by Tempi Lark
“I had Wexler.” Throne muttered, dragging all of our attention to where he stood a few feet back, snapping his fingers so the lunch lady would get the hint to pass along more butter for his potato. “Court lasted for two minutes. The bitch wanted me to fuckin beg for my freedom and shed a few crocodile tears.” His words were clipped, purposeful. He shook his head resolutely. “I don’t beg for shit.”
Varla shot him a pointed look. “You begged for your meds last month while you were in solitary. “
Thorne gave her a hard, challenging look of his own. “I was mentally incapacitated, so that doesn’t count.” Nurse Kline had found his stash of liquor buried in a homemade Tortuga in the garden out back.
“Whatever. It’ll be nice to have another girl around to help take care of you three.” Varla said, and when Thorne shot her go-to-hell look, she added, “no offense.”
No arguments there. Thorne, Reyes, and I were a bit of a handful, and it would be a nice change of scenery. But everyone was forgetting about the elephant in the room: Gambrielle was a fuckin’ snitch.
And snitches couldn’t be trusted.
At Hawthorne all you had was your word, and Gambrielle had shot hers straight to hell. Once we were at our usual table near the emergency exit, Reyes was already on top of it, ready to remind everyone of the travesty that was being overlooked.
“She ratted Laces out over a sketch…” His weary eyes searched everyone at the table, “Not a cigarette, not alcohol, but a sketch. And you guys want to roll out the welcome wagon? Hell no.” He stabbed his fork into his potatoes and shook his head over and over, sputtering off something inaudible. “She could be a damn spy and the next thing you know our asses are in the new docu series about troubled teens.”
Thorne and Varla had their reservations about certain things, but Reyes? Reyes had paranoia like no one else. I guess that’s what happens when you try to kidnap your ex-girlfriend? According to Reyes, he didn’t even get her into his trunk before seeing the blue and red lights coming toward him. What he had thought were fireworks turned out to be Charlotte’s finest coming to haul his crazy ass downtown.
Reyes never spoke much about what had become known as the incident, but over the years I’d managed to glean a few things from our late-night conversations and pieced it together:
Reyes was in love with her.
They had picked out china patterns, so shit was serious.
Said girlfriend was unaware of his feelings, or that he even existed.
The stalking charges were dropped in exchange for being committed.
“Hey, no one said anything about rollin’ out the welcome wagon.” I said, tapping my palm against the table to rein in my crew. Reyes scoffed. “So she’s a fuckin snitch, alright? I’m not denying that. But Dr. Young has done a lot for our asses,” I paused, glancing at Thorne pointedly, “especially you.”
Thorne rolled his eyes.
It was the same shit every time we elected to bring someone into our group. Most patients at Hawthorne were like loose rats chasing their next meal; they couldn’t figure out left or right, where the hell they were going or what they were doing—which was part of the appeal and punishment of being in a psych ward.
None of us knew what it was like to be a scared rat roaming the halls because we’d been rescued early on before shit got real.
Outside of Hawthorne’s walls we were known for the newspaper clippings, Nancy Grace interviews, or magazine articles that had been written about us. Everyone in the world thought we were a waste of DNA. Crazy.
But inside Hawthorne we were legends. The patients here didn’t associate us with our symptoms or mental stability, unlike the judge or our parents. No. Here they envied us. They wanted to be us.
They wanted to fuck us.
To the patients at Hawthorne, we were royalty.
My eyes drifted to the oversized black hoodie that seemed to swallow Varla’s tiny frame. The word LEGENDS was embroidered across the center in white bold letters. Varla wore it like a crown, as did the rest of us.
We were untouchable.
Five
Gambrielle
"You're allowed five minutes a day, mmmkay? Other patients at Hawthorne need a turn too. Wouldn't want to show favoritism, would we? No." The charge nurse on afternoon duty, Mrs. Davis, treated me as though I had a mental handicap. Her bright eyes were sympathetic as she passed the corded phone across the marble white counter that served as the nurses’ station. She was old, well into her sixties, and her strangled, southern voice was oddly comforting. "Now you go ahead and tell me who you want to call and I'll put it right in for ya, okay?"
