MERCY

by KC Decker

  “Why do you always do that to me?”

  “Because I’m conflicted as fuck.”

  “I’m getting sick of your untimely bouts of morality,” I say as I yank my hand out of his pants and back up enough to shrug my sweatshirt back into place. I’m angry, but I’m not sure it’s at him. I know he is trying to do the right thing, and I should be more accepting of his commitment to my mental health—but I’m not.

  “I only wish my bouts of morality happened before I stepped so egregiously across the line. I’m sorry. Neither of us wants these boundaries, but they are here. We have to respect them, they are in place for a reason.”

  “Sure, doc. Whatever you say. Let’s get to work on my transition.” Now, I am angry at him. I zip up my shirt and sit heavily on the couch. He must be getting used to my piss-off-and-die face by now.

  “In two days' time, you will be moving into the facility. They have arranged for your transportation back and forth, so you can continue your therapy work here. I’ve arranged for you to take your laptop with you even though there was some opposition and claims that it was donated to the unit, but in all honesty, that thing is a dinosaur, and you should get a new one anyway.”

  “I hate how easily you shut me out.”

  “Trust me, Mercy, there is nothing about this that is easy for me. Least of all, shutting you out.”

  “Your actions say different.”

  “Then listen to my heart.”

  “Your heart is misleading.”

  “My heart is the most honorable part of me left.”

  “Sutton, your honor is hurtful, and I can’t trust it.”

  “You’re wrong, honor is the only thing that never lies.”

  We stare at each other for a few minutes, a standoff of wills. He is challenging me to disagree with his honor assessment, but I’m all done arguing in esoteric circles.

  “We done here?” I ask, but I’m already standing.

  “Sure,” he says in defeat. He doesn’t even object when I take my phone with me.

  ***

  For two days, I sulk and opt-out of all group activities. Lyla and Wes can’t even get me to shake off my funk. It’s not just Sutton, it’s leaving the place that for all intents and purposes has been my home for a decade. It’s leaving the amazing staff—most of all Colleen, I can’t even think about not seeing her anymore. If Sig was a father figure, Colleen was my mother, and with me only showing up for psychiatry and hypnosis appointments, that relationship will wither from neglect.

  My appointments with Sutton have been purely obligatory, and I have only participated in the most perfunctory fashion. On his end, it’s cognitive behavioral therapy as usual, and he hasn’t asked about the phone or referenced it in any way.

  I turned the power off two days ago after storming out of his office, with only half a thought to preserving the battery, but he gave me the box and charger during my next session with him, and I’ve still left it powered off.

  I don’t know if it’s because I’m punishing him for pushing me away, or if I’m trying to preserve the part of me that will go insane if we keep up the sexy back and forth banter over text. Either way, it’s not enough to know he wants to be with me if he is not willing to make the necessary sacrifices to enable the possibility.

  He doesn’t have to be my doctor, and nobody will follow up with me after I evaporate from the system. The fact is, we could make it work if he wanted it bad enough. It hurts my soul that he puts so much emphasis on all the factors that keep us apart because one thing that I will never get used to, is people letting me go.

  Those are my scars, bone-deep, and impossible to heal from. I’ve survived being possessed by the devil, an upbringing in a cult including horrific abuse and ritualistic sacrifices, almost losing my life in multiple snake handling ceremonies, and living with paranoid schizophrenia. But all of that pales in comparison to willfully and purposefully being discarded.

  I always come up short when weighed against the consequences. My parents weighed keeping me against their beliefs. Every foster parent weighed me against the damage I could cause to their family. Sig weighed, breaking the rules against keeping in touch with me. And now Sutton has weighed his ethical conscience against having a life with me.

  Perhaps tearing me down is necessary before each new phase of my life. Maybe if I go into the step-down facility as a shell, they can fill me however they see fit, before tearing me down when they are finished with me. That’s what has happened all along, I was torn down by the cult and then filled up with paranoid schizophrenia to play a role in the world of mental hospitals. Now, I’m being groomed to fit in on the fringe of society in a halfway house.

