I remain in his embrace, desperate for his strength, his touch, and his love to help calm the storm of emotions churning within me. I can’t seem to catch one for very long. So many different emotions swirl within me that I feel like I could drown in them. Before I become a puddle of nothingness, I break from Logan’s embrace and take a deep breath to center myself. I can tell he’s disappointed that I pulled away, but he says nothing. A chill overcomes me suddenly and I rub my hands up and down my arms to combat it. This place is totally giving me the creeps.
“I wish I knew. No one seems to know for sure what’s wrong with her. The creepy old lady at the desk said that Mary is being examined right now by some doctor named Morrison. She said he gets all the crazies from our town. What the hell did she mean by that?”
Logan scratches his head and ponders for a bit before answering, “I think the sickness that’s making people go nuts at school is confined to just our town. From what coach said, there have been a couple others who have just lost it all of the sudden, but only from Mountain Creek High. Weird don’t you think?”
Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. “I wish I knew what in the world was causing it.”
“Yeah, me too, Aim, me too,” he states in a soft voice.
We both head to the rickety old seats to sit down and there we stay for a bit in silence. My mind is so occupied with worry for Mary that I have nothing left for idle chitchat. The best part about Logan is that he understands this and doesn’t even try to make conversation. He just sits with me and holds my gloved hand as we wait for any news about Mary.
Almost an hour later, we hear a loud buzzing sound seconds before the set of double doors that lead to the asylum, swing open. An older man, about fifty years old, dressed in a nice navy blue suit with a blue and white striped tie, and a lab coat, saunters through the set of doors. He is holding a clipboard and his bifocals in his hands. His face is serious as walks over to us, a clear indication that the news is not good. The doors swing closed automatically behind him. Logan and I stand up as he nears us and I can see from his nametag that he’s the infamous Dr. Morrison. Once he reaches us, he holds out his hand and introduces himself.
“Ms. Aimee Richardson, I presume?” he asks seriously.
I nod my head in answer to his question, fear robbing me of my speech.
He must be used to this so he continues. “My name is Oliver Morrison and I am the psychiatrist assigned to your mother,” he states. His grey eyes pierce my blue ones as he pauses.
Apparently, he is waiting for me to respond. Since this is my first time ever in any kind of looney bin, I have no idea what to say. So, I nod my head again, acknowledging what he just said in the hope that this will encourage him to continue. Luckily, it does.
“Mary is suffering from paranoid delusions. The clinical term we use for it is called persecutory delusion. She truly believes that someone is coming to harm her, and those delusions are keeping the rational side of her brain from functioning correctly. We see this a great deal within the context of diagnosed schizophrenia, but Mary has no history of that type of behavior. Furthermore, we tend to see evidence of paranoid delusions years before they take root this severely in a patient. Can you tell me please, Ms. Richardson, if you have seen Mary exhibit any paranoid behavior within the last year?”
Reeling from the information the doctor just dumped on me, I search my memories of the past year for any sign of paranoia or delusional thinking (whatever that is) and I come up empty. Mary’s behavior hasn’t changed a bit in past years. She is the same sweet, patient, caring woman she’s always been. The only thing she is at all paranoid about is my safety, but that’s a normal reaction for anyone that cares for a child. I look over at Logan with my confused expression, silently asking for help. He just shrugs, as much at a loss as I am. Our silence seems to be the answer Dr. Morrison expected.
“I see,” he states while he scribbles something on his clipboard. “I’m not at all surprised. The people that I have seen in this hospital, referred here through hospitals in your area, have all exhibited similar traits within their paranoia. It’s like the disease was somehow inserted into their subconscious. One day they are normal, functional people in society. The next, they are fighting demons that are so real to them they can’t decipher reality from imagination. We have put her on muscle relaxers and dopamine, hoping to make her more comfortable. If you follow me, you can see her now.”
