by Tempi Lark
“Where is a camera when you need one?” My buddy, Reyes, chuckled from behind. I glanced over my shoulder to see him curled up in a dark corner, an apple in his hand. Taking a bite, he gestured with his chin toward the scene displayed before him. “Smooth. Very smooth.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off.”
“She saw you coming from a mile away. ‘No I don’t want your autograph, get me the hell outta here.’” Reyes snickered. “She’s a smart girl. I like her.”
I shot him an arrogant grin. “Maybe she fainted because of me? Did you ever think of that?” I challenged, knowing damn well that was not the case. My ego had taken a major hit and I was grabbing at every straw at the bar. “She’s probably never seen this much man. Didn’t know what to do with all this masculinity.”
Reyes’ eyes flew over my shoulder, to where Stray’s lifeless body laid. He smirked. “Oh, she knew exactly what to do, trust me.” Fuckwad. He gestured toward her body, which was splayed out like a chalk outline at a crime scene. “You better take advantage of your muse before Kline sends her lackeys in, tranq guns blazing.”
“How can you think about art at a time like this?”
“How can you not?” And when I didn’t jump to get my sketchpad, he shook his head in dismay, a knowing grin spread across his lips. She had fallen to the floor on her side—both arms clutching her chest, one leg shot out—like someone who had tried to run. Had it been anyone else I would’ve dropped to my knees and started sketching away, letting the strokes take me to a place that made sense. But I couldn’t do that with her. I didn’t want to.
For the first time in a while, I wanted to feel something. Anything. I wanted to embed this memory into my brain for a rainy day, just in case I got a wild hair in my ass in the future and wanted to feel it again. As I enclosed the space between us, the voices in my head started their provoking pleas, demanding I shut it off, but I couldn’t. I was too far gone. Kneeling down beside her, I made a mental note to retain this in my memory; her jeans, black flats, and checkered button up blouse. Even the stray hair that had gotten trapped in the corner of her pouty lips—committed to memory. With twitchy fingers I reached forward to brush away the stray strand, but caught myself when Reyes warned from behind, “you’ll lose points.”
I looked around the empty room. “Who is going to tell? The women on my walls? They’re already dead.” Everyone had that one friend, the one who couldn’t live just to live, who couldn’t take risks without evaluating all of the small details. That was Reyes. But Laces, what if you fuck her and she ends up pregnant and births your firstborn in the nuthouse—he’d said that very phrase on a constant loop when I first started inviting women to my room for a little humpty-humpty. He was always worried about the consequences and couldn’t see the worthy opportunities when they presented themselves.
Like now.
I had an opportunity to get up close and personal with a newbie from the outside, and all Reyes was worried about was a few damn points.
A pirate grin crept across my lips.
We weren’t allowed to touch other patients at the asylum. It was near the top of the rules list, right below trying to butcher your wrist with a plastic fork, and calling your buddy on the outside to come up with an escape plan to get your ass out. I’d never given a damn about the rules or trying to obey them, so starting to give a fuck now seemed pointless.
I looked back at Reyes. His curious eyes were trained on me with a hint of confusion I didn’t quite understand. Moments ago he had been urging me to sketch, but now was silent. “You’re not going to try and stop me?” I asked. Out of the three of us—Reyes, me, and Thorne—Reyes was the closest one to sane, according to our charts. He was the paranoid one. The serious one. The one always trying to keep us out of trouble. He was the conscience we never had, and during times like this I depended on him to pull me back to my humanity. But he seemed in no hurry to do that.
Taking another bite of his apple, he chewed, watching in silence as I gave into my urges and stroked a piece of her soft, curly brown hair. It was stupid, needing Reyes’ supervision for what most thought was a basic task, but it was a necessity. The one thing I’d never learned in life was how to stop—how to just throw in the towel and give up, in order to move on. My brain didn’t know how to process the end. It couldn’t accept defeat. All it knew was how to keep fighting, like I had with my mother. It was a trait I applied in all aspects of my life, and this moment was no different. That was part of the reason I was at Hawthorne to begin with, obsessing over stupid shit. And at the moment I was obsessing over the texture of the curly strand in between my fingers.
