Laces : An Asylum Bully Romance (Boys of Hawthorne Asylum)

by Tempi Lark

  Closing my file with a swish, Dr. Folton uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet. “In the forty-eight years I’ve been practicing medicine I’ve dealt with many of your kind, girl. You’re selfish, entitled. You can try to convince me of your innocence, but I think we both know your words will fall on deaf ears around here.” An arrogant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Here at Hawthorne you will receive the tools to help navigate your way through life. Our primary goal is to get you mentally stable enough to reenter society.” There was an unspoken challenge in his eyes as he leaned forward and whispered, “I can’t make any promises, though.”

  “I don’t need your help.” Each syllable was dripping with acid. I didn’t know anything about Dr. Folton except that he was a doctor, and if his behavior was any indication, an asshole. He was just like the others—Judge Wexler, my attorney, and even my own mother. They all thought I had checked out, so to speak, and felt the only way to check-me-back-in was to have me committed. All because I told the truth about the wrong person: Joe.

  “Most mentally ill people are not aware they’re mentally ill.” Dr. Folton stated on his way out the door. “Sometimes it takes more than a diagnosis for patients to see the big picture.” Now in the hallway, he looked over his shoulder. “Do you have any questions for me before I get the nurse to escort you to your room?”

  My emotions were all over the place. Part of me was thrilled that I had gotten away from Joe, and part of me was angry that he had escaped justice. He was probably at our six-bedroom estate, slumped back in his overstuffed recliner, sipping on a beer as he celebrated his victory and counted his millions. And I was here. All because I told the truth.

  And where was Elizabeth?

  Six feet under…

  Because she had attempted to tell the truth.

  When I didn’t speak Dr. Folton walked away and Nurse Kline entered seconds later, a pair of black scrubs tucked under one arm. The last time I had seen her, her platinum blonde hair had been pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head, showcasing the enchanting bone structure of her heart-shaped face. But she’d since released the bun and her platinum curls were splayed out over her small shoulders. She didn’t look a day over thirty and was gorgeous, reminding me of the pianist, Charlene, at the country club my mother always dragged me to every Sunday after church. “You’re not going to make a run for it, again, are you?” she asked, squinting. “I cut you some slack last night because you weren’t fully in the system yet, but if you run away again I will be forced to sedate you and place you in solitary.”

  Sedate me…for running? My eyes widened slightly at the thought of a giant needle ripping through the muscles of my butt. Taking the black scrubs from Nurse Kline I shook my head and murmured a pathetic, “No.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Ten minutes later I found myself trailing behind Nurse Kline, dressed in the hideous scrubs that were deemed mandatory to separate us from medical personnel. Joe had drilled it into my mother’s head early on that sophisticated women wore skirts and dresses, and my mother being the weak woman that she was, had conformed to his demands, making sure I’d followed that rule for the last eight or so years. Because of that I wasn’t prepared for the fabric riding up my crotch as I made the dreaded walk-of shame through Hawthorne’s main hallway.

  “Keep up, Evans.” Nurse Kline quietly scolded.

  I took in the scene to make sure the coast was clear and tugged at the fabric hugging my crotch. “I’m not used to these pants.” I said.

  “Religious parents?”

  I tugged at the fabric again, “Something like that.”

  Nurse Kline’s face screwed-up but she didn’t push the issue any further, and I immediately felt like an idiot for bringing it up in the first place. Stupid…stupid…stupid.

  On my right wrist was a medical ID bracelet with my name, birthdate, current medications (none), and my room number. Seeing my information below HAWTHORNE ASYLUM was the cherry on top of an already crappy twenty-four hours.

  “There are three floors at Hawthorne: Floor A, Floor B, and Floor C. Floor A is for patients with mild diagnosis’. Floor B is for patients with moderate to severe symptoms,” Nurse Kline paused and peeked over her shoulder at me, “and Floor C is reserved for severe patients who could possibly be a danger to others or themselves.

  You will be on Floor B.”

  How lovely….

