by S. M. Soto
“And I know you believe your sister saved you, and as hard as it is to believe in your condition you could get out of that car, I think either Vincent dragged you out, or you did it yourself. Whatever it was, it’s a miracle you’re alive, and maybe this is a second chance for you. You can turn your life around, Mackenzie.”
I avoid looking at her, and I bite my tongue. There are so many things I want to say. I want to refute her. I want to yell and tell her she’s wrong about all of it, but I don’t do any of those things. I just sit and listen.
“Now, let’s talk about what’s happening. Vincent Hawthorne has accused you of attempted murder and stalking. Law enforcement is also looking into a break-in at one of his friend’s homes in the Hidden Hills. They’re checking for fingerprints, anything that can lead back to you, and with everything else, if it somehow is linked back to you, it might be in your best interest to stay here.” I gnash my teeth together. My good hand fists into the sheets. “I know you’re angry. And I know this is the last place you want to be right now, but I do believe it’s in your best interest to stay here. Your parents have signed papers, stating you’re a mental health crisis. Do you understand what that means?”
I purse my lips, still refusing to look at her.
“It means that even though you are an adult, you are placed under their care until the state deems you healthy enough to be on your own and in your own right mind. When we start to see some progress, we can discuss potential release dates, but as of right now? I think you need help, Mackenzie. There’s nothing wrong with getting help. After everything you’ve been through in your life, your time here can do you wonders.”
A hot tear slides down my cheek, and I swipe at it angrily. I still haven’t said a word. Because what can I say? They think I’m crazy. End of story. They think I’m lying. That I tried to hurt him, and once again, the Savages are going to get away with it all.
She blows out a sigh at my silence and stands, taking her notebook with her. “I’ll give you some time to process. A nurse will be in soon with some food and another doctor will be in shortly to assess your pain levels.”
I ignore her, and the second the door shuts behind her and her cronies, I crumple. Dropping my head back, I let the tears fall in torrents. They roll down my temples, disappearing into my ratty hair. Silent sobs wrack my body, sending pain down my spine, but I welcome it. Because chances are, these four walls will be my home for God knows how long.
I’d like to say I have a plan and that I’m not giving up, but that’d be a lie. Because I am giving up.
They’ve finally won.
Ten days.
Two hundred forty hours.
Fourteen thousand four hundred minutes.
That’s how long I’ve been stuck here. Trapped in this hellhole that’s supposed to heal me. It’s doing everything else but that. After my first encounter with Dr. Aster, things have only gotten worse. Those first three days, she would come in with her stupid gray hair pulled back into a bun and try to get me to talk about Madison. When I wouldn’t talk, she’d provoke me into talking with anger.
She’d mention I belonged here.
That everyone truly thought I was crazy after all that had happened.
Those words always struck a chord in me, and she knew it. In just three days, it felt like she knew my own mind better than I did, and that was scary. During our meetings, she would try to get me to see reason, try to get me to see that the Madison who was coming to me wasn’t my sister. It was my imagination. It was my grief creeping up on me. She said she’d seen it plenty of times before in other cases, but the thing was, I wasn’t just another case. I knew Madison was dead, but I also knew that was her. She was real. I felt her. There’s no other explanation. And I refused to believe it was all in my head because then that meant that my sister…that meant she was really gone. In every aspect.
With every tic of my jaw, furrow of my brow, and the increase in the rise and fall of my chest, it seemed like Dr. Aster knew what I was thinking, or rather, feeling, even before I did. And that stupid fucking notebook.
God, I hated that notebook.
She wrote in there for every little thing. If she’d walk into the room and say, “Good morning,” and I wouldn’t reply? It went in the notebook. If I so much as spoke one word, it went in the notebook. Everything about me was in that goddamn notebook, and I had the urge to chuck it at the wall, rip out each page, toss them into pile, and set them on fire.
I was tired.
Sick and tired of the same faces.
Sick and tired of seeing the same people and doing the same thing.
I was sick of this place.
I missed my friends.
I missed my sister.
But most of all, I missed Baz. And I hated myself for it. I hated how much space he took up inside my head. How much I missed his touch, his smile, his arms wrapped around me.
Arms that did God knows what to Madison.
My chest tightens alarmingly with pain. It reverberates through my body, squeezing my heart in a vise and making it hard to breathe. I can’t help but look back on our time together and wonder the exact moment he decided he was going to keep stringing me along for his sick ruse.
Would he have killed me, too?
And if so, when?
What was their plan?
All the mistakes I’d made in our “relationship” suddenly felt like they were fractures in my bones. They were the exact reason I was here, crippled in this bed.
I’m jolted out of those thoughts when the door to this shit room opens and the same two goddamn nurses come in, followed by Dr. Aster. Annnd, you guessed it, notebook and pen in hand and at the ready. She pauses over the threshold, cocks her head to the side, and rubs her lips together as she regards me. As if she suddenly has the answers she needs, she starts scribbling something down on the open page of her notebook, and I let out a frustrated sound, slamming my good hand into the sheets.