Logan takes my hand as we follow Dr. Morrison through the thick double doors that lead to hell. The nurse gives us a knowing snicker as we pass her. I wonder yet again if she isn’t as deranged as the patients in this hospital are. The minute we pass through the doors, the décor changes from blue to stark white. There are pictures lining the walls depicting happy scenes or nature, which I can only guess are supposed to aid feelings of calmness for the patients.
The hallways seem endless as we pass by door after door. I peer into the little window of each one and I can see that some are offices, while others appear to be patient rooms. As I pass by one door in particular, I see a young man pacing about, scratching his head and his face with his fingernails in obvious agitation. His face is lined with angry red fissures streaked with blood. His head is bald and he is wearing a white hospital gown with birds on it. I face forward and quicken my pace. We finally arrive at Mary’s room; the door is wide open and I can see Mary lying in bed, wearing the same white gown dotted with birds. Her eyes are closed and her face looks peaceful. The demons must have taken a break. I look at the doctor and find that I have a voice after all.
“What exactly have you done to her, Dr. Morrison? Why isn’t she awake?”
“Mary has been through a lot. The antipsychotics will have an adverse effect on her sleeping habits in that they tend to cause insomnia. We have given her something to help her sleep. In many cases, sleep is the only relief the patient will get from their paranoia and delusions. You can come back and speak with her in the morning, Ms. Richardson, but I must warn you that she won’t be the Mary that you know. Her mind is crippled, and until I have some time to work with her, she could be a danger to herself or you.”
“I understand. Thank you, doctor,” I mouth to him as I stare at Mary. She looks so peaceful in her sleep one would think nothing strange happened to her today.
Beside me, Dr. Morrison takes his leave with no further advice to give. I approach the bed, uncertain of what to do next. I look down at Mary and watch as her chest rises and falls with each breath. For some reason this comforts me. Logan moves to stand next to me and I feel his arm slip around my waist. Though I don’t lean into him, I’m grateful for his gesture of comfort. I have no idea how long I stand there watching Mary, my thoughts too jumbled to even think; my fear too raw to move from her side. I know dusk has settled as little light now shines through the bars covering her window.
“It’s time to go I think,” Logan says from beside me.
Though I loathe leaving, there is no way they will let me stay with her in her current, unpredictable condition. Nor would I sleep much anyway knowing I would be surrounded by crazies. I nod to Logan, and together we follow the signs that point to the exit.
Lost within my thoughts, I follow Logan blindly. I worry for Mary and wonder what she will be like when she wakes up, if she will ever be normal again. I think of poor Kyle from class today, and the boy from the cafeteria a few days ago. What will happen to them? But more importantly, how did they get that way in the first place? My mind keeps coming back to that one thought—what in the world happened to them that caused them to go instantaneously crazy?
I am so lost in my thoughts as we meander through the stark halls of the mental facility that I just about jump out of my skin when I hear a loud thud from the door to my right. A small cry escapes my lips. My hand immediately goes to my heart hoping to keep it in my chest.
“What the hell!” screams Logan from beside me, clearly just as frightened as I am by someone pounding against a (hopefully) securel
y locked door.
What the hell indeed.
I look up through the glass and my blue eyes lock with a set of brown ones. But these eyes aren’t normal. They’re hazy, glazed over, and almost completely filled with crazy. The boy looks not much older than Logan or me, but his shaved head makes it hard to tell exactly. He’s wearing the same white gown with birds. He’s snarling at us, drool dripping from his mouth like a rabid animal. Through the metal door, I hear a loud scraping sound like fingers against a chalkboard. Even from the hallway, I hear his chant, and I cringe as it grows louder and louder, piercing what little strength I have left. I have no idea what it means, but it shakes me to the core.
“He and you, the only two. Death of one, destiny be done,” repeats the crazy boy over and over, louder and louder until he is jumping up and down like a crazed monkey, his beating on the door getting more and more intense.
