Asleep

by Krystal Wade

  She fell to her knees in front of the crumbling stone and grabbed a handful of debris, clearing the hole so that they could make it through. “Come on.”

  They entered side by side, army crawling through spider webs and roaches and whatever other creatures lived under this. But nothing was as bad as what they escaped from. Nothing. Each forward progress caused them to grunt, to inhale the air full of rot.

  “No!” Phillip shouted. He flung both his hands in front of him and dug his nails into the earth, seeking purchase and leaving trails behind as he was being pulled backward. “No. No. No.”

  “Fight!” A meaty pair of hands dug into Rose’s calves and yanked her back through the hole. Rather than lying on her back and staring up at the forest of trees, she jumped to her feet and edged away from Martin. But someone caught her from behind and tucked her arms behind her back.

  “Get your hands off her!” Phillip shouted, taking a swing at Thomas as he tried to wrangle him down. The orderly ducked and drew out his syringe. “No,” barely left Rose’s lips by the time he came back up and jabbed Phillip’s leg with the tip.

  “Run,” he said, but Rose couldn’t run. Mesmerized, she watched the life go out of his eyes, the color drain from his face. Phillip’s fight and his hope all disappeared as he fell face first onto the forest floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Martin said softly next to her ear. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Then let us go.” Rose struggled, throwing her head back into the other orderly’s. She cracked her skull against his nose, and his grip slackened for just a second, giving her enough time to pull her arms free and lunge for the hole in the foundation.

  She picked up two large stones and hurtled them at Martin, then Thomas. Before Rose could grab another, the other man ran up and knocked the stone from her hand, pinned it down at her side, and jabbed the needle into her biceps. Warmth flowed up her arm, rushing through her veins, taking her under.

  Under.

  Under.

  Rose searched for her fight, rammed her elbow back into the orderly, and fell just like Phillip had. She grabbed the dirt, using every ounce of strength to get closer to the hole, digging her nails in as someone pulled her back. And then she couldn’t fight.

  She couldn’t move.

  And she knew she wouldn’t for a long, long time.

  “One, one, one,” she whispered, her voice as weak and faint as all her muscles. They hadn’t drugged her enough to make her lose all consciousness. Voices echoed in her head. Get her downstairs. Isolation. Increased medication. Call her parents. Nothing about Phillip.

  Fluorescent lights streaked by as someone wheeled her on a gurney. A metal door slammed, then all light winked out and all sound stopped.

  “One, one, one,” she repeated again, afraid she’d forget. Rose remained immobile and in the dark for hours, seeing but not seeing, awake but not awake. Time ticked by, though this room didn’t have a clock that she could see or hear. But Rose knew hours passed. Maybe days. This room didn’t have any windows, and no one came to check on her.

  Finally, eyes burning and body racked with exhaustion, Rose succumbed to the medication and fell asleep.

  “Don’t leave me,” Phillip cried, reaching out for Rose, but she was on the other side of the fence now, healthy, happy, back to her regular life. She got down on her belly and crawled on the ground, just far enough to get her arm into the hole of the fence, but she couldn’t crawl all the way in. She wouldn’t. She’d never go back there.

  But how could she leave Phillip?

  How could she let him go?

  How come she couldn’t save him?

  Where is he?

  “Phillip,” Rose said aloud, heart racing. She still wasn’t able to move. Her muscles had turned into liquid, and the most she could do was blink.

  “Shh.”

  She had the vague awareness of someone cleaning her cut up feet, maybe suturing them, but not enough energy to care, and ended up falling back to sleep. Dreams beat up her brain all night. Every one of them full of guilt. She should have saved Phillip. He didn’t belong here. But neither did she.

  Hours or days or years later, Rose awoke in that same dark room, arms strapped down at her sides, legs bound at the ankles. She tested the hold of the leather bindings, jerking up, forward, side to side, but they wouldn’t give.