“Let go.” I heard Reyes whisper. “Don’t think about what you want, think about what she wants. She is unconscious, Laces.”
“It’ll be okay. I can handle it.” That was a lie, but it was a worthy one, nonetheless. At least to me. I wanted to let her go, really I did. I knew letting her go was the right thing, the humane thing. Women like her and men like me didn’t belong together. I was fearless, careless, and above all else, reckless. And yet every time I tried to release a curl, to release the sweet intoxicating scent that eluded her, something would pull me back. The curly strand, the way it was tightly wound around my fingers, forced other urges to come to light.
My eyes fell to her hands clutching her chest, her pale fingers shielding her breasts as if they knew I was coming. Reyes was right: smart girl.
“I want to see her palms.” I said, looking back at Reyes. His eyes had widened to the point I swore they would pop out at any moment. “Her hair is nothing but a tease, alright? If I’m going to do this, I want to fully commit.” Again, obsessive issues.
“Spoken like a true psychopath.” Reyes mused.
I shot him a go-to-hell-look. My ass was never getting out of Hawthorne anyway, so I might as well make it worth my while. It was a terrible mindset to have, one that Dr. Young had spent the last three months hounding me about in therapy, but right then I didn’t give a shit. Like a caveman that had just discovered his first pussy, I spread her arms open and took it all in—her milky, white skin and the bluish veins leading up her forearms. Somewhere along the way to my room she’d cut her wrist and a pool of blood had begun to form in the crook of her elbow. It was then while trying to search for the source of the bleeding that I noticed the branded JE initials on her wrist. “How did you brand yourself?” I whispered to her. I’d seen many cuts and burns pass through the asylum, but never a brand. Branding was for cattle, a permanent way to show what was yours. Trailing my finger over the welt, my heart picked up a little speed at the thought of this petite woman sitting in her room, sock shoved in her mouth, the smell of flesh burning…
Like a loyal hobbit, Reyes piped in, “What are you waiting for?”
“She branded herself.” I murmured.
Reyes sat his apple on the floor and jumped to his feet. Making it to me in two quick strides, he said, “that’s her problem. Let her go.”
Two swift knocks came at my door, followed by Nurse Kline’s voice, “Gambrielle? Come on out, honey.”
Gambrielle?
Reyes cursed.
Ignoring Nurse Kline, I hastily grabbed Gambrielle’s right wrist and turned it over, inspecting it as I had done with her left. There were no markings, which was weird. One arm was beautiful, the other tormented. “Why would she brand herself with JE—it doesn’t make sense.” I shook my head. “Cutters are wild. They don’t give a fuck.”
“Stop obsessing!” Reyes whispered with a hiss. He grabbed a handful of the back of my hoodie and yanked me to a standing position. My brain was still a hazy shitstorm of thoughts from the emotions running through my mind—the stray, my mother, Nurse Kline, the branding. Placing both hands on my shoulders, Reyes squeezed, hard.
“Listen to me. Nurse Kline is outside YOUR door.”
I blinked twice. “Okay.” But the branding…
Reyes tapped the side of my head. “You have a library of Playboy Magazine’
s laying around your room.”
My heart stopped dead in its tracks and my eyes widened. “Oh shit.”
“Oh shit is right, my friend.”
My fear of solitary outweighed my need to hold onto to Gambrielle—yes—but I refused to leave empty-handed. As Reyes started shoving the magazines underneath my bed, I snaked a pair of scissors I had hidden inside of my mattress and made quick work of parting Gambrielle’s hair.
“What are you doing?” Reyes whispered with a hiss. Like a conveyor belt, he slung another magazine under the bed. “Solitary is waiting outside your door! We don’t have time for this shit! Fuckin’ crazy ass!” Yes, yes I was.
“I’ve got it under control!” I shot back.
“Bullshit! Let her go!”