  This sense of constant reprogramming feels like the biggest betrayal of all, and Sutton has dutifully played his part. And me? I have played my role, as well. They were all just labels, but I accepted them all—and I wore each one like a crown.

  Chapter 29

  Today is the day Hilary will take me from my home and deposit me among strangers to carve a life out for myself. I could hardly force a smile at my unit, going-away party last night, even when presented with a giant box of chocolates and a card that the whole staff wrote really sweet things in.

  I’ve spent hours, if not days crying on shoulders and sobbing into my pillow as the countdown to my departure ticked by. Colleen has done her level best to piece me back together and remind me that when God closes a door, he always opens a window. Too bad I feel like the window He opened leads to the abyss.

  Roughly ten years ago, I arrived with nothing but a child’s broken mind and the clothes on my back—and the potent fear of the unknown. Now, I’ve acquired some clothes, books, and an archaic laptop, and I’ve even hung on to the fear, but there is something disheartening about seeing your entire life fit into a few bags.

  As I wait for Hilary, fear and dread have me by the throat. My new life starts today, and I’m not ready. Not even close. This is what the condemned must feel like after their final stay of execution has been denied. Any and all sense of optimism has vanished, only to be replaced by complete and utter desolation. Nothing that even resembles acceptance has scurried across my path.

  When she enters the unit, I stand, acknowledging my own human frailty, and walk to the future.

  ***

  The mechanical way Hilary approaches this transfer is generic and a testament to the hundreds she has done before. Her lack of enthusiasm is beyond repair, as is her personality.

  She prattles on about house rules and chore lists as I watch the city life blur in my tears. But when she mentions Sutton, I tune in to what she is saying.

  “Dr. Sutton has seen to refilling your scripts, but it will be up to you to stay on top of your meds. You will be expected to take them on your own—no one is going to hand you a paper cup with your pills.”

  I turn back to look out the window. It’s been five minutes, and I’m already sick of her patronizing tone.

  “Dr. Sutton has also briefed the staff on your nightmares, so your care should be pretty seamless. I’ve had cases where the nightmares were so bad, the person had to wear restraints to bed. So, let’s see how a few of your episodes go, and we can always make adjustments to your care plan.”

  “Are you suggesting I be restrained at night?”

  “I’m merely pointing out that care plans can be adjusted to fit the needs of an individual. You have to understand, the safety of the staff and other residents are a particularly high priority.”

  “Noted.” I tune her out for the rest of the drive because she is somehow unaware of the level of discomfort that sits between us. She seems to be going through some sort of checklist, and proving by the minute that her job has slowly robbed her of the altruistic nature she once possessed.

  When we get to the house, she unbuckles her seatbelt and exits the car while I remain seated and note how unremarkable the place truly is. Other than the wheelchair ramp, there is nothing that sets the dwelling apart from the rest of
the suburban homes lining the street. No neon signs to announce our shortcomings, no empty cans in the front yard, or cars propped up on cinderblocks.

  “Here it is, Home Sweet Home,” Hilary attempts to draw some warmth into her voice, but it falls just as flat as everything else she says.

  “Yep, here it is.”

  When we ring the doorbell, we are greeted by a woman who introduces herself as Theresa. She is unremarkable, like the house, and due to my woeful state of mind, I decide she is the cornerstone of mediocrity.

  Theresa gives us a brief tour, ending with my room. Dejection has weighted itself heavily to my feet, so I’m slow to enter my new space. There is a twin bed, a small dresser, and a nightstand. The curtains are sun-bleached, but they somewhat match the burnished gold of the bedspread. The entire place smells faintly like a musty basement, but also like something has been sprayed to mask the staleness.