  “Hello?” She had no idea where she was or how long she’d been here, but she knew if she was awake, someone wanted her to be. Fairies danced before her eyes, twirling casually about the room, and Rose smiled at them, then shook her head. Not real. They’re not real. “Doctor Underwood?”

  The room was so quiet she heard the tick of the baseboard heater turning on. She heard every squeak of the bed created by her subtle movements. Rose knew she was alone, alone with the fairies, all of them staring at her and asking her if she was okay.

  “Phillip?”

  No response.

  Rose remained this way for a long time—minutes, hours, days—listening for sounds, for clues, for signs of life, calling for Phillip.

  “Phillip doesn’t exist,” one of the fairies proclaimed, then all the others giggled in high-pitched voices.

  “Yes, he does.”

  A jolt of electricity ran through her wrist, and Rose screamed until it stopped. She screamed but tried not to, clenching her teeth together, biting her lip, turning her head to the side and burying her face in the pillow.

  “Phillip doesn’t exist,” the fairy repeated, her voice lower and carrying with it a growl.

  “Yes, he does.”

  Another shock. Over and over, she argued with the peaceful looking fairy, her blond hair and bright pink cheeks, and the electro-therapy.

  Rose could barely breathe, but she found it in her to keep fighting, until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore, until her throat was so dry and her wrist burned so badly that she decided she had to sleep.

  Sleep or die.

  Dying to sleep.

  Muffled voices outside the door jolted Rose to awareness. She was sure her eyes had only closed long enough to blink, but her wrist no longer burned, and the room felt different, empty, as if the little creature torturing her had been gone for hours.

  “See right to it. Any visitors would severely set us back in her treatment,” she heard Dr. Underwood say through the door. Who had come to visit? Her parents? The couple from Health and Human Services? Rose wanted to know. She needed to know. But answers wouldn’t come. Not today.

  “Good morning.” Dr. Underwood came in and flicked on the lights. Harsh fluorescents rained down their stark brightness, transfiguring his face, twisting and turning his features to make him look distorted and blurry. Rose squinted to shield her eyes from the ugly sight of him at the same time she needed to cover her ears from the grating sound of a chair sliding across the floor. After so much silence and darkness, every little disturbance seemed to go straight to her head, where an ache throbbed in her temple. Dr. Underwood parked himself in the chair and flipped open her file, a little beetle crawling up his white coat sleeve going unnoticed. “How are you feeling, Rose?”

  She couldn’t speak, not to him. She hated him. Even if Rose had anything to say, the fact her mouth was a desert on fire in the hottest summer sun on record made it impossible.

  “You had quite the psychotic breakdown.” He frowned, the bug now at his neck, stretching its front legs as if making the jump from his collar to skin was such a long, long distance. “Running away from Nurse Judy, crawling over the side of the building, and running into the woods. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck and only ended up with a few stitches on your feet.”

  Rose turned and stared at the wall. She couldn’t stand the sight of him. Couldn’t stand to hear him or be near him or know that he would allow a bug to stay on him that long, if it was really there at all. But what she saw surprised her. Charcoal drawings engulfed the concrete prison. From floor to ceiling, images in spectacular settings greeted Rose. Heads. All of th
em black and gray, with the only color on their faces. Red or green or yellow skin and eyes.

  Rose knew at once she was in Heather Shepperd’s old room. She knew because Heather always drew faces. Always. Not usually faces of people she knew, more like faces that belonged to the voices inside her head, her imagination. Suddenly, the people in the drawings moved. They opened their mouths and they laughed at Rose. They were so loud and they went on for so long, and Rose wanted nothing more than to cover her ears or scream to drown it all out, but her arms were trapped at her sides.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” The doctor said as he injected a clear fluid in the crook of Rose’s arm, giving her no opportunity to prevent the invasion.

  She shifted so that she could glare at him. Three more bugs were crawling up his arm.

