Up With The Crows

by Zoe Parker

  Through my sticky, dry mouth I manage to get out, “What abilities are those exactly?” I have no idea why I’m playing along with this insanity, but my instincts are insisting upon it. As fucked up as they are since I see fantastical things, some of which are kind of cool, to be honest.

  “World walking. It is how you came to be in this place and how you can see using my Blood Mark,” he looks at me much like an eagle looks at a fat squirrel, “Did none of your journey here seem strange to you, outside of me expanding your vision?”

  “A bit. I mean the wallpaper in the reception area is hella outdated,” I ramble out wishing fervently that my lips would stop flapping.

  “The wallpaper struck you as strange?” If he’d have called me a dumbass right then, he wouldn’t have been wrong.

  “My family has this,” I wave my hands around as I search for the right word, “thing.” Great word Mel. “Illness thing.” Not much better, Mel. I blow out a breath. “They see things, and then they end up in places like this for the rest of their lives.”

  “Schizophrenia?” There’s the dumbass call out.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “You don’t have that. Although those who carry that badge aren’t always mentally ill, humans are too eager to place a label on things. Sometimes they are merely seeing the other worlds layered over their own and are interacting with them on a level that normal humans can’t.”

  Cool explanation aside, why am I standing here talking about seeing things and mental illnesses with an asylum patient?

  “This is not an asylum; this is the Unsylum. You need to remember that,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back, “An asylum is supposed to offer shelter and support. There is none of that here, beautiful Mel. This place is full of death and pain.”

  “Am I in danger from the patients?” Why does saying the word “patients” feel wrong? Why does a small voice in my mind whisper that I should say “prisoners” instead? Another thing to add to the weird as hell day. One which isn’t even half-way over.

  “No, never. None will hurt you here. It is the ones that run this place that are the threats to you,” he answers.

  “Aren’t they threats to you too?” I have no idea what made me ask, but it’s out there and can’t be taken back. Logic keeps trying to reassert itself but at the same time… there’s another voice in there that says the logic is my fear talking and not logic at all.

  “They think they are,” he smiles again and looks so menacing that I almost take another step back. His hand on my elbow stops the urge from coming to fruition. Giving it a soft squeeze, he releases me and steps back.

  “You seem so nice…” My mouth moves with the words, but there’s no sound.

  Somehow, he hears me anyhow and says, “Oh, never think that I’m nice. I killed your predecessor and hers before. And in the event of your demise—which I plan on interfering with—any who come after you and every one of the… staff in this building will die.” His eyes lighten and glow, fangs grow into the spaces left from his missing teeth. Long and sharp and stained red with blood. The skin on his face tightens, and a new one emerges that looks monstrous and beautiful at the same time. The presence he represents, that aura around him expands, and as I stare, he looks ten feet tall. A chill runs down my spine and raises every single hair on my arms.

  When I blink, he’s once again an old, stooped man with missing teeth—another hallucination.

  “But not me?” Oh, look more words coming out of my mouth that shouldn’t be.

  “Never you, Beautiful.”

  Confused by that preference I ask, “Why?”

  Why is a good question, like, Why am I standing here talking to him when he said he murdered the person who had my job before?

  “Return later, and I’ll tell you more.” With those words he steps back into the sudden complete darkness of his room and vanishes from sight. I know he’s still there, he’s doing that thing where he stares at me from the dark, I can feel it.

  With a sigh I turn back to the cart, ignoring the fact that my hands are shaking like a leaf when I grab the handles to push it. That fear filled logic still exists, and it comes awake with a roar. All this is a symptom of mental illness—that I had hoped to avoid—and quite possibly one that Vale is adding his delusion too. Its fucking infectious and I really do need to quit.

  Don’t I?

  He can’t possibly be telling the truth, right? Admitting blatantly to murdering someone, hell—several someones, that can’t be true?