  “Marv is napping right now. You will meet him soon enough though, because it’s his turn to cook dinner tonight,” she says as she points to the closed door across from mine. “I hope you like mac and cheese, it’s his specialty.”

  “Ok,” I say, more as a verbal pause than anything. It is mildly disturbing to have an unknown man living across the hallway from me. Men and women have their own hallways on my old unit. Bedrooms were never commingled.

  “Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to Marcella. Now, you’re going to think she is hard of hearing, but she can hear just fine. She just likes to pick and choose what she listens to.”

  “I see,” another verbal pause, instead of asking, what the fuck?

  “Colton and Vince are at work right now, but you’ll meet them this evening. Colton is the nicest man you’ll ever meet, but he’s got some tics that might take some getting used to. And Vince, he’s a big ole’ teddy bear, but he’s afraid of his own shadow, so don’t expect him to say much to ya at all.”

  Marcella’s room is upstairs, so we follow Theresa to the door with a sign that says, Keep out, I have a big stick.

  “Who is it?” a cranky voice asks from inside the room.

  “Marcella, I’d like you to meet our new friend.”

  “Make it quick, I’m a busy lady.”

  Theresa opens the door, and we follow her through a beaded curtain that hangs in front of the door. There are tapestries on every wall, and one on the ceiling, which mutes the light and creates a somber ambiance.

  Marcella is sitting cross-legged on her bed with her palms pressed together against her chest. She looks to be deep in a meditative trance and is chanting the mantra, Ommmmmmmmmmm.

  “Marcella, this is Mercy.”

  “Ommmmmm.”

  “Don’t ya want to say hello?” Theresa prompts.

  “Ommmm.”

  With a shrug, Theresa walks out of the room. We follow, but I can’t resist tossing over my shoulder, “Good talk, Marcella.”

  Hilary and Theresa continue to discuss schedules, and my goals and objectives while I contemplate running out the front door. Theresa seems nice enough, but I hate it here, and would rather do cartwheels in traffic.

  “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to go lie down,” I announce before I turn to retreat to my new prison cell. At least I can shut the door and hope to be left alone.

  Hilary objects because she wants me to acquaint myself with my off-premises schedule, which translates to driver’s ed, psychotherapy, and job interviews. Thankfully, Theresa interrupts.

  “It’s ok. This is a lot to take in. Leave her be.”

  This makes me want to hug Theresa, but I don’t even turn around. Once I’m alone in my room, I close the curtains and curl up on the bed. It’s stiff as a board, and it crinkles from the plastic mattress cover on it. I hate it here, and I can’t cry hard enough to wash the sadness from my system. I guess it’s just a part of me that I will have to get used to now.

  Once empty of tears, I take my phone from my backpack and power it on. I do not have the intestinal fortitude to explain my situation to Matty or Veronica, and Sutton put me here, so fuck him. All I care about is checking my PayPal account balance.

  I’ve had money for years, and because I never really bought anything, it’s just sat there. The university noticed my knack for graphic design when I was working on my degree, and since then, I’ve done all sorts of work for them. Marketing brochures, postcards, booklets, banners, posters, flyers, information packages, financial aid packets, career fair pamphlets—you name it, I’ve done it for them.

  When I can’t log in to PayPal after the tenth or eleventh try, all pretense of self-preservation crumbles, and I submit once again to the tears being wrung from my body.

  ***

  It’s full dark outside when a knock on my door wakes me with a start. My eyes are swollen from crying, and the last thing I want to face is my new living situation and questionable roommates. I roll over and tuck myself against the wall.

  “Mercy? It’s time for dinner. Will you come join us?” Theresa says from the other side of the door.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “How about you just come say hello to everyone?” she says in a conciliatory tone.

  “No.” I try the word on my tongue. I have the freedom to use it here. I like it.

  “Just for a couple minutes?” she pleads.

  “No.”

  “How about I make you a plate? Just in case you get hungry later.”