  “Just something to keep you relaxed.” Dr. Underwood released the bindings securing her hands and feet, making small talk about being a good girl and needing to complete her application to art school. Each time Rose opened her mouth to try out words, the doctor just placed a gnarled green finger to his lips to shush her. And each time, she grew more and more confused at what she saw, more and more tired of trying, of breathing. Even if she could speak, if she could reach out and swipe away a bug or rush his hand to a sink to see if he’d painted his hands green, she knew interrupting would be a terrible idea.

  Doctor Underwood looked at her without any of the kindness he once carried in his eyes, like he was disappointed, whether in her or himself she had no idea.

  He helped Rose sit up and kept going on and on about the school and how great she’d do there. It was as if he’d forgotten she tried to escape. Or he didn’t care. Or he’d forgotten that he’d trapped Rose here. Or maybe none of that had happened.

  Maybe Rose had spent the last year of her life right here in this room.

  Maybe everything else had been the hallucination.

  “Come over here,” he said.

  In the middle of the room, in the exact spot where Heather probably sat, and also the only space lacking charcoal, someone had set up an easel with tons of paper. On the floor next to it and covered in beetles, there were sketchbooks, paints, pencils, charcoals, and brushes all lined up and waiting for someone to claim ownership. Dr. Underwood pointed at the wooden stool before the easel, a perfect replica of the one she had at home, and told Rose he hoped she’d find her inspiration in here.

  Brushing the little bugs aside, Rose took the seat, a little uneasy on her feet, her vision swirling at the edges, and slouched before the blank canvas. Likely the only way of escape would be to make Underwood happy, and she knew this. Yet she still didn’t want to draw. She wanted Phillip. To know he was safe. Secure. Alive.

  To know this wasn’t a hallucination.

  Even though she hoped it was.

  Before, she’d coveted the supplies Dr. Underwood had given her, because they felt like home, normal, secure, a place she hadn’t been in so long. Rose wanted to be there again. She did. But how could she ever go back? She’d never be able to put Phillip out of her mind.

  “I’ll send someone down to check your progress in an hour,” Dr. Underwood said, then he flicked off the harsh lights, leaving a single beam shining down right where she sat.

  Lead filled Rose’s hands and feet, and holding herself upright became more difficult by the minute. She leaned her forehead on the easel and took deep breaths, giving into the pull of the drugs.

  “Rose, Rose, Rose,” she heard a man whisper, tiny breath fanning across the back of her neck.

  Chills broke out along her skin, and she opened her eyes to discover the room blanketed in darkness once more.

  “Draw, Rose . . . .”

  A tickle ran down her arm, and she jumped to her feet, screaming, shouting, throwing her fists out to punch whoever was there tormenting her. But no way could that many people have gotten in here without Rose seeing someone or hearing a door open to allow them entry. She backed against the wall to escape the crowded feel, murmuring, “Just the meds, just the meds, just the meds. Get a grip. It’s just the meds.”

  And the people hidden by the dark whispered back to her, “Just the meds, just the meds, just the meds.”

  She pressed her palms to her ears and tried to block out their voices, none of them recognizable, but they got louder, closer, harsher.

  “Just draw, Rose. Rose, draw. Draw now. You’re running out of time. Draw. Draw. Draw.”

  They became chants, a thousand people saying the same thing. Red and yellow and green and white lights flashed on the faces on the walls, illuminating Heather’s drawings and all their glory, still laughing. Rose knew exactly what the colors represented: rage, jealousy, illness. She knew enough about Heather’s family to know what they did to her, to know how they treated her after her little brother died: Her mother was jealous Heather had an outlet; her father furious she’d upset her mother. They pushed and pushed and pushed until Heather couldn’t take it and found the wrong people to hang out with, the wrong guy, and she wound up in here for it.

  Just like Rose.

  Except Heather hadn’t stopped drawing. She hadn’t been afraid to express herself. She hung herself from the rafters of her parents’ attic after she was released, because every day pressures were too much, because the pressure her parents put on her to be normal after experiencing life in an asylum was too much.

  Rose wouldn’t commit suicide. She’d kiss the ground and do anything asked of her to stay away from this place.

  A fairy fluttered out of the shadows and said, “Draw. Draw. Draw.”