“What in God’s name have I done now? What could have possibly warranted you writing something down when I’m literally sitting here?”
She raises her brow, her head cocking even farther, and she purses her lips disapprovingly, writing something else down.
Pressing my lips together, I hold back all the things I want to say but know I shouldn’t. As if sensing my restraint and approving of it, Dr. Aster’s lip twitches as if it wants to turn up into a smile. I despise that, too.
“How are you feeling today, Mackenzie?”
I make a show of looking down at my bandaged and broken body in the bed. “The same as yesterday. It still feels like I was hit by a fucking truck.”
“That’s to be expected. You rolled down a cliff in your car. Our bodies can only sustain so much.” Her retort isn’t snarky, but there is a small undercurrent of disapproval in her tone. It’s always there. She doesn’t outright say she thinks I’m a psycho, but it’s there in her eyes, the way she regards me, and the way she speaks to me. I despise that, too.
Just the mention of rolling in the car turns my stomach. I drop my gaze down to the bed, taking in my legs that are braced and casted and every other inch of my body that’s bandaged. I’m told my right leg only needs to be casted for the next two weeks before it can come off. I sustained a hairline fracture in my tibia, which should heal quickly since I’m not active. Though, the doctor did advise, I might live the rest of my life with at least some form of discomfort from the fracture. Now, my left leg is a different story. Somehow during the accident, I shattered my kneecap and cracked the top portion of my hip. I also have a clean break in my ankle, which the doctor believes was sustained while I was escaping the mangled vehicle. The entire left side of my leg is casted and braced with metal bars for my hip bone.
I’ve yet to see the scars on my body, but I know they’re there. I can feel them, the heat that radiates from the wound. A nurse comes in a few times a day to clean the dressing around my abdomen, and I still haven’t found the strength to look yet
. I know once I see it, I won’t be able to unsee it, and that’s what scares me. When I was younger, I didn’t care much about looks, but as I got older, that changed. It pains me to admit that sometimes I feel like I’d be nothing without my looks. I may not be the most beautiful woman out there, but I do know my assets. And if someone were to take away those assets, I don’t feel like any part of me left is worthwhile. I have nothing else to offer.
“If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to show you around the facility today, so you can get better acquainted with everyone here. But first, Stephanie here will help you get cleaned up.” She motions to the female nurse standing beside her. I blow out a little sigh of relief that at least a man won’t be the one helping me clean myself. The nurse who usually redresses my wounds is an older woman in her late forties. She’s nice but doesn’t say much, so I never truly feel self-conscious around her. As I stare at this other nurse, I wait for that feeling to creep in, but surprisingly, it doesn’t. I’m already at rock bottom, so I fear any lower, and there will be no chance of finding my way back up.
“Stephanie, page us when you’re both ready.”
With that, Dr. Aster steps out of room, and the burly male nurse, who I’ve seen more times than I’d like, stays behind, but he doesn’t make any move to help. I guess he’s just here as backup, in case I decide to truly act like a crazy person.
Stephanie helps me up from the bed, being extra careful of my wounds. Though she may not look it, she’s a lot stronger than I anticipated. With tan skin and hair that’s darker than even mine, she’s a petite little thing, but obviously looks can be deceiving, because as we make our way to the bathroom, she practically carries me all the way there, taking the brunt of my weight. The metal bars attached to my leg clang with each movement, and I flinch at the noise.
She lowers me onto a hospital grade stool. It’s one of those stools elderly people tend to use. She helps me strip out of one of the many plain gowns I’ve been in since I got here.
“I know this is uncomfortable, but I promise, I’ll try to be quick.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “I’m sure having to wash someone isn’t all unicorns and rainbows for you either.”
She pauses as she gets the warm water and washcloth ready. “You’re not like the other patients.”
I can’t help but scoff. “Yeah, that’s because I don’t belong here.”
Her lips twist. “On second thought, maybe you are. I hear that at least thirty times a day.”
I roll my eyes, not even bothering with a retort. I’m sure anything more out of my mouth, and they’ll strap me back down to that cot they’re passing off as a bed.
“Where are we, anyway?”
“Napa.”
I feel my eyes widen. “As in Napa State Hospital? Jesus Christ, this place is for the criminally insane!”
She raises a brow, lathering the towel with soap. “It’s not as bad as it used to be. The assaults have dropped quite a bit.”
My eyes narrow. “How much are they paying you to say that?”
She smirks, dipping her hand under the running water to check the temperature. “You really aren’t like the other patients.”
“You guys want to bring me out there with other patients? Are you crazy? These people have murdered and pled insanity to get in here and avoid prison time. The most I’ve ever done is dye my hair and speak to my dead sister.”
Stephanie pauses. “That’s why you’re in here?” She seems taken aback as if she thought I was in here for far worse.
