Eventually, Fiona interrupted this routine.
“We’re almost done, my dear. You’re looking beautiful again.”
Da da da dada da da da da . . .
Then it struck Abbie. The words of the tune escaped her lips on impulse. “Along came the rain and washed the spider out!”
That was the end of the tune, without a doubt. Fiona squeezed the sponge, water oozing over Abbie’s breasts, making her gasp.
“That’s perceptive of you, my child. You’re progressing well. It’s one of my favorite rhymes. My mama used to sing that to me when I was a pretty girl. I think it goes well with a wash. Get rid of all those itsy-bitsy spiders, as she used to say.”
Fiona removed the sponge from Abbie’s chest and dropped it into the bucket with a slosh.
“We’re done for today. Freddy will be here soon. I have to get along now to see other patients, wouldn’t want to make him angry.” She picked up the bucket, and the Clickety-clack resumed.
“Wait, Fiona! Please remove my blindfold and untie me. Please, I’m begging you, this is torture.”
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. This time toward the hospital bed.
Fiona’s mangled hair was once again in her face. The dry strands streaking against her cheeks like wheat stalks. It smelled repugnant as if other patients had vomited in her hair, and she didn’t bother to shower. Abbie gagged and held her breath. A moment of tense silence ensued. Warm moist air breezed into her ear canal, and goosebumps rippled across her nape.
“We wouldn’t want to make Freddy angry, would we now?”
The words, so close to her ear, made her shudder.
“Who’s Freddy?”
“You did despicable things. He has the right to be angry, you know. Every right. But don’t worry, my child, Dr. Freddy Falk will make you right as rain.”
CHAPTER 3
Abbie wept with her entire existence. Her soul seeking to escape her chained and fragile frame. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, dampening the blindfold. If she had murdered Robert and Jonah, then she was in the right place. There would be no suitable hell for her actions. Anguish replaced fear. In her current state, a swift death would be merciful. Her clarity returned, but she was far from dandy. Each time she attempted to revisit the recent past, the flashbacks overwhelmed her. They were all the same. Her holding Jonah in her arms, swinging on the rocking chair on the porch, looking out at the lake. No, she couldn’t have murdered her child. No matter the circumstance. She focused her mind on the events in the black abyss. Fiona had left her alone, minutes ago? Hours ago? Days ago? Time had no meaning. She lived only in her mind, with no way to escape the dark. Was she awake or asleep? No, she was awake. That was a no-brainer. If she were sleeping, then she would have at least dreamed of a better place or a pleasant memory from the past. Ah, a pleasant memory. Her most precious moments were with her family, gone for eternity. She screamed, exhorting maximum force on her diaphragm, urging the life out of her body. She would suffocate through screaming.
“AAHHHHH.” She gasped, choked, coughed. Again. Again.
“AAHHHHHHHHH.”
Thoughts, memories, everything swam together—a deadly mix of insanity, never-ending torture.
“Stop, please. Let this end!” she shouted to nobody in particular. But it would not end. This was her new reality, and she better get used to it. No amount of shouting would make her die. She didn’t want to die, did she? It was another sick stunt that her mind played on her. If she wanted, all she had to do was sit up as hard as possible. They set the leather restraint like a noose. Any sudden upright movement would be the end of it all—permanent, painless darkness. She craved it so, but not now.
The glaring questions popped into her mind like red flashing neon signs. Were they secretly driving her to suicide? The leather restraint around her neck was a deadly noose. She had felt it earlier. It had contracted with her movement and then eased. She could hang herself right here in her bed. No need to stand up. A sinister little contraption for the unstable, one that no reputable asylum would ever allow.
Her thoughts now streamed in a logical pattern. There were more questions. A lot more. Why did Fiona wear high heels? That was unusual for a nurse in a mental institution. Why had she treated her like a child during the wash?
She was no God damn child. She was a loving mother, a wife, and a successful architect in that order of priority. Despite the ordeal and lack of clarity, her gut understood who she was. Whatever they claimed she did, it wasn’t her. They had the wrong person.
More questions.
Why did they blindfold her like a terrorist? The chained restraints made sense somewhat, an extra measure to prevent her from harming herself or others.
Well, maybe not herself.
Perhaps she was dangerous, so these unusual measures were obligatory. But the blindfold was excessive, even for the criminally insane. She craved to see her surroundings. Eyesight would solve these strange anomalies. She inched her head to the side, but the leather restraint clutched at her throat like a snake-catcher taming a cobra. It was of no use. She straightened her head in robotic motion, avoiding any sudden movements. She relaxed her neck muscles, her head sagging into the stained pillow. Her breathing eased, but nobody was coming. She was alone, in the darkness, with an abundance of introspection that would make even the sanest lose their mind. She had to keep with it—recall memories. If she maintained a logical thought process, she would see the truth with or without the blindfold. Her mind was the key. Whatever actions she had done, gruesome or not. Her mind saw it all.
Back to the lake. Back to the lake.
“Cheers, my love.”