  Mulling this over I head towards the elevator. Stopping at the bent metal doors, I push the button marked two and wait for its arrival. The creaking and groaning coming through the closed doors isn’t reassuring me about the safety of the damn thing. Still, this must be done. I don’t see me being able to maneuver this thing up several flights of stairs. I’m not even sure the massive thing will fit in the stairwell door. Where ever that is, I don’t see one marked on the map.

  The doors whoosh open and inside is a surprisingly large space, that is the same pristine white tile that’s on the floor. The lights on the ceiling are blinding; I’m dumb enough to look up so now every time I blink, I can see them behind my eyelids. That’s too damn bright. There’s also a strange buzz in the air, thick and unpleasant. My skin is tingling from it almost like it’s trying to get away from it. With a creak, the doors slide shut and the elevator jerks as it starts its slow ascension. Several minutes pass as I move up the shaft, by the time the doors open and I’m able to hastily push the cart out enough to look back at the death trap, I’m ready to run.

  Why did it take over five minutes to move up one floor? It didn’t feel like we were moving that slow. Having no choice but to move forward to get things done, so I’m not behind, I move on.

  There are guards at the desk at the end of the hallway, who look rather nonchalant. A slim, dark-haired man that has pink wings like Brett looks up at me first. The curl of his lip is the first reaction he has to me. Asshole. He and Brett have more in common than those tinkerbell wings of theirs. Maybe that’s why they’re jerks? The girly wings and too tight uniforms? His dull blue eyes narrow as if he senses I’m making fun of him internally. Other than the wings, nothing about him looks otherworldly. At least the hallucination doesn’t give the jerks special looks too. I think it would suck if they looked cool but acted like that. I smile lamely and look at the other one.

  The other is blonde and slight, no wings for him, but pointy ears are peeking out of his hair—big crooked pointy ears. He lifts his brown eyes to look at me like I’m rubbish at his feet. No shock there. Other than Connie and the kitchen staff, the dislike from the others that work here is becoming a common occurrence. Not that I’m specifically used to being Miss Popular but still, assholes. This particular one is obviously an elf of some kind, but my imagination isn’t being very creative with it. Where is the LOTR theme that I love? The blonde one that is so damn cute you wanna hug him to death with your boobs. Instead, this guy looks like a washed-out former eighties band member who had one bad trip too many. His skin is pale with dark circles under his eyes and sallow looking. His fairy winged partner is no exception. Plus, he looks like he’s sporting a black eye on top of whatever illness plagues him. Addiction maybe? Automatically my eyes go to his arms looking for needle tracks. There’s nothing and I mentally roll my eyes at my behavior.

  Curious that I jumped to addiction.

  Deciding to follow my list and ignore the dickish behavior, I start moving towards them. I notice immediately that the hallway grows darker as I enter it. The doors on each room are shut and made from steel. My curiosity gets the best of me so when I stop at the first one I touch it. No, not steel, the surface is rough and smells metallic. Iron perhaps? Why are the doors made from something as antiquated as iron? They’re secured with a large lock that looks old enough to be in a museum. The only opening is a slot for trays. Some of which are larger, but so are the items on the dishes. None of the slots are the same size;
I swear it’s like they tailored the doors to everyone’s food.

  The higher security here than there is on the first floor is a concern too.

  Shaking out the cobwebs in my brain I start handing out trays. Some stay on the metal shelf on the door, untouched, others disappear immediately. Behind those doors I hear growls and other strange chewing noises as they devour—that’s the right word for it—their breakfast. For some reason these noises and the dark thoughts they incite, that should be terrifying to me but aren’t, remind me of Vale.

  What is it about that man that fascinates me?

  I don’t like admitting it, but it’s there just the same. Odd and uncomfortable, it makes me feel conflicted in a sickening way. There’s a touch of sexual attraction, but it’s not full-blown crawl on him like a monkey kind. Yet, it exists, whether I like it or not. The feel of it reminds me of a simmering pot of water—one that you’re impatiently staring at waiting for it to boil. Like there’s a missing piece that isn’t there yet, which is abnormal for me. I have a type, muscles, and empty heads. Oh, and always losers, that’s a thing too.