“Well, maybe that wasn’t all. I did lie to my boyfriend and try to get his friends thrown in jail. So, definitely no angel, but definitely not a psycho mass-murderer either.”
Still staring at me oddly, she shakes her head, brushing it off. “There are different levels of the hospital. The room they have you in is quite nice. The chances of you being moved into the communal area are slim. Dr. Aster only allows it when her patients show progress, and well…”
“I haven’t progressed at all.”
And now I’m glad I haven’t made it easier on the doctor. I’d much rather be on my own than stuffed into a room with a roommate who may or may not try to murder me in my sleep.
“I think she just wants to give you a feel of the place. Give you something to look forward to once you have a breakthrough.”
“Believe me, there will be no breaking through. I know my truth. I know what I saw. Most people may not be able to understand it, but I do.”
She smiles down at me sadly then gets to work. I have the urge to curl in on myself as she cleans me. Because what woman needs another woman’s help cleaning herself? It’s beyond degrading, and with each day I’m stuck here, I hate my parents even more. They haven’t come to visit. I don’t know if that’s been their decision or Dr. Aster’s. Regardless, I feel abandoned. Even Madison has left me. She always seems to be missing when I need her the most.
Following the doctor’s instructions to a T, Stephanie pages her once we’re ready. I kept my eyes closed during the whole process, refusing to look at myself, or rather, look around as another washes the dirt and grime from my body.
Dr. Aster pops back into the room with her annoying ass smile and that stupid notebook, taking in my clean skin and the shitty attitude I still have. She motions to the nurses and leads the way, the burly male nurse in step beside her. Stephanie pushes me in a wheelchair, making me feel like an even bigger invalid than I already do, and the other male nurse trails us like security.
I roll my eyes internally. Am I really that much of a flight risk?
Even if they want everyone else to believe this place is safe, it’s obviously not. She wouldn’t need to walk around with three guards if it was, and I refuse to believe all the muscle is for me. In this state, I can barely throw a pebble at someone, let alone attack them.
“This entire wing that we’re walking in is considered the infirmary. Makes access for doctors and the medical team to get in and out much easier. Since you’re not in the best of conditions, we’ll be keeping you here until you’re able to walk on your own. This will give your body and mind the proper time to heal itself.”
The hallway is long and bleak looking. With linoleum floors that are an off-white gray color and walls that are a blinding white, everything here is so…plain. So colorless and bland. It’s a stark contrast to the vibrancy of LA, the vibrant green of the trees in Ferndale, and the ruckus that is New York. Being in this place is like a shock to the system—like having all the color drained from your life. Once we near the end of the hallway, it breaks off into a T, where you can either go left or right. Dr. Aster points to the left side of the hallway first.
“Back this way is where the facility branches off into the group activity center, and this way,” she says with a snap of her fingers, ordering us to follow. “This is the communal area and back down that hallway over there is the crafts room. If we were to go the opposite way, meaning the other side of the hallway, we’d enter more of the housing for patients. We have everyone here coordinated by wings and levels. For example, depending on their behaviors and whatever supervision they need, all that is taken into consideration when a patient is placed on a certain floor.” She glances back at me, and for a few seconds, we share a look, none of us saying anything. It’s hard to read what’s going through her mind. It seems Dr. Aster has mastered the ability to shield her thoughts from her patients. She snaps out of it and continues with her speech. “As I was saying, the patients here can watch TV, play games, and do group activities together. If they’re deemed stable enough to be around others,” she’s quick to add, as if she’s trying not to get my hopes. I couldn’t really care less. The last thing I want to do is make friends with anyone here.
“This is an important step in the rehabilitation process of the mind. Working with and being near others does something magical for the mind and soul. Even though you’re not quite ready for that yet, I do believe when you open up to me, things will change for you
, Mackenzie. You’ll see.”
I scoff, and my eyes roll heavenward.
Sounds like a crock of shit to me.
Dr. Aster clears her throat, effectively ignoring me, and dives back into her spiel as if she never missed a beat. She prattles on and on about all the amazing activities and programs they have, but I’m not paying attention. Instead, my gaze is fixed on the hordes of patients that we pass as we roll through. If I wasn’t sure before, I’m sure of it now. I truly don’t belong here. When you think of a mental institution, I’m sure you picture patients dressed in colorless and lifeless clothes that talk to themselves, and honestly, what I’m staring at right now isn’t all that different.
The reality of my new predicament is a slap in the face. This is what I have to look forward to now?
Some of the women glare as I’m pushed past them—as if I’ve offended them in some way—while others don’t even notice. The majority of them wave and smile, while others laugh at my broken body like they’ve never seen a cast. Some of them try to stop and talk to us like we’re all old friends. I feel like a new inmate who just stepped into the prison yard.
Fresh meat.
For a second, I swear I even see Lolly from Orange Is the New Black. That’s how I know I truly might be going crazy. This goddamn shithole is rubbing off on me. She’s a fictional character, for fuck’s sake.