Unhinged

by Shelley R. Pickens

  After what seems like an eternity, I finally see Dejana coming towards the table with a few of her friends beside her. I look back at Brett, but he is already up and throwing his book bag back onto his shoulder, getting ready to head off. He starts to turn around and head out, but stops suddenly to whisper something in my ear.

  “Until later my dark princess,” he murmurs before disappearing into the mob that is the cafeteria at lunchtime. Okay, now I’m certain that I’m going crazy because I am pretty sure I heard him call me his dark princess. Befuddled, I sit there with my mouth agape, contemplating how in the hell he could think I am his dark princess when we haven’t spoken two words to each other. Shit, I really am going crazy. I’m hearing things, which is probably the first stage of a complete and total meltdown.

  From my left, I hear Dejana’s voice. I look over, mouth still open, and see Dejana speaking with her friends. I know it’s about what happened this morning because Dejana is talking with her hands and she only does that when she's agitated. Besides, that is all anyone is talking about today.

  I wait for her friends to do their usual turn towards their table across the cafeteria from us when something unexpected happens: they all turn and head straight towards me. Damn, was there a text or something sent out today that told everyone to speak to me? Or is this the second damn stage of going crazy? Panicked, I feel trapped, unsure whether to embrace fight or flight. Embracing my lifelong habit of evading people, I decide that flight is my best option. Alas, sadly, I am too late. Dejana catches me before I can make a run for it.

  “Aimee,” says Dejana, a hint of warning in her voice. “I was just telling Julia that you would let her know how her friend Kelly is doing. You know, the one that was with Brandon when it all went down this morning?” she finishes with a deadly look in her eyes that dare me to run away.

  I look over at Julia, her green eyes are cautious, yet determined to find out about her friend. Her right hand grasps the handle of her backpack while the left tucks her hair behind her ear every few seconds. I can’t remember when I’ve seen anyone so nervous. I wonder if the cause is all this craziness, or just plain old me? Either way, I don’t want her here anymore than she does.

  “Kelly is fine. She wasn’t hurt at all, just stunned by seeing firsthand what happened to Brandon. An older teacher came in and calmed her down. Last I saw, she left with Dr. Morgan, but she was fine.”

  At once, Julia stops fidgeting and relaxation overtakes her features. She smiles curtly before walking away, her entourage in tow. Oh well, I didn’t want a thank you anyway. I practically fall down into my seat, exhausted from today’s events. Next to me, I hear Dejana’s butt hit her seat as well. At first, neither of us says anything; perhaps because there is too much to say and neither of us knows where to start.

  “Wow, what a day,” Dejana exclaims after a few minutes, fatigue evident in her voice.

  I couldn’t agree more. I want to tell her that everything is going to be alright, give her some sort of comfort that our classmates going crazy is just a freak incident, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with these people or what is driving them to commit these unspeakable acts of malice. Judging from the events that just occurred in the cafeteria, I may be next. But I am sure as hell not going to mention any of that to Dejana. Suddenly, an idea hits me.

  I turn to Dejana. “Hey, you want to get out of here?” I ask, every fiber of my being screaming to just fall into bed.

  She pretends to mull over it for a minute, debate the consequences of ditching school, and being AWOL. I can tell from the twinkle in her eye it isn’t much of a deliberation. “Absolutely,” she agrees, nodding her head for emphasis. “After what we have both been through today, I don’t think one soul would blame us.”

  “Agreed,” I say roughly, grateful to get out of this hell hole that has become a cesspool of wackiness. We pick up our book bags and get ready to head out the door when I stop and remember the one thing I should never forget.

  “What about Logan?” I wonder. “Should we wait for him and see if he wants to come with us?”

  “Probably not,” responds Dejana. “You know he’d never leave or he’d get into big trouble with Coach Kutter. They might even sit out their star player for a game, which would devastate him and all the girls that go to see him play,” she mocks.

  I mull over waiting for him as I look around the cafeteria hoping to see him heading our way. I finally concede that he isn’t coming. I’m sure he just got held up with a friend or a baseball coach.

  “We can just text him when we are on our way and he can meet us later. How does that sound?” asks Dejana.