  Vale is a crazy old man in an asylum… Well, I guess you can’t get anymore loser than that, right Mel?

  Shaking my head at the bullshit running through it, I hand out the next tray and ignore the glowing purple eyes looking through the food slot at me—eyes that are the same height as a child. I don’t need anything else freaky piled onto the I-need-to-be-committed-leaf-pile. It’s not a secret that places like this have children in them, just not usually mixed in with the adults. Gritting my teeth, I move on. It’s none of my business. At least, not on my first day. It can haunt me when I go home and run this entire oddball day through my head, then maybe call whatever authority deals with this shit.

  Vale is the other thing I need to figure out because something about him isn’t sitting well with me. Maybe it’s the way he holds himself that’s so very different than his appearance? That brief glimpse I saw, fit him more than the frailty he has as a mantle now. To get down into the meat of it, it feels like I know him from somewhere. The familiarity of him is fucking eerie. The desire to step into him and feel his arms around me was sudden and completely freaked me out. So much so that I refused to think about it when I was standing in his presence. Seeing as he can read my face or mind or whatever the hell he’s doing to guess so well. At least, my insane mind is convincing me he can read it, thinking it’s almost the same as telling him.

  A sharp pain in my head makes me pause in my steps, but then it goes away just as quickly as it appeared. Christ, I think that was an honest to God brain cramp.

  Fuck me. I got issues.

  The last tray is passed to its recipient, and I look on my list to guide me next. The third floor that no one wants to talk about or go to, apparently. A good guess tells me that it’s probably where they keep the patients they deem “dangerous.” Probably the trolls and kelpies, right? Snorting I push the button marked with the number three on the elevator and wait for the grumbling contraption to ding its arrival and open its maw. When it does I only jump a little. I’m not a fan of elevators that work correctly and quietly, let alone one that sounds like it’s going to fall into the darkness of the elevator shaft with every inch it moves.

  I push the cart inside and push the button to close the doors. Leaning against the wall, I wait for the journey upwards. I’m assuming it will be as slow as the first time. Pulling my phone out of my pocket takes some effort. This stupid uniform is tight across the hips. Unsurprisingly I have no signal, but the time says half-past seven. Whoa, it’s been an hour and a half since I started this? I need to pick up my pace.

  Suddenly, the elevator shakes and groans loudly coming to a jarring halt. Hard enough to rattle the contents of the cart and make me stumble a bit to keep my footing. The door jerks open and the foyer in front of me is damn near dark with only red lights lining the walls. The number three hand-painted on the wall in bright red paint is taller than I am. That’s something that sets the tone of foreboding filling my stomach.

  With a bracing breath, I start pushing the squeaky cart towards the only door that I can see. Beside it there’s a red button, a consistent theme for this floor. I walk around the cart and read the sign above the button.

  Push button for assistance, the door is always locked. You enter at your own risk.

  Oh, look another dire warning. This place has them everywhere and from everyone. I admit that I still see things with the purple tingeing, everything I see outside of my right eye, but I have yet to be hurt by anyone. No one has threatened me either, and the only person who has “scared” me per se is Vale. Although, I’m not sure that fear is the strongest emotion he draws out in me.

  Which is a mess and of itself. One which I need to sort out once I’m out of the influential sphere of the Unsylum. I push the red button and wait. His words do concern me a bit, the way he put it as a prison or a punishment. I guess from a patient’s point of view going to an asylum is punishment. Then you throw in the whole pulling his teeth out thing. A sharp pain shoots again through my head and vanishes like the first.

  How am I so calm about this? WTF? They pulled out his freaking teeth! I’m seeing an RPG game in real life, dragons and goblins and vamps, oh my! But I’m still doing the job like this is all fucking normal. There’s this thick ass blanket of fog between me and reality. A few deep breaths in through my nose out through my mouth stop the beginning stages of the impending panic attack, barely. What do they call this? The distancing of oneself from an event to cope with it? Searching my brain, somewhat frantically, for the right word I about jump out of my skin when the loud buzz sounds.