I offered her the kindest smile I could muster, given the circumstances. It wasn't her fault I was here, after all, it was Joe's, and I had to keep reminding myself of that little fact as I leaned forward and slowly whispered, "I don't know my attorney's number. Do you have that on file somewhere?" Yes, I needed to speak with him. ASAP. Being confined to a room all day and force fed meds was one thing; Getting demonic sketches from Hannibal Sketcher was another thing altogether.
Nurse Davis fell back into her chair and shot me a pitiful look, "Oh honey. You'll have to forgive Laces. He's not well."
I blinked twice. “Laces?”
“The room you ran into yesterday? That was Laces’ room.” She confided and then admitted, “I heard you mentioning something about a sketch to Nurse Kline.”
“Maybe I was referring to someone else?”
“That’s not likely.” she said, smiling. “Laces is the only patient that sketches on this floor.”
All I could do was force a tight smile and nod. Word clearly traveled fast around Hawthorne.
Nurse Davis leaned forward and whisper-shouted, "He once drew a photo of me hanging from the Eiffel Tower. I had no clothes on and my insides were spilling out into the Paris sky." Her voice was so uppity, like this was the biggest piece of gossip she would get to share all year. Seeing my stunned expression, she cleared her throat and bared her set of white dentures, "You have to find the beauty in the ugly. That's what my momma always used to say. Poo on the fact that my guts were hanging out. But the Eiffel Tower was sketched to perfection." As if recalling a memory, she closed her eyes and nodded, rocking back and forth in her chair, "Oh, it sure was."
“I don’t doubt it one bit, BUT—your guts were hanging out—”
“—had a beautiful sky.” She rambled on, “Laces was even nice enough to put me in my favorite polka dot dress. It was torn, of course, but I still smiled at them rags.”
I looked to my left, then right, no one was around to witness this atrocity, thank God. My head snapped back to her, “about that phone call. Do you um…have my attorney’s phone number—or is there someone I could speak to?”
Nurse Davis reeled herself back in from her musings and I was back to being treated like a mentally handicapped being. “You’re only allowed to call the people you put on your approved list. Did you put your attorney on your list?”
Did I? I bit my lip as I thought back to yesterday and to the paperwork Malcolm had given me after we accepted the plea deal. Everything had happened so fast.
“Let me check in the computer, okay?”
I nodded and whispered a prayer at about the same time a thin, blue-haired pixie girl bounced past me, laughing like a clown on speed. Our eyes briefly met and there was something behind them, an unspoken secret as she skipped away in her oversized black hoodie and black scrub pants, chanting “He’s coming for youuu...” in a perky, songstress voice.
“Excuse me?” I prompted. A shiver coursed through my spine as she continued to repeat the same phrase over and over, the words bouncing off of the walls and into my ears, taunting me. Who was coming? Had my stepfather sent someone? My heart had picked up a little speed and I could feel the beads of sweat breaking out across my forehead as pixie waved at me.
“Oh, don’t worry about her. The jury is still out on that one.” Nurse Davis said, squinting at her computer sc
reen. “Ah! Here we go! You approved Claudette Evans and Stacey Hargrove.” Shit. No Malcolm.
Claudette Evans was my mother/Joe’s bitch, and had testified against me at trial. She was Joe’s faithful minion, an abuse victim suffering from Stockholm syndrome. Any conversation with her this early after my plea deal would’ve resulted in another argument, and possibly Joe hanging up the phone for her. Something he had been known to do in the past…
Stacey Hargrove had been my best friend since I was three. We were like twins, always finishing each other’s sentences and knowing what the other would say before she said it. Her parents had treated me like I was their own daughter, and we often vacationed in Charleston together during the summer. But since the allegations were made public there hadn’t been much conversation. Like my stepfather, Stacey came from blue-blood roots, and blue-bloods were known to take pride in their reputations almost as much as their bank accounts.