  “Fine,” I reply, my uneasiness about Logan’s safety growing. “But let’s text him from the car, I’d like to know that he’s okay before I get home.”

  “Deal,” agrees Dejana as we make our way out the set of four doors that lead to the student parking lot. We are both smiling now, grateful that the fog of misery and uncertainty is being left behind us with each step we take to freedom.

  * * * *

  Luckily, the ride to my house from school is a pretty short one. We drive with the windows down to let the sixty degree wind blow through our hair. Georgia weather can be unpredictable, but the best part of living here is the intermittent spring day you can get at any time. Even if it is still supposed to be winter. Dejana and I don’t talk much. I guess we figure if we talk about what happened in Madame Primm’s class, it will make it more real than it already is for us. So, we ride silently together, singing Pink’s latest song on the radio.

  Within minutes, we pull into my driveway. I am emotionally exhausted, which is worse than anything I have ever felt. I could work out for two hours and still not be this bone tired. I am so distracted by my weariness that at first I don’t notice what is off about my front yard. Dejana pulls her car in, then stops abruptly. She catches on faster than I do to the strangeness that lies before us.

  “Aimee?” she asks as she grips the steering wheel so hard both her hands turn white. “Is that Mary’s car over there parked by the willow tree just outside your front door?”

  I rub my eyes, sure that I’m dreaming, but clear as day there is Mary’s silver Prius parked at an angle on the grass near the front door. It’s like she was in a hurry to get inside. But why not just open the garage door and go in that way? It sure as hell would have been nicer for the front lawn. At first, I’m intrigued rather than panicked, but as the moments go on, all sorts of strange pictures fill my head. Before long, all I can see is Mary held prisoner by some unknown assailant in the house.

  Unnerved, I jump out of the car, Dejana right on my heels. I run around the Prius and fly up the front stairs to try the door. My breath catches in my throat—it’s open. Mary would never forget to lock the door behind her. She is borderline paranoid about the dangers lurking in dark corners. I slowly push open the door. My heart is beating so fast I feel like my chest is going to burst. Behind me, Dejana whispers, “Be careful,” as we make our way into the house.

  The foyer and living room are dark. The only light in the house is coming from the kitchen as it leaks through the crack underneath the door. The eerie glow seeps into my thoughts, creating all sorts of horrid scenarios that I can’t seem to push out of my mind. I approach the kitchen door, afraid to touch it, fearing a bomb lies behind it ready to go off any minute. Every fiber of my being tells me not to open the door, that I won’t like what I find behind it, but fear for Mary’s safety compels me forward.

  I place my hand on the door and push it open slowly; inch by inch light floods the living room. I make my way onto the white linoleum floor, but as I look around, I don’t see anything amiss. Nothing seems out of place but I still don’t see Mary. I start to close the door but stop when I hear a whimper. I push the door open and fully enter the kitchen, my eyes scanning every crevice for the source of the sound. I move around the island in the center of the kitchen and that’s when I see her. />
  Disheveled, with one shoe off, huddling in a corner rocking back and forth, sits Mary. Her brown eyes are glazed over and she is holding a large kitchen knife.

  “Mary?” I ask softly, not wanting to startle her. “Are you okay?” It's foolish to ask, since it’s evident that she isn’t.

  Dejana stands frozen in the doorway, afraid to move any closer to the woman clutching a knife as she murmurs under her breath. I look at Dejana, pleading for some indication of what I should do. Shell shocked, she simply shrugs. She has no idea what to do either.

  I start to move a bit closer to Mary, hoping beyond hope that my voice gets through to her. “It’s okay, Mary. I’m here now. I can help. Just please, tell me what you want me to do. I can start dinner if you want,” I suggest, hoping something normal will snap her out of it.

  “He’s coming for me,” she mutters. “Soon. So soon. No time. I have to escape before he comes. This time he’ll kill me. But I’m ready this time. Let him come. Soon. Too soon.”

  “Who’s coming?” I ask, stunned. “Why does he want to hurt you?”

  “Soon,” she repeats. “Mad I left. So mad. He has a gun. But this time I’m ready. This time I will win.”