  Like yesterday, everything was white—the floors, walls, nurses’ stations, nurses’ scrubs. The only exception was a buff security guard, who was wearing his typical blue policeman garb. At the center of each patient door were room numbers. My heart started to really pound as we approached Room #19; the room I had sought refuge in last night. I had held onto hope for the last twenty minutes of Nurse Kline’s “patient orientation” that Hannibal Sketcher and I would be on different floors. That ship had sailed, apparently.

  Aside from his strange fascination with morbid sketches, I had no reason to despise Patient #19. But during my three or four minutes trapped in his room, I had shown weakness by fear. I could’ve remained calm and opened the door, set myself free, but I didn’t. I’d elected to let the fear consume me, just as I had when my stepfather, Joe, went off on one of his rampages. The sad thing about it was Patient #19 hadn’t been shouting at me, or throwing things—all he had been doing was walking toward me; a simple act that sent alarm bells going off in my head. This really couldn’t get any worse…or could it?

  Stopping at the nurses’ station, Nurse Kline threw one arm to the right, “The right side of the hall is for male patients,” her left arm flung to the left, “the left side is for our female patients. All patient doors must be open during the day at all times. You are not allowed to go into other patients’ rooms without their permission.” Nurse Kline stressed the last part. “If you are given permission to do so, you are not to touch anything inside of their room unless they tell you it is okay to do so. Personal space is very important around here, as you’ll soon come to find out.”

  Okay. That seemed fair. I liked my personal space as much as the next person. My gaze shifted to the massive dry erase board nailed into the wall behind her. There were twenty-four numbers in numerical order, with dates and yellow stars in square boxes. I held back a snort, “What is that for?” I had an idea, but needed confirmation that I was about to be treated and rewarded like a five-year-old.

  Nurse Kline glanced over her shoulder. “Oh that? That is the HP board.” She looked back at me, “Every day, should you behave and participate, you will be awarded a star.”

  “Just like kindergarten…” I mused.

  “Somewhat. But kindergarteners don’t get to go home after a month of straight stars,” She nodded at the HP board, “they do.”

  Home? I had been close to yawning, but was now suddenly intrigued with the childish yellow stars. Seeing the hope enter my eyes, Nurse Kline let out a heavy sigh. “You would only be allowed to get out for the weekend.” she answered. “You would be allotted a two day pass to spend with your family.”

  Family…spend a weekend with the same family that had put me in here in the first place? Spend the weekend with Joe? Those stars represented freedom, but at what cost? My sanity? That was why I was in here in the first place, because everyone thought I had lost my mind…and the reward for gaining my mind would be losing it all over again? Seemed a little messed up from where I was standing.

  The only good that would come from it would be getting to investigate, something I had wanted to do for six months, but hadn’t been given the opportunity. After the murder Joe had put a dead-bolt on Elizabeth’s bedroom door, preventing everyone, even my mother, from going inside. He claimed it was to make the transition easier, but I knew better. There was something in Elizabeth’s old room that he didn’t want anyone to see, or find. I just didn’t know what.

  Nurse Kline pointed at Patient #18 on the HP board. “That’s you, Evans. #18. You can start collecting stars tomorrow.”<
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  You need to get in that room. I clenched my fists and nodded, my eyes falling to the floor beneath me. All I needed was one pass, one chance to rummage through Elizabeth’s things for something the police might’ve missed.

  And I was going to get it.

  Oh yes…

  And then Joe would get his.

  “Alright.” Nurse Kline clapped once, dragging me out of my thoughts. “I’ll take you to your room and you can get settled in. I’m sure you want to get a little rest before your first day tomorrow.”

  My room was at the very end of the hallway—directly across from Hannibal Sketcher’s. Of course… the fates weren’t satisfied with my public humiliation from the previous day, so they’d made it their mission to remind me of said humiliation every day.

  Rolling my eyes, I dragged my feet behind Nurse Kline, shaking my head at the irony of it all. I could’ve been #13 or #2, but no…

  My room was small, around eight by ten feet, with white walls and one twin bed.

  There were a few shelves nailed into the wall closest to the door to put my things in.

  Whatever they allowed me to keep.