“I’ll just dial your mother, alright? No need to get all flustered over something like this.” Nurse Davis said, ripping the selection right out from under me. She dialed the number and passed me the corded phone. I didn’t know what I was going to say to my mother. Thanks for putting me in here?
The call went straight to voicemail.
"You've reached the mailbox of District Attorney Joseph Evans." My hand began to shake before his last name was uttered through the receiver. "I’m unable to answer your call. Leave a message after the beep."
I quickly hung up the phone and jerked away, shaking my head repeatedly, "No. That's not right. It's the wrong number." I wanted to believe there had been a mistake during check-in, or confusion with whoever transferred the data to the computer.
Nurse Davis glanced back at her computer screen. "Huh, well that's strange. All of the numbers for your approved list are the same."
That bastard. Joe had taken away everything from me—my family, my future—and was now trying to wipe what was left of me clean off of this earth. The outrage I felt in that moment, the pain, aggravation...I swallowed the lump in my throat and handed back the phone. "Is there any way to get that changed?"
Nurse Davis' lips turned downward. "You were checked in involuntarily. Your power of attorney would have to meet with the office manager and make the adjustments."
Great.
Just perfect.
Fists clenched at the sides, I stormed off without saying another word. Never in my life had I thought about killing anyone. Stacey used to say I didn’t have it in me, that sweet southern girls like me didn’t kill, we buried. Girls like me were the ones always grieving the destruction of those around me. But I swear if Joe had walked through the metal double doors right then and there, I would’ve torn him apart limb by limb, and wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
Clutching my right wrist to my chest, I squeezed hard as the image of me tied to my bed—starving and lying in my own waste—slammed into my mind. I’d been twelve the first time I endured his abuse. And all because of a B. I’d been expected to keep a perfect 4.0, but had slipped in math towards the end of the semester. My mother had hidden the report card in her purse and grounded me before Joe could have his say. I didn’t like my punishment, but I’d dealt with it and went straight to my room after school for three days. Then, on the fourth day, I arrived home to find Joe sitting on my bed, report card in one hand, a long rope in the other. My mother had noticeably been absent, and the more I think about it now, I understand why. She knew what he was going to do and being the coward that she was, she didn’t want to be around. It seemed like I was tied to my bed forever, instead of just three days. “You will learn, cunt.” Joe had said once my frail body was free and staggering to the bathroom. “Until you start paying some damn bills around here, you’ll do as I say!”
And until six months ago, I had obeyed his every command. I had catered to his every wish.
“Joe has an anger problem, I know. But nobody’s perfect.” My mother had once said. “He doesn’t know how to express himself in the right way.”
I had glared at her from the kitchen table as though she was crazy. Nothing about Joe’s behavior was right, and because of her excuses I now had scars lining both of my wrists from where I had fought to break free from the ropes. “You need help, Mom.” I had said in a serious tone. “I can call somebody! The police!”
But she would hear nothing of it. To my mother we were the lucky ones. We had a beautiful two story estate in a gated community, fancy cars, and the adoration of everyone around us. To her it was an even exchange: we endured Joe’s sadistic ways and torture, and in return lived a life of luxury.
Maybe if she had spoken up years ago I wouldn’t have ended up here, I thought as I slowly entered my room. It was a fool’s notion, really, because my mother was the weakest one of all. She’d proved as much when she lied on the stand for him.
I was angry, miserable, and just wanted to sleep the rest of the day away, but little did I know there was a surprise in my room that awaited me. I had barely made it two feet into my room when I saw him:
Laces, A.K.A. Hannibal Sketcher, was lying on my bed.
Six
Laces
Sympathy, pity, empathy—these were words that didn’t register in my dictionary, and I planned on keeping it that way.
This, what I was about to do, was nothing more than a favor—an exchange between enemies at war. For whatever reason Gambrielle had been misinformed about the rules of war, and to keep peace among my crew, I felt it was my duty as a citizen of Hawthorne to give her a quick lesson; a reminder of who she was fuckin’ with.