“I will! As soon as I cut this.” I swore. “You have to look at this from my point of view: what if she doesn’t talk to me, hmm? What will I do then?” Scoffing at my friend, I turned to Gambrielle and, like a crazed barber, used my fingers to pull the curly lock to an even angle. “This will tide me over until I can figure out my next move.”
Reyes’ hands flew to his head. “Easy, Sweeney Todd. Are you even listening to yourself right now?”
Scissors ready, I cut a thick curly strand from her hair and quickly shoved it into my pocket.
Another knock came at the door, along with a final ultimatum. “Gambrielle? If you don’t come out, we’re gonna have to send security in.”
I didn’t feel the slightest twinge of remorse for cutting Gambrielle’s hair. In fact, all I could do was smile. Fuckin’ smile. Even after the orderlies broke through the door like the secret service and pinned my face to the floor, my lips kissing the scuffed surface’s ass, all I could do was smile.
Three
Gambrielle
"I look like a doll!"
"But a beautiful doll." My mother pointed out, reaching for the big red bow on top of my white dresser. She had found it at a thrift shop at the beginning of the summer and was saving it for just this special occasion. Staring at my four-foot reflection, I watched as my mother pulled a few auburn strands away from my porcelain face and smiled at her handiwork. "First impressions are important, Gambrielle. It's your first day at a new school, you need to look nice."
I crossed my arms and huffed. "I want to wear my glitter shirt!"
My mother had fixed herself up that morning. I didn't know where she got it, but the red dress she was wearing looked like it cost a million dollars. Her once fuzzy, brown hair was now curly and shiny; her face painted up like one of those ladies we always saw going into the expensive purse stores. We could never afford to buy anything from there, but that never stopped us from standing outside the window and pointing at the different purses we would buy when we won the lottery. Or in my mother’s case, won a rich man.
Even as a naive ten-year-old, I still noticed her desire for the finer things in life. The way she picked up my new backpack from my ratty old twin bed, her fingers running across the LV logo imprinted in the white leather like it was a rare jewel.
And I supposed to her it was. "I already told you: you can't wear the glitter shirt. This school is different. They have a uniform policy." She studied me through her long lashes. “That's why you look like a doll."
The navy blue pleated skirt was itchy and hung just above my knees. My mother said it complimented the navy blue blazer and white polo that I was also forced to wear, but I didn't see it. All I saw was one of my dress-up dolls preparing to play a part.
"Alright, let's put this on and," my mother's eyes lit up as she hooked my backpack straps through my arms, "it's perfect. You look perfect."
"I don't feel perfect." I mumbled to my reflection.
My mother dusted the lint off of my shoulders, "Well, you need to start. There are going to be a lot of positive changes around here over the next few weeks and I need your support, okay?" I nodded. She knelt down to eye level and pushed a runaway auburn curl behind my ear, "no more secondhand clothes, understand? No more cold baths, or beans for dinner." Her smile was big, but sad as she tapped my tiny nose.
"You're going to have the life I never had."
My lips quirked up.
"Now," My mother rose to her feet and clapped her hands twice, the fresh white paint at the tip of her nails shining like a new diamond, "let's get the Princess to her new castle, shall we?"
"Yes!" Her excitement was contagious.
I grabbed her hand, and we made our way through our tiny one-bedroom apartment. "I also have another surprise for you." My mother said as she unlocked the front door, "Mommy has a new friend who has been kind enough to give us a ride today. I need you to behave okay?" I nodded.
We stepped out onto the wooden porch and my eyes immediately flew to the shiny red SUV parked a few feet away. Inside an older man, maybe in his mid-forties, with salt and pepper hair and a tight smile, waved at me. There was no happiness in his dark eyes, no kindness in the way he introduced himself.
The man’s name was Joe, and as I soon learned, he would give us everything our hearts desired.
He also killed our hearts in the process.
Ammonia, fresh linen, and the sound of a wrapper tearing open—pulled me out of whatever comatose state I’d been in. Disoriented, I could still hear their feet padding throughout the room, instruments dropping against a metal tray…Where am I? And the even more pressing question, what were they doing to me?