  I look at Mary as she cradles her knees, rocking back and forth nervously, the big knife gripped firmly in her hand. Her brown pantsuit is wrinkled, her jacket is half on and half off; her eyes are unfocused as tears stream down her face. Never would I have thought this could happen to Mary; a sweet soul whose mind is now at odds with her entire being. Even at her most paranoid, she was never like this. I know she’s sick, her mind warped from something I can’t begin to understand, but still I wonder, who is this guy she is afraid of? But more importantly, how can I help protect her from him?

  This woman in front of me isn’t Mary. No more than Kyle was Kyle, or the boy in the cafeteria was himself. Considering there is nothing else I can do to get through to the knife wielding Mary, I decide to sit down. I turn to Dejana and mouth silently for her to call 911. As I turn back to focus on Mary, I hear Dejana back out of the kitchen and carefully close the door behind her.

  For the fifteen minutes it takes for the paramedics and police to arrive at my house, I don’t move from Mary’s side. I listen to her murmur about some guy that wants to murder her, but I doubt he even exists. From time to time, I open my mouth to speak to her, but no words come out. I am at a complete loss for any words of comfort. As long as she doesn’t turn that knife on herself, I think we’re okay. I don’t get the feeling that she wants to go after anyone like the others did. It seems she simply wants to protect herself from someone she feels is coming for her. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to see me as a threat.

  Thanks to Dejana’s foresight, the paramedics were warned about Mary’s state of mind and the fact that she’s armed. They enter the kitchen slowly, every step purposeful and designed not to startle her. A young paramedic with a kind face and brown hair in a ponytail stops just in front of Mary. She sets down her small grey bag that reads Gwinnett Medical Center—the hospital close by our house—and takes out a needle filled with a clear liquid. She remains silent as she creeps forward slowly. Once she reaches Mary, she pricks her as gently as possible in the arm just above her elbow where her jacket is half off and the skin is exposed.

  Mary doesn’t even pause from her constant rocking to notice the shot. Within seconds, Mary’s rocking begins to ebb until she finally drops the knife and falls over. Anticipating this, I lunge forward and am able to catch her before her head hits the floor. From that moment on, the kitchen is flooded with police and other paramedics helping strap Mary to a gurney to take her to the hospital. I am questioned by the police, but since I again know nothing of how she became crazy, I am of no use. This seems to be a recurring theme today.

  Once Mary is safely stowed into the ambulance and on her way, the house clears quickly. Before long, it’s just me and Dejana standing on the front porch, looking down an empty street, uncomfortable in the ensuing silence.

  “I’m so sorry, Aim,” states Dejana, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

  Strange, it never even occurred to me to cry. I merely stand with my arms crossed to ward off the chill that has overtaken me, despite the warm weather. I want to respond to her, offer comforting words, but I stay silent because let’s be real, there is nothing I can offer that’s comforting about this situation. Should I tell her that everything will be okay? That this madness has to end sometime? Or perhaps encourage her to stay strong and have faith that things will get better? I want to, but it just isn’t in me. I’ve seen too many memories to have any kind of faith. Besides, faith is fickle. On one hand, it can be your greatest source of bravery. The next second, it is the key to your destruction. I had faith the craziness was behind me before I found Mary out of her mind in the kitchen. I had faith that things were looking up and away from the chaos that has seemed to dominate my life. But faith has a way of kicking you in the butt, and I’ve had enough butt-whoopings to last me a lifetime.

  “Whoa!” says Dejana beside me as she grabs the porch banister for support. “Dizzy,” she states doing her best to calm herself from the ensuing vertigo.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice dripping with concern. I move behind her, ready to catch her if she falls. Today’s events must have been too much for her. And I know she didn’t eat lunch. Neither of us did actually; I was planning to eat as soon as I got home. Now, I have no appetite whatsoever. I put my gloved hand lightly on Dejana’s shoulder.

  “Go on home and rest, girl. It’s been one hell of a day. I’ll take Mary’s car to the hospital and just see you tomorrow.”