  Jesus H. Christ!

  Dissociation, that’s what it’s called when you distance yourself from something so far that you’re numb. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready to give up my dissociation yet, that means accepting reality which means allowing that I see things. There’s a brush of air in front of my face and then something resembling a fairy—except with lots of teeth—brushes its tiny hand across my cheek and winks at me before flying away.

  Well, that closes the debate because I’m not ready for whatever this reality is yet. Nope. For now. Damnit. Another deep breath and I push open the door with only a little bit of an issue with my shaking hands, manage to wiggle the cart through the door.

  The scuffle of feet heralds my entrance followed closely by chairs scraping across the floor. I look around the edge of the cart at the guards who are standing with their hands on… swords? Why do they have swords? I blink several times in an attempt to clear away the vision. I even cover my freaky eye—they still have swords. Okay then not only is this place fucking odd, but they’re also stuck in the 1700s.

  “You’re the new bait?” The tallest one asks.

  Unsure how to answer that without saying something rude, I nod. Instead, I stare, I can’t help it, he has an incredibly pointy chin. No joke at all, it comes to an actual point. The rest of his face is almost as angular, and the top of his head crowns into another sharp point. I have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he reminds of a villain from a comic book movie—that green one that liked to laugh a lot.

  The annoying one.

  “Don’t turn your back on anyone. If you do and they get you, I’m not coming in to help you.” With that said he sits back down, he and the others start laughing at something they’re whispering about. I imagine whatever it is, concerns me and my predicted demise. Arrogant fuckers, the entire lot of the men I’ve met so far.

  I do know a legitimate warning of danger when I hear one. Their glee about it doesn’t hide the fact that it rings of truth. They genuinely believe something will happen to me in this place. Even though Vale said, none would harm me.

  Which part of the crazy is the right one?

  Regardless, I still have a job to do. Looking at my list to get a good idea of the order of delivery, I give one glance down the rather dark hallway, with much thicker doors and a more prison-l
ike feel to it. Well, there’s nothing to be done about it. This is the last floor then I’ll get to start once again on the first floor, cleaning and collection trays. The duty list says I have to change sheets that need it, clean the floor and bathroom, as well as remove any garbage and dirty laundry. There’s a cart specific for this in the laundry/cleaning room that I left downstairs. I’ve got to get through this first.

  This floor has a different feel because there’s this fog of tension that’s saturating the air. Well, I guess not so different than that danger-Will-Robinson feeling that Vale gives me. I don’t feel in any more danger than before, just that there is danger here. Which doesn’t make any sense at all. Unless what he said actually holds water. Is it possible that he can predict or ensure that no one hurts me here? At least none of the patients. Well, I can’t stand here like a ninny deciding what weird tract of thought to follow, they need their food, and I need to keep this job.

  Unless the insanity of this entire mess awakens my common sense and I quit.

  I stop at the first door, and the lack of a food tray slot instantly halts my momentum. How the hell am I supposed to get their food to them? The jingle of keys pulls my gaze up to the pointy-chinned guard, who’s suddenly standing beside me. With a leer he hands me the ring of keys, each one marked with the number of what I’m assuming is a matching room.

  “Most of them are restrained,” he says and walks off.

  I have to go into the rooms with them? I’m not sure how I feel about that because this is supposedly the most dangerous floor. Followed immediately by that thought is the question of why Vale isn’t up here because old man or not he’s dangerous. Which is then followed up by, why didn’t I get a sword? Not that I have any idea how to use one. A nightstick maybe, I could wallop someone with that. Sword? Not so much. I’d probably end up lopping my body parts off with it instead of defending myself.

  Sorting through the keys, I find the one that matches the room and with my stomach doing the mamba in apprehension, I open the door.