  “Thanks, but no.” I figure, I’ll eat in the morning with Lyla and Wes before my session with Sutton. Or, maybe I’ll never eat again—I will certainly never sleep again, not here. I would never feel comfortable having a nightmare while living in this place.

  I stare absentmindedly at the wall all through dinner and well into the clanking of dishes being washed and put away. With any luck, the house will quiet down soon. I wonder how many other people have stared at this very spot feeling the very same way?

  Someone pounds on the door and then opens it right up. My room is dark but the hallway light is on, so I can see him in shadow. Then he flips the light switch on, and I have to squint my eyes against the bright light.

  “I brought you some macaroni and cheese. Everyone likes my macaroni and cheese. Why don’t you want to try my macaroni and cheese?” He is a big man, and my immediate impression of him is Lenny, from Of Mice and Men.

  I’m so stunned he opened my door and is standing in my room; I don’t know how to react. I do know that he scares me. At first glance, he seems cognitively or developmentally disabled, but he has a sharp look in his eyes that reminds me of a wolf. That look tells me he is shrewd and that first impressions can’t always be trusted.

  Just then, Theresa intercepts him, “Marv! It is not ok for you to barge into another person’s room like that. Tell Mercy you are sorry and go sit down. Wheel of Fortune is just starting.”

  He looks at me with his predatory eyes, and a slight quirk to his lips, “Sorry, Mercy, but everyone likes my macaroni and cheese.” His demeanor is off, his expressions are inappropriate, and his words seem to mean something else. There is no doubt about it, he is terrifying.

  I’ve been around mental disabilities for a long time, and I can’t shake the feeling that Marv’s are disingenuous. He leaves my room slowly, deliberately—while looking back at me, and with complete contempt.

  My heart is pounding so hard in my throat, I can taste it. That man sleeps across the hall from me, and it looks like he wants to acquire a little mercy of his own.

  Nighttime falls all around me. Hours have passed since Marv walked into my room as if he were entitled to do so. I haven’t moved from my bed. I’m hugging my knees and watching the doorknob while the space around me goes numb.

  An hour or so ago, Theresa knocked on my door to say goodnight and to ask if I needed anything, but it’s been mostly quiet ever since. I am still on high alert, and I don’t see that changing.

  I must have nodded off for a second, but something has brought me back to full awareness. Then I hear it. S
omething is scratching at my door. It’s a slow, deliberate scratch. On the other side of my door is Marv, I know it. Marv and his violent, feral eyes.

  I look around my room for something to protect myself with, but there is nothing. I unplug the lamp, plunging myself into darkness, and wind the cord around the base of it. If he opens my door, the best I can do is hurl it at him. Then I hear something besides the scratching.

  “Mercy.”

  “Merrrrrrrcy.”

  “Mercy, come out and play.”

  I jump up and push the heavy dresser against the door. Then my bed. The sliding furniture makes a little noise, but not enough to wake anyone up, and not enough to stop the torment on the other side of the door.

  I’m shaking when I call Sutton. I have no idea what time it is, but he answers right away.

  “Is everything alright, Mercy?” he asks in a rush. His voice is kind and concerned, and it breaks me.

  “I’m afraid,” I whisper as my eyes dart around the room.

  “What are you afraid of?” I can almost hear a smile in his question.

  “Marv. He is outside my door.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “He is right outside my door, taunting me…can you hear that? That’s him.”

  “Is your door locked?” he asks, all of a sudden feeling the gravity of the situation.

  “I don’t have a lock on my door.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t have a fucking lock on your door?” he asks, angry at something.

  “I put the furniture in front of the door.”

  “Has he tried to open it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you want me to call the police? Do you want me to—shit, I can’t come. It would be too suspicious. Mercy, tell me what to do, I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

  Silent tears are running down my face. He won’t come. He wants me to be safe, but not at the cost of rescuing me himself. The weight of my situation is sinking in. I am on my own.