  “Before I forget,” Nurse Kline patted down her scrub top and pulled out a folded up note, “Here is your daily schedule. Part of your therapy requires getting in a routine. If you have any questions, come by the nurses’ station.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  As per the rules, the door to my room was still open long after Nurse Kline had fled. I spent most of my first night pacing back and forth, getting used to my new surroundings. The true extent of Judge Wexler’s punishment didn’t come until they called lights out over the intercom and seconds later my door slammed shut. Anxious, I crawled into bed and briefly closed my eyes and attempted to relax, but the feeling was fleeting when my finger brushed across a piece of paper tucked underneath my pillow Alright…remember to be calm, Evans.

  Yes. Be cool.

  For all you know it could be trash.

  Right.

  Maybe the janitor had forgotten to toss it after the last patient was released. Yanking the piece of paper out from my pillow, I walked over to my door and squatted down.

  There was a small crack of light, not a lot, but just enough to see what was on it.

  Shit.

  It wasn’t trash.

  But it sure as hell felt like it.

  What I had originally thought was paper turned out to be a thick piece of parchment.

  Sketch paper.

  All of the wind was knocked out of me.

  The strokes were so precise and drawn with a purpose. A girl, who bore a striking resemblance to me, was lying in front of a door, a sword shoved right through her chest. My hands began to shake.

  Her mouth was barely open, blood spilling through the corners and down her neck. She was clothed—thank God—but that didn’t make me feel any better. Her outstretched arms were reaching out to someone, something, which had obviously failed to help her. A lump formed in my throat and I tried to swallow it but couldn’t. I felt cold and numb, laid bare for the entire world to see… and above all else, I felt weak.

  Four

  Laces

  “We’ve spoken of this in the past, you and I, about how your good deeds might not be perceived in the same light as someone else’s good deeds. I don’t know why you gave her that sketch,” Dr. Young said, pursing his lips, “and I’m not judging you the least bit for doing it, all I’m going to say is the next time you feel compelled to give a gift…don’t.”

  Oh Gambrielle…she had been at Hawthorne for less than forty-eight hours and had already violated our most sacred law: keep your mouth shut. You wouldn’t rat out your supply source if you were busted for, say, cocaine, or tell the cops which bank you robbed. So why the hell Gambrielle felt it was necessary to show-off the masterpiece that I’d devoted a full hour to in solitary, only God knows. What was meant to be a kind gesture, a welcome gift—had turned into the Salem Witch Trials with yours truly at the center of it all. Dr. Young acted as though I had sacrificed a chicken to a wildfire and danced around with my bare ass out.

  Dr. Young looked over his desk to where I sat slumped down in the seat reserved for his clients—my legs crossed, shoes propped on the edge of his desk. He shook his head in dismay and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Do you like solitary, Laces, is that it? Because I can designate a room specifically for you—three meals a day, no TV, no pretty little girls to flirt with.”

  “Are you serious…all because of a sketch?” I uncrossed my legs and quickly leaned forward, “You’re the one always telling us to go the extra mile to make a newbie feel welcome, and the one time I do it you bitch because it doesn’t meet your standards?”

  Pffft. Rising to my feet, I pointed at the sketch splayed out on his desk like a treasure map, and specifically, to the sword slicing through her chest, “It was supposed to be symbolic!”

  “Yes well, she didn’t see it that way, I’m afraid.” I cocked my head, “Well maybe she needs to clean the cum out of her eyes and take a second look!”

  Dr. Young’s head dropped, defeated. He let out a heavy sigh. “I have done everything in my power to help you—but you’ve given me no choice.” He reached for the phone on his desk, “I’m going to have to call your father.”

  I scowled. This was ridiculous! The sketch wasn’t even that morbid. Compared to the other sketches on my wall, it was definitely one of the tamer ones. “He put me in Hawthorne to get rid of me, and you think he’s going to want to talk to you about me?” A strangled laugh broke through the air as I threw my head back, “That’s rich!”

  Dr. Young’s finger shot up. “Hi, this is Dr. Young at Hawthorne Asylum. Is Mr. Caster available?”