  Looking as defeated as I felt, Dejana nods in acknowledgement of my plan and heads to her car to go home. I run back inside to grab the keys and make my way to Mary’s car on the front lawn. As I get behind the wheel, I chide myself for thinking before that things couldn’t get any worse. I must have forgotten that in the life of someone who is cursed, worse is just the starting point.

  Chapter Eight

  ~ The Forgotten ~

  The smell of stale air mixed with weeks old body odor and bleach stings my nostrils the moment I walk into the door of Anchor Hospital in downtown Atlanta. I outwardly cringe, unable to hold it in even if I wanted to. All along the corridor of the front of the hospital are barred windows at least two inches thick. The fading light barely visible beneath the layers of dust and filth. The walls are blue, painted intentionally that color to appear happy. But from the worn down edges of the walls and the old stained seats, it’s evident that happiness does not visit this place often, if ever.

  I make my way to the huge oval shaped front desk that bars entrance into the main area of the mental facility. The woman sitting behind it is gray haired, covered in wrinkles, and looks meaner than hell. She must be the first line in defense for keeping people out. But why bother? No way in hell anyone sane would ever actually want to break into this place. Or perhaps she isn’t there for us at all. I’d bet the farm that this woman isn’t meant to keep us out, but rather keep them in. My best guess is that she’s the final barricade in this fortress for those sentenced to a stint in purgatory, desperate to break out.

  I finally complete the long walk from the front doors to the visitors’ desk, and come face to face with the keeper of hell.

  “Um, hi there,” I stammer nervously. “I’m here to see a woman that came here by ambulance about half an hour ago. Her name is Mary Richardson.”

  The older lady looks at me skeptically. My skin feels hot under her piercing stare.

  “Your name and relationship to patient,” she states in a husky voice, probably made hoarse from years of yelling at visitors and patients.

  “My name is Aimee Richardson and I am Mary’s adopted daughter. I found her…not quite right in our kitchen today and was told she would be taken to Gwinnett Medical Hospital in town. But when I got there and waited for two hours, they told me that after the initial examination, she was being transported he
re. So here I am.”

  “Ah, yes,” says the older lady, her voice clipped. “The crazy one,” she adds with a short cackle.

  A mental hospital joke, huh? Well, color me surprised. But it’s not funny. Since I can’t think of a suitable response, I wait silently as I watch the nurse rummage through a stack of papers.

  “Ah, here it is. She’s being examined as we speak by Dr. Morrison. He’s been taking all the ones from your area that have turned crazy. His session could be a while, so I’m afraid you are just going to have to wait young lady.”

  Miffed after being told yet again that I have to wait to see Mary, I make my way in a huff to the old tattered seats that smell of mildew and sit down. I take out my phone and click to activate the screen to play mindless games to pass the time. I clear three levels of my favorite game when I hear the chime signaling the front doors are being opened. I look up and instantaneously smile. Sanity has officially arrived at Anchor.

  Logan saunters in through the double doors, dressed in dark blue jeans and a red t-shirt. His hair is a bit disheveled, like he was in a rush. I can tell from the expression on his face that the stale stench of the air affects him just as it did me when I first walked in. His eyes find me and his face instantly forms a relieved smile. I return his smile and breathe a sigh of relief at no longer being alone in my worry for Mary.

  I get up from my century old seat and meet him half way down the long front corridor. The second we are within reach, he takes me into his arms and cradles me within his strong embrace. He puts his head atop mine, careful not to touch any part of my exposed skin, which as usual, isn’t much. His hug is desperate as he squeezes me, his toned, athletic muscles bulging as he brings me in closer, trying to absorb my pain as his body melts into mine.

  “I’m so sorry,” he begins. “How could this happen to Mary? What in the hell is going on?” he asks desperately as he pulls away and looks me in the face, hoping for an answer. When I say nothing, he sees I don’t have one, so he pulls me back into his embrace and continues. “Why did you leave at lunch? I had a meeting with coach, so I couldn’t get there right away. By the time I did make it, you and Dejana were both gone. I got your text saying you were going home, but then my phone died and I didn’t get your message about what happened to Mary until an hour ago. I went straight to the hospital you said, and then followed you here. How’s Mary?” he asks finally taking a breath.