I’d made myself comfortable on her bed—eyes closed, arms thrown behind my head, the scent of fresh roses attacking my nostrils—when I heard it: a soft gasp coming from the doorway.
Ah, showtime.
The sound of her feet shifting anxiously, and her fingernails digging into her porcelain skin, made my lips twitch.
I wasn’t a total shithead; Every leader deserved their Braveheart moment before pulling out their sword, and I gave her that as a courtesy: she had a minute to collect herself and speak her peace—but instead chose to stand in the same spot, presumably the doorway, and cower like a bitch.
Fuckin’ newbie…
“Word in the halls is my masterpiece offended your delicate sensibilities, milady.” I said, cracking my eyes. Gambrielle was standing in the doorway, her brown eyes full of shock, fear, and disbelief. I swear I thought she was going to shit herself, or maybe she already had. Rising from the bed like a predator, I stalked toward her, hands clasped behind my back. “You have yet to speak. It’s fuckin’ insulting, and starting to piss me off.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here without my permission.” she said in a soft rush, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Permission? Ha! I was the judge, jury, and executioner, she just didn’t know it yet. Oh, but she will…
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought since you already went into my room, uninvited, that I should extend the same courtesy.” I said matter-of-factly.
“I…I…I don’t. I mean…”
What’s this? I craned my neck forward to try to make sense of her stutters. Her voice was soft, low, like that of a choir girl. It only fueled my aggravation.
“I…run…you.” She tapped her chest. “I…r-rrrran to…”
Yeah, no shit, you ran your fuckin’ mouth—is what I wanted to say to her caveman rambles, but she quickly gathered herself and pointed a sharp manicured nail my way, surprising even me. “I know your kind, how your brain works!” She hissed, eyes still as wide as ever. “Just stay away from me, Hannibal Sketcher! Understand? Stay away!”
The only thing missing was a cross and holy water and we would’ve had a full-blown exorcism. And you know what? It was about damn time. This was the reaction I’d been waiting for.
Reyes was right: I had experienced a moment of weakness in my room when I cut a piece of her hair, and that type of behavior was no good at Hawthorne. The people here didn’t sweep
shit like that under the rug, they exploited it. Just like Gambrielle exploited my sketch for her own gain.
“Hannibal Sketcher.” I repeated, seeing how it tasted on my tongue. “That’s very original. Did you come up with it all on your own, or were you under the influence?” of meds…
Her eyes drew into slits. “Whatever this is let’s get it over with. I’m exhausted and just want to go to bed.” She muttered. She had a little bite left in her bark, not much, but some, and thought it would be enough to take me on.
She was wrong.
“You’ve disappointed me.” I said, enclosing the distance between us. Now inches away from her lips, I kept my eyes trained on hers and pushed an auburn curl off of her shoulder. She shivered. “I thought you were going to be a good girl, but you ran your mouth, stray—tsk, tsk…”
She stood her ground, swatting my smooth hand away like a fly. “Yes, I did.” The pride in her voice was unmistakable as she poked the center of my hard chest and added, “Your sketch was horrid and inappropriate. The only place it belongs is in the trash.” She probably had a lot more she wanted to say—oh, I don’t know, like how I reminded her of an 80’s on-screen serial killer—but I didn’t give her the chance. My eyes fell to the spot on my chest, and to the spot where mere seconds ago her finger had been. I could still feel the nerves throbbing from the indention the nail had left upon impact. What fucks I had left—which admittedly wasn’t a lot, maybe one or two—jumped ship and forgot to throw me a life vest. Bye-bye, Gambrielle.
“Was that a cry for help, or did you piss the wrong man off?” I asked, a little too casually.
Confusion filled her brown hues. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you heard me.” I taunted. My eyes zeroed in on the scars on her wrists, and specifically, the initials. A harsh chuckle vibrated through my chest. “I didn’t know branding was a thing, but to each his own.” As the recognition finally hit home, all-of-the-color drained from her face and I lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. Her soft skin burned against mine as I traced the welts of the initials and flashed her a sinister smirk, “Pity. You had such beautiful skin.”