Robert raised the cabernet wine glass to his chin and tilted it toward his nose. He swirled the glass by flicking his wrist, making little circles in the air, taking in the full oak berry aroma, and sipping the wine at leisure, savoring the taste. It seemed so composed, so classy. He still wore his clothes from work. She didn’t bother to change either, but what she wore suited the occasion better. She still had on the morning’s black jogging tights, a white T-shirt, and a pair of running shoes. They dined at a rustic table near the water’s edge, enjoying a candlelight dinner while Jonah slept in the cabin nearby. Those rare weekend getaways would breathe fresh life into their relationship. Professional excellence required extreme dedication, and with Jonah’s arrival, these beautiful moments became less frequent. Abbie drank her wine like a beer, with steady, oversized mouthfuls. She admired the person who Robert had become, but it was tiring. For her, getaways were just that, a time to get away, to let loose—drop the pretenses and let the passion flow. She leaned across the table and placed her thumb and forefinger on his smooth masculine jaw, drawing his face toward her. She kissed him ever so lightly, then withdrew. It was just enough to moisten the lips. She craved seeing the passion in his eyes, the lust, the love—they both needed more. They leaned in toward each other.
Darkness.
No matter how hard she tried, she could recall no further. The endorphins of that moment still flowed through her body, making her giddy. That memory was genuine, alright. But why the lapses? She needed to find the truth. There was no other way. Squeezing her eyes shut, she focused on the emotions that this memory evoked. She was content with her life. She had a husband she loved and adored, and after all the struggles they’d been through to bring Jonah into the world, the passion was alive, albeit less frequent. But it existed, which was better than most long-term couples. They had been together six years, so they were well into the phase of the standard, less impassioned blend of deep affection and connection. There was a natural shift from passionate to companionate love. However, the weekends at the cabin gave them a rare opportunity to rediscover one another and stave off the hedonic adaptation. Familiarity sometimes breeds contempt and almost always indifference. They both made a conscious effort to communicate openly and break away from the r
outine. She loved and idolized Robert, even if it didn’t always translate to passion.
Think about what happened next. Think!
Abbie struggled to get beyond the kiss. Her past pieced itself together, but it provided no hints how she ended up in a psychiatric ward accused of murdering the two people she loved most in this world. She urged her mind to transport her back to the cabin, but a stream of older memories swarmed her mind. The happy childhood, the graduation, the first job, her parents, meeting Robert, and holding Jonah in her arms. The boulder of guilt crushed her. Where was her baby boy now? Crying for his mommy? Dead?
She opened her eyes, finding herself back in the cabin. Yes, she saw it clearly—as if it happened right in front of her. The emotional pain triggering her memory.
“Here, baby, have another glass of wine,” Robert said.
They nestled on the couch. She was groggy, and the cabin blurred. Was it the wine, the fading memory?
“When we’re here for the weekend, I want you to stop going to Portland. I know that your patients need you. But I need you more.”
Robert held her hand, intertwining their fingers. His steady brown eyes exuded devotion and a sense of belonging. Even through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes had the toughness of experience but retained the sparkle of emotion and exuberance.
“I’ve had a few difficult patients lately. It’s been affecting me more than I thought. You’re right. Our family should take priority. The getaways should be about us.” He flashed her a reassuring smile. She needed to hear that. But it wasn’t enough. Something was amiss. The cabin was spinning, Robert blurred. Rage, suspicion, and shock absorbed her. BUT WHY? Had she seen something earlier? Had she done the unthinkable?
Shrieking, screaming, grunting.
Darkness!
The memory passed by like a sea breeze—there was no recapturing it. Only time would tell if another would come. She scraped her nails into the sponge mattress, venting her frustration.
Shrieking, screaming, grunting.
She jolted like an unexpected bucket of ice water thrown in her face. The sounds came from somewhere within the asylum ward. It wasn’t her memory—this was happening. The sounds were animal-like—a hunted, wounded animal. The high-pitched shrieks sent shivers down her spine. She puffed her cheeks and took in rapid, shallow bursts of air. It freaked her out even more, her brain conjuring up bloodcurdling images within the darkness. “Deep breaths,” she said out loud. She had to shut the door on the panic, as otherwise it would make her snap. No, she didn’t want to regress. The fear of her mind disappearing into the black abyss was worse than anything. She would allow it to happen, but not now. She had to know the truth about herself first. As long as there was hope that Jonah was still alive, it was her duty as a mother to keep going, to be the mother she yearned to be. Her nose sucked up the air, expanding her rib cage to its maximum capacity. Then at once, she shot the air out through her mouth, her diaphragm sinking between her rib cage like a valley. She repeated the process until a logical explanation cooled the panic. She was in a mental asylum after all, so what did she expect. Screaming and disturbing sounds were commonplace. All too frequent for patients of her profile. Yes, that made sense.
The harrowing sounds continued unabated, like ghosts in the dark. Her mind grappled with these imaginary souls. Oh, their pain, the suffering. In here, there was no need to fear divine retribution. They were already in hell, paying for their sins. She had to hold onto her mind. She didn’t want her soul trapped in the body of a monster.
“I’m not a monster. I did nothing wrong.”
She repeated the sentence out loud to drown out the sounds—the words reverberating through her fragile frame. It uplifted her. She would see Robert and Jonah again.