  “Fine. You want me to draw? I’ll fucking draw.” She stopped covering her ears and cowering from the creatures in the room and returned to the easel. If Doctor Underwood wanted proof that she wasn’t Heather Shepperd, and drawing would give him that proof, then Rose would do it.

  “Just draw. Draw, Rose. Draw,” the chanting continued.

  Rose picked up a charcoal and dragged it down in long, slender strokes until she saw a young girl sitting at a patch of grey concrete in an all-black room with demonic faces on the walls, evil fairies sprinkled about and people in dark cloaks surrounding the girl as she was forced to find inspiration. Rose drew herself in this place, alone, scared, and at the very bottom, in chains and gagged and bloodied and bruised, she drew Phillip looking over her, the worry evident in his eyes.

  And then the chanting stopped, and Rose’s entire body felt like it was floating, vibrating from the constant sounds that had filled the room for hours while she drew.

  She leaned her forehead against the canvas and closed her eyes.

  Floating.

  Floating.

  Gone.

  24

  Rose rarely had a chance to rest. Every time she thought the fairies or cloaked figures or furry beasts that filled her room would be happy with her progress, with this picture or that, and closed her eyes or sprawled out on her stretcher, they came back, shouting, insistent, right next to her ear. Rose had to be asleep. This had to be a dream, a nightmare. All of it.

  I gave you what you wanted. Right?

  She lifted her head full of matted, smelly hair from the canvas and found it blank. Blank! As if she hadn’t drawn anything, or like someone removed it while Rose was dead to the world.

  Her fingers were clean, free from black residue beneath her nails. Nothing took residence in the lines of her skin either. Everything once there now gone, like magic, like a hallucination.

  This was how life went for two weeks, at least what felt like two weeks. Without windows to provide daylight, Rose couldn’t be sure, but the grime covering her body spoke volumes. She also received one tray of food a day, which she refused to touch until her body shook with hunger, until she swore if she didn’t eat the slop offered she’d pass out and die.

  Food hadn’t arrived yet today, but Rose knew it would come soon. If not immediately. She stared at the blank canvas, wondering what she should draw next, what would make Dr. Underwood happy enough to le
t her out of here. Five minutes went by, Rose tapping out the seconds on her thigh, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

  Someone rapped on the door, and Rose jumped up and approached, hoping to get a visual, to see who was in charge of feeding, but just like always, a black robe covered the person from head to toe, and the lights in the hall were off.

  “Where’s Phillip?” Rose asked as the door swung open and the person placed the tray on the floor.

  “There is no Phillip.”

  A shock ran through the bracelet secured around her wrist, and Rose collapsed onto the concrete floor. She couldn’t fight the shocks anymore. She was too hungry. Too tired. Too defeated.

  What if Phillip didn’t exist? What if the only thing required for getting out of here was letting him go?

  She remained by the door, curled into the fetal position, the smell of bacon and eggs filling her belly with cramps, until she had the energy to get to her hands and knees. Rose fumbled around the tray, looking for water. When her fingers wrapped around the glass, she pulled it to her chapped lips and guzzled for dear life. She knew the water was drugged, but she needed it to stay alive.

  Grudgingly, Rose took a piece of bacon, nibbling on the end to try to make it last. She would eat nothing else. But she couldn’t last another day without protein. Once finished, she slid her back up the wall, using it for support, then stumbled to the stool.

  Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory came to Rose’s mind, not because memories overtook her but because she felt like time would be the death of her, of Phillip, of everything she’d ever loved.

  Loved.

  Closing her eyes, she brought up the image of Phillip on the rooftop, where the moon showered him with its glowing essence, where his expression was sadly stoic as he stared out into the lawn, hands in his pockets, shoulders broad and strong. Rose set her charcoal to the canvas, prepared to draw the moon as a melting clock, Phillip’s face, the tree’s rounded, naked branches as well. But she couldn’t give this up. This image was too beautiful, too personal.

  This image belonged to Rose, not to this institution.