  Noooo, I mouthed. And he wouldn’t be for a very long time. Ever since my mother passed four years ago, that man had made it his mission in life to avoid me like the plague. My father was the owner of Caster Industries—a company that manufactured hybrid vehicles—and spent every waking moment traveling the world, meeting with business partners and negotiating new deals, greasing the palms of the world’s elite. He was a self-made man, a feat he used to enjoy bragging about at our family’s annual Christmas party. With nothing more than a dream and two dollars to my name I built an empire from the ground up, he used to say with a boyish twinkle in his eyes. I hadn’t spoken to my old man in six months. The last I’d heard he was in Paris.

  “Do you know when he will be available?” Dr. Young asked, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I’ll hold.”

  I leaned forward and whispered, “You’re going to be holding for a while.” If not forever.

  A stare-down ensued. “I will hang up this phone right now if you apologize to Gambrielle AND show her around.” Dr. Young bargained, twirling the cord around his index finger. “I had tasked Carrie Malone with showing her the ropes, but she got released yesterday.”

  “You mean like a tour guide?”

  “I want you to give her some direction. She needs it right now.” Before I could come up with a wiseass rebuttal, he reached for something under his desk, a newspaper, and holding the phone firmly between his cheek and shoulder, held up the Asheville Times like a shining beacon. “Going once, going twice…”

  On the cover of the Asheville Times was a headline: DA EVANS’ DAUGHTER AGREES TO PLEA DEAL; HAWTHORNE OFFICIALS CAN NEITHER CONFIRM NOR DENY HER PLACEMENT. A photo of Gambrielle sitting in a courtroom—hands clasped together, legs crossed, wavy brown hair styled to the nines—came into view, and as much as I fought it, I couldn’t control the shit-eating grin that settled on my face even if I tried. Turns out Little Miss Innocent wasn’t so innocent after all.

  “She might be a little hesitant at first to engage in conversation with you given all that’s happened, but she’ll move past it, I hope.” He was referring to the sketches and fainting episode in my room. “Gambrielle has no idea what lies ahead, but you and your friends do.” Dr. Young ‘s smirk
now mirrored my own. “You guys know what it’s like to be thrown away with all the cameras watching your every move. So, what do you say?”

  The guys Dr. Young was referring to were Reyes Park, Varla English, and Thorne Walsh—the only three people at Hawthorne whose crazy matched my own. Varla had always complained about the toxic levels of testosterone in our group, so I was confident she would welcome the stray with open arms. Thorne and Reyes, however, would be a different story. Change wasn’t exactly Reyes’s strong suit, and Thorne hated everyone in general.

  “The only direction I’ve ever given is to my cock…” I pointed out.

  Dr. Young held up his palm. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Do we have a deal or not?” There was a bit of anger brewing in his eyes when he finally looked up at me. He had put up with a lot of my shit over the last two years, more than any therapist got paid to put up with, so I kind of felt I owed it to him. Shit.

  “You have to tell me every detail: what did the headline say? Did she become irate in court and make Judge Wexler take off his toupee?” The excitement in Varla’s perky voice was contagious as she pushed her lunch tray down the line, picking only fruits and nothing else. Her bony hand pointed at a cup of sliced oranges, which the lunch lady happily handed her with no complaints. As long as it wasn’t a food supplement protein shake, everyone was thrilled with her progress. Her black hoodie was starting to fill out and I could actually make out the word Legends across her chest now. Glancing through the bright blue locks curtaining her face, she asked, “Didn’t you have Judge Wexler, Laces?”

  I shook my head. “Judge Collins.” The douchebag had teased me with weekly therapy sessions and a homebound program, the usual punishment for first-time offenders. But when judgement day finally came there wasn’t a pastor in sight that could’ve saved me. Putting a salad bowl on my tray, I glanced over my shoulder, “Reyes?”

  “Simmons.” Reyes answered, moving his tray along. “The bastard wanted to send me to juvie, but my lawyer made a big stink about my supposed asthma,” he made air quotes, “so they threw me in here.”