“Abbie . . . Abbie!”
She stopped screaming.
“Oh my God, Robert, is that you?”
“Abbie! It’s Dr. Falk. Please calm down. You’re safe now, and you must relax. We can’t keep giving you the meds!”
She eased the tense muscles in her cheekbones, her eyelids sliding open, greeted by the all-consuming black abyss. She might as well never open her eyes again. An eternal nightmare from which one never awakes. Even if she were insane, this inhumane treatment would only make it worse. Robert and Jonah’s memory became a fairy tale from the past.
“Only Robert used to call me Abbie. I thought it was him.” Tears streaked down her gaunt cheekbones.
“I’m aware of that, Abigail. We’ve been studying your case for a while now. When you’re in a state of delusion, you only seem to respond to that name.”
“I heard the sounds! I’m not delusional. It sounded like a slaughtered animal.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re an intelligent woman. You heard sounds and suddenly I’m calling out your name. There’re no animals or other patients housed in this ward. We granted you this special status because of the horrendous nature of your crimes, which your mind refuses to acknowledge.”
It made sense, although she couldn’t make sense of much else. Her teeth chattered like dominoes, making her lips quiver. This was the end of the tunnel, and it was pitch black—not even a tiny glimmer. There are few things more frightening than losing control of your mind. She had lost her identity from one day to the next. In a blink of an eye, she was no longer Abigail Blake.
“Stay with me, Abbie. Don’t slip away now. You’ve been doing so well.”
He placed his bare hand on hers for comfort.
Her morbid chain of thought shifted as soon as he touched her. It was void of emotion, lacking any human warmth. If it weren’t for the five fingers that caressed her knuckles, she would have thought it was a prosthetic. She was curious to make sense of this odd touch. She opened her palm wide and rotated her chained wrist, her index finger and thumb brushing up against the back of his hand. The skin was scaly, dry, and cold like a lizard.
“Please, Doctor, I’m afraid. I can’t get better if I’m blindfolded. I’m relying on my mind’s eye alone. It’s tormenting. I’m sick, and I need you to help me. Please let me see where I am, and let me know who I am,” she said, her palm resting on the back of his hand, soothing the lizard skin. Regaining her eyesight would reveal the truth. That was all she needed. She resolved that if she were insane and committed these atrocities—suicide would be her only route. Otherwise . . . well, right now, there was no otherwise. That chain of thought would have to wait as there were too many unanswered questions. She stretched her wrist as far up as she could, running her fingers along the doctor’s scaly wrist—it made her skin crawl.
“Please, I’m begging you. You know that it’ll make me better and we can both understand what happened. Please, I can’t handle the darkness anymore. I need to see where I am.”
His wrist slipped through her fingers as he ripped his hand away.
“You’re in Oregon state custody, removed from society. A forgotten soul,” he said.
She heard squeaking as he paced up and down the room and imagined his hospital sneakers gripping the smooth cement surface. A few murmurs interrupted the squeaking. She lay dead still, straining her ears to make out the voices. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there was more than one voice. The conversation was heated, and this was her chance to make a stake.
“Please help me. Please. Just give me my eyes. That’s all I’m asking. Let me see.”
The murmurings stopped—rapid squeaking in her direction.
“You’ve been like this for years, in a semi-vegetative state. Every time we decrease your medication, we have to go over the same process. Like a scratched record. You know what happened the last time we let you see?” Dr. Falk’s voice took on a deeper guttural tone.
She shook her head.
“You tried to commit suicide, Abbie.”
CHAPTER 4
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .
“Where’s the buzzer?”
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .
“I counted right, damn it!”
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
And just like that, another hour passed and a new cycle began. The same routine in the darkness: every five buzzers, mealtime. The door would jolt open, followed by a repetitive CLICKETY-CLACK of Fiona’s high heels, as if she waited for the ring to enter the room. She would lay the metal tray near the bed, followed by a friendly “Open your mouth, child,” keeping the conversation to a minimum.
The meals composed of a sloshy fruity paste, but Abbie never dared to ask or complain. Both Fiona and Freddy had shown her the price of disobedience. One afternoon she had asked Fiona if they could take her outside after lunch to feel the sunshine and the breeze on her skin.
“That privilege is reserved for the free. Now I’m no judge, but for the crimes you’ve committed, you know damn well what you deserve. Now eat up all your beans, child!”
It was the first time she heard Fiona raise her voice, which took on even a deeper timbre at higher tones.
“Open your mouth nice and big now—the last spoon is coming up.”
Fiona shoved the large metal spoon so far down her throat it ripped through her esophagus. The acid reflux in her stomach rushed up to her throat like a river rapid, and vomit sputtered from her mouth.
“You disgusting child, making such a mess.”
Fiona dabbed a damp cloth against her face, pressing her palm hard against her nose and cheekbones. She didn’t feel much as the searing pain in her throat engulfed her. It took many buzzers to heal, and she lost count of how many. Fiona fed her intravenously during the next few visits. One mistake was enough—she wouldn’t ask Fiona for anything else.
With Dr. Falk, it was even worse. She paid an exorbitant price for a slip of the tongue.
Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller Page 2
