” Rose swallowed the pills and tucked her legs beneath the sheets.

  “Good night.”

  A solid heaviness overtook Rose the instant the nurse switched off the lights and closed the door. Rose knew she’d succumb to sleep within minutes. Her vision was already so blurry there was no point in keeping her eyes open.

  Someone tapped on the glass, and it took every bit of strength and willpower she had to open her eyes. Phillip stood on the other side of the door, mouthing something.

  “What is it?” Rose strained her head toward him, too weak to get up, trying to make out what he was saying. “Just come in.”

  The handle turned, and the metal hinges squeaked as they opened.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her eyes closed once more.

  “You shouldn’t fall asleep here.” His tone was one of warning, of concern, but how could she not fall asleep? Everyone had to sleep. You’d die if you didn’t. Or at least that’s what Rose had once heard in grade school.

  “Lights out,” the speaker overhead announced, and seconds later, a loud clank sounded just before everything in the hall went dark.

  “Fat chance,” Rose muttered as Phillip closed the door. She curled into a ball but found her eyes were no longer too heavy to keep open. She lay there in the dark, still room, Phillip’s warning on repeat in her head, and tried not to stare at the single water stain on her ceiling. But her eyes kept drifting back to it, and just like the previous night, the stain began spinning and morphing into the shape of a face. Dr. Underwood’s face, with his long, witch-like nose, high, delicate cheekbones, and near chin-length brown hair. “Not real.”

  The stain grinned at her like a maniac, revealing a mouth full of straight teeth, a dangerous, uncharacteristic gleam in his eyes. Rose squeezed her eyes closed and then reopened them. The fluorescents blinked on and off and buzzed like a fly trapped against a window.