Thankfully, Logan is as freaked out as I am. “Come on, Aimee, let’s get out of here,” he says as he pulls me away from the door and the crazy boy behind it.
My mind, already a jumble, can’t take anymore so I shut it down and concentrate on only one thing: getting the hell out of this loony bin.
I see the double doors that lead to freedom and I run to them. I know they’re locked, but it doesn’t matter to my addled brain. All I can process is that I want out. I pound on the doors as I scream, “Let me out!” but no one seems to hear me. Since pounding isn’t enough, I begin to kick and cuss at the doors, the last obstacle to my freedom. Finally, I hear the buzz and feel the doors begin to shake as they open. As soon as I’m able, I run through the slight opening and out the front doors to breathe in the blessed cool night air. I head straight to the bushes and throw up, the horror of today too much for me. I try to catch my breath as my stomach heaves piles of bile out of my body, but it's no use. I can’t stop. It’s as if my body is trying its best to purge the evil that resides not only within me, but also in this hospital. I feel a droplet touch my hand and realize that my face is wet from tears I didn’t even know I was shedding. The unfairness that seems to define life is too much for me to bear.
I feel Logan place his hand on my back and whisper my name softly, but I don’t recognize it. Though I wish he wasn’t here to see me break down, I realize that despite my best attempts to push him away, he has always has been here for me, and it is my fervent hope that he always will be. He is my reason to get up in the morning, my rock that stands firm and steadfast through the churning, violent sea that is my life. It’s for him that I choose not to let everything in this life break me. He’s seen me worse, I know, but I was hoping that was over. I dared to hope that from the moment I kissed him in the dark dungeon of torture all those months ago, he would only see my best.
“What can I do to help you, Aim?” asks Logan as he strokes my hair, the powerlessness we both feel evident in his voice.
“I wish I knew, Logan. I wish I knew,” I respond sadly from my bent over position in front of the bushes. As tears fall from my eyes, I let the hopelessness consume me. I have no more strength to fight it. In the past few days, I have seen more bloodshed and heartache than I ever thought possible in a sleepy little town outside of Atlanta. This was supposed to be my safe haven, the place where the boy with no memories could never find me. Instead, it has turned into an inferno with no apparent escape. And the next victim could be anybody.
“I need to check on Dejana,” I say to Logan. “She wasn’t feeling well earlier and after all that has happened today, she could use a friend as much as I could. There’s nothing more we can do for Mary tonight anyway.”
“Agreed,” states Logan as he bends down and helps me up from the ground. “I would feel much better if you stayed with her tonight anyway. With all that’s been happening lately, it may be better to stay in groups.”
Though I honestly can’t decipher his reasoning regarding group safety, I don’t argue with Logan. The thought of returning home tonight scares the crap out of me. As we walk together hand in hand back through the parking lot, we agree it’s best to leave Mary’s car at the hospital. We slide into Logan’s vehicle and head toward Dejana’s house. I look at the clock on my phone and see that it’s barely five past nine at night, still early enough for Dejana to be up. I send her a quick text to let her know we’re coming and then lie back in the seat and let the mental exhaustion take over. I don’t think at all; I just let the sway of the car calm me. Logan must be deep within his own thoughts because he too says nothing. Before long, we arrive at Dejana’s house and pull into the driveway. There are lights on in the den and kitchen and the only car I see in her driveway is hers.
Logan and I get out of the car and make our way to the front door. I ring the doorbell and wait a few seconds, listening for movement within. After hearing none, I ring the doorbell again. Maybe she’s asleep? Logan lifts his right hand and knocks loudly on the door. Still we hear nothing. Certain that Dejana just fell asleep on the couch, I turn to leave. The last thing I want to do is disturb her. I grab Logan’s arm and pull him down the steps back towards his car. I have no plan, I just know that after what happened today, Dejana probably needs her sleep more than she needs a visit from me. We are half way back to our car when we hear it. The scream echoing through the night and reverberating off my soul.