Someone let out a low curse, and an instrument clattered onto a tray. Oh God. What did Hannibal Sketcher do to me? I swallowed slowly, hoping no one saw—out of sight, out of mind, I kept repeating that phrase over and over in a bid to remain calm.
All I could remember was seeing his face coming closer, the demonic sketches of women—some clothed, some not—bloody appendages galore, limbs barely hanging on. Just thinking about it was enough to send me into a full-blown panic attack. I was born and raised in a small country town where everyone knew everyone, and the gossip mill ran rampant. The talk of the town usually revolved around underage pregnancies, or the latest prostitute to take up the corner on Broad Street. That was the closest to screwed up as any of us ever saw. Until I saw him, that is… “Did you watch the case?” A feminine voice asked.
A deep voice piped in seconds later, “Are you kidding? Everyone in America watched that case.” I felt a sharp tug at my elbow.
“You think she was telling the truth?”
“What do you think?” The deep somber voice asked.
He did it. No matter what anyone in this godforsaken world believed, he did it. I know he did. And I had made it my lifelong goal to prove it, so no one else had to endure what my family did.
There was a moment of silence, and then the woman murmured, “I think if she was telling the truth she wouldn’t be in here.”
“Exactly.”
A few minutes later I heard a door shut, and a different set of footsteps enter. The sound of a lab coat brushing against the counter and a file opening forced me to crack open my eyes. The bright overhead light blinded me for a second and I squinted, catching a glimpse of an old man dragging a stool toward my bed. No-no-no-no! He wasted no time getting comfortable, propping his penny loafers on the bed railing. “I know you’re awake, Gambrielle. The cameras caught you moving around while you were getting your stitches.” he said matter-of-factly. “You had a bit of a nasty fall when you passed out, but no matter. In a week’s time you’ll be as good as new.”
So that’s what they were doing...not wanting to feel like a bigger idiot, I opened my eyes all the way and studied Dr…what does his name tag say? Folton? “Dr. Folton.” He answered as if reading my thoughts. “You may call me Dr. Folton, Folton, or Doc. It doesn’t matter to me. Whatever you are comfortable with.” Glancing at the folder that was now splayed out on my bed he said, “You were court ordered to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. You failed, obviously…or else you wouldn’t be in here.”
“He did it.” I blurted out, and Dr. Folton didn’
t acknowledge my claim as he continued to flip through page after page, checking for anything of vital importance. “Hey, did you hear me?” I asked after ten seconds had passed. Normally I was a well behaved southern girl, my manners impeccable, but after everything that had transpired in the last six months, my patience had worn a bit thin. The way Dr. Folton ignored me, practically writing me off before I even had a chance to defend myself, no.
Like a vampire, my body rose from the bed and my eyes snapped to his direction. Slamming my hand over whatever paragraph held his interest and I shouted, “Stop reading those lies and listen to me! Joe wants to be rid of me, okay? I know the truth! He murdered my sister!” I jerked my hand back and gestured toward the messy papers, “All this is, is a cover-up to save his own ass!”
Dr. Folton offered a tight smile. “Is that right?” And it was the way he said it, like I was a lying toddler that sparked a fury deep within my bones. His bushy gray eyebrows lifted as he asked, “And who is Joe? Is he in here?”
“What?”
“Is Joe an imaginary friend?” he continued, whipping an ink pen out of the breast pocket of his white lab coat. All humor was gone—his gray eyes had turned serious. “Do you talk to him every day, or does he only come around when your anxiety hits its peak?”
I blinked. “Joe is my stepfather…”
“The man you accused of murdering your sister, correct?” Not daring to look up, he went on, “you know it’s not nice to lie, Gambrielle?”
“I’m not lying.”
“The state of North Carolina would beg to differ.”
His words—so devoid of emotions—were like a knife to my chest. I wanted to cry, that seemed like a reasonable response that no one would’ve shamed me for, but I didn’t. Because I got the feeling that was what Dr. Folton wanted, to see me weak and use it as a driving force to confirm what Judge Wexler already believed.
No.
I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction.