I take off running towards the house, my heart beating out of my chest. Panic fills me as my heart races from fear and exertion. My breath comes faster and faster, I can’t seem to catch it. My imagination runs rampant. With all that has happened, I can’t even fathom what kind of wrong is going on inside Dejana’s house right now. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.
I yell, “No!” and dig my heels deeper into the ground, willing my tired body to go faster. Just as I reach the door, Logan overtakes me and lunges at the door with his shoulder, breaking the locked door off its hinges. He flies through, his stance ready for danger.
“Dejana!” I scream, desperate to find the reason for her distress. “Dejana, where are you?” I plead.
We’re met with an eerie silence filled with foreboding. I turn to Logan. “You search the kitchen. I’ll go to her room. Please, Logan, we have to find her,” I implore, the desperation clear in my voice.
Logan turns right towards the kitchen as I run left to the staircase adjacent to the foyer entrance. I run up the stairs two at a time, the exhaustion I felt just minutes ago completely gone. A mix of adrenaline and fear pulse through my veins, fueling me now. At the top of the stairs, I don’t even slow my pace as I turn right and make a beeline for Dejana’s room. I burst through the door, slamming it against the wall in my desperation to find my friend. I make a precursory look about the room, my eyes flying left and right, looking for her brown highlighted hair, but I don’t see her.
I’m just about to give up on her bedroom when I see her favorite pair of black boots poking out from behind her bed. I run to the other side of the big four-poster king sized bed and there I find Dejana, lying on the floor of her room face up, eyes closed, and in the same clothes she wore earlier to school. I fall down to my knees and shake her.
“Dejana!” I cry. “Are you okay? Please answer me!” I implore as I shake her shoulders, desperate for her eyes to open and tell me to get the hell off her.
Yet nothing happens.
I put my gloved finger on her neck and feel for a pulse. I am finally able to breathe again when I feel a strong heartbeat. Logan calls my name from Dejana’s bedroom door.
“Over here by the bed,” I tell him.
Within seconds, he is on the floor beside Dejana, cradling her head in his lap. He checks her pulse just as I did and whispers, “Thank God,” when he finds it. Logan looks up at me, his face full of confusion. “What happened to her?” he asks.
How should I know? But I don’t blame him for asking; it’s the exact same question I have been asking myself.
“She seems to be unconscious. I’m not sure what happened. I don’t see any blood or injuries, but I can’t wak
e her up. Should we take her to the hospital? I can call her parents. I think I have her mom’s number in my phone…” I say as I pull my phone out of my back jeans pocket, but Logan doesn’t let me finish.
“No, Aimee,” he says in curt strong voice. “We have to know what happened to her. And you are the only one that can tell us.”
Somehow, I knew that’s what he was going to say. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell him that I had thought the exact same thing the second I found her. I'm just not sure that I can actually do it.
“I know you feel this is the only way, but maybe she’ll wake up soon and can tell us what happened?” I ask hopefully, but Logan is already shaking his head.
“Enough is enough. You are the only one that may be able to figure out what this is and how to stop it. You are the only one that can see exactly what happened to her. Please, Aim,” he implores, “what if the next person this happens to is you? I can’t let that happen; I won’t let that happen,” he finishes, determination chiseled in every feature of his face.
“I get it, I really do. But what if she hates me for doing it? What if she never talks to me again, knowing that I know all of her secrets, all of her precious memories? She is my only friend and I can’t lose her. I won’t let my curse tear us apart.”
Logan is silent; he knows that nothing will convince me. I have to decide for myself if the ends justify the means. Of course, I want this madness to end, but at what cost? I am sure there is nothing sinister in Dejana’s past, that isn’t what worries me. What worries me is her looking at me for the rest of our lives knowing that I know everything about her, all the good and the bad that she has ever done. That’s a lot to put on a relationship, even one as close as ours.
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