by K. Ancrum
LIKE MOST TERRIBLE THINGS
He got used to it.
Time passed both quickly and slowly in the hospital—kind of like a weird, oppressive summer vacation. Where every day seemed like it took ten thousand years, but then you looked up and three months had passed in what felt like an instant. They didn’t expect much from him other than to get up and go through the scheduled routine. After the first couple of weeks, his roommate had stopped flinching every time he walked into the room.
It wasn’t difficult there. Of course, on the other hand, there was nothing to distract him from thinking about what had happened.
And if he thought about it too much, it got hard to breathe. But he couldn’t not think about it because this was the first time in about ten years that Jack wasn’t immediately accessible to him in some way. It felt … indescribably terrible. Like someone had chopped off his arm, or blinded him in one eye.
But as with most things, he got used to it. He didn’t have a choice.
THE HOSPITAL
The thing that really killed him about being there was the tedium. Other than going to the library, writing, and sleeping, there wasn’t much else to do. It’s not like he could really make friends. August had had enough of dealing with crazy people to last him a lifetime.
Solitude was boring, but at least he didn’t have to actively participate in his roommate’s frantic ranting or enraged howling.
Besides that, the food was crap. Things were soggy, salty, bland, or had a mysterious texture. He was pretty sure everything had a mild sedative in it, and out of suspicion, he had tried not to eat for the first three weeks. But all that had gotten him was some more one-on-one therapy.
Sometimes when he went to bed, the only thing that could get him to sleep was thinking, At least this isn’t jail, at least this isn’t jail, over and over until he succumbed to exhaustion.
WISH
August sighed and slumped against the window. They wouldn’t let anyone outside.
It was raining and some of the patients were afraid of the noise or got too excited. It was easier to just keep them all in, rather than having to keep track of who was allowed out and who wasn’t. That was the thing about this place. It was so batshit that if you didn’t have problems coming in, you’d definitely have them going out. But that was such a cliché that he never actually vocalized the thought.
He wanted to see Jack.
He wished they had been kind enough to jail them together. Let them be with each other. Let him stand at Jack’s side, like he was meant to.
There was a wild animal inside him that wanted to claw at Jack’s cell till his fingers bled, and to scream until Jack heard how much he didn’t want to stay away. But he pushed the urge down and away.
Because he was sane. And he didn’t belong here.
A PSYCHOLOGIST
“What were you thinking before your actions on January thirtieth?”
August closed his eyes. He didn’t remember thinking anything. It had been too far past the point where he’d simply decided to stop thinking altogether.
“You have to answer the questions, Mr. Bateman. It is a part of your treatment.”
His psychologist changed every other month or so. This month’s version was stern, bearded, and encased in tweed.
“It wasn’t so much thinking,” August said after some time. “It was more like following instructions. And for the record, I swear I’ve told you guys this before. Jack would ask me to do something and I would just do it. The concept isn’t confusing.”
“So, what you’re saying is that everything is Mr. Rossi’s fault.”
“No. That’s not what I said at all. It was definitely a two-person activity. There was just … obligation involved. It’s really difficult to explain. Is what Jack said about it on file?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s confidential information.”
August propped his legs up on the desk in front of him defiantly and crossed his arms. “Well, I’m sorry that you’re such a dick.”
STERILE
Hospital staff found him leaning against Jack’s door with his hand splayed out over the small window. He’d thought that they would be put in separate facilities, but every day he woke up here, he felt otherwise. He decided to look. It had taken weeks, but he’d finally found it; August could feel him living behind the door. Sleeping, maybe. It was a warm March afternoon. It was very exciting.
“You’re not allowed on this side of the hospital.”
August whipped around angrily, getting ready to argue.
Oh. It was just the kind orderly. The one with the soft hands and the soft voice. “Let’s get you back to your room.”
August let her lead him down the hall and down the stairs and through the corridor. She was gentle as she brought him to bed and tucked him inside, pulling the covers up to his chin. Before he fell asleep, he felt her hand brush over his hair.
“You poor thing.”
GINGHAM
The kind orderly was back. August sat up in his bed. She didn’t come with security, and she closed his room door gently behind her, and sat down at the foot of his bed. “I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s very hard to watch from the outside and not want to help. I went to Mr. Rossi’s room today. He spoke about you.”
“Does he know I’m here?” August asked calmly.
She wrung her hands in her lap. “He … hasn’t been getting better. He has moments of lucidity, but most of the time he’s just … Anyway, he spoke about you. He asked for you. Quite rudely, I might add.”
August laughed fondly. “Yeah, yeah. He’s like that.”
They sat in silence. August picked at his sheets self-consciously. “Do you think you could … I don’t know … keep doing this for us? It’s important.”
After a moment, she nodded.
EIGHT MONTHS
The weather was nice, so they were allowed out today. The grass was crunchy and cold, but August lay down in it anyway. He closed his eyes and threaded his fingers through it, flinching as the frost turned to dew against his skin.
“You’re weird. You don’t belong here.”
August cracked his eyes open against the glare of the sun. “May I help you?”
The girl had tightly braided pigtails and was swathed in a pink bathrobe. “He screams about you at night. The boy they keep in that little room. He’s crazy. He’s crazy. He’s crazy.” Her face looked pinched and mean.
August covered his face with his arm. “Please, go away.”
She leaned over him. Her breath smelled like medicine and decay. “Poor little boy in his cage. Poor useless knight. You never come when he calls.”
August took his arm down and just stared at her. Stared at her because he knew she didn’t like to be looked at.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she shrieked. “You’re just jealous! You’re just jealous of me!”
He stared at her until the orderlies dragged her away.
PILLS
The orderlies followed him everywhere now.
He took his medicine now.
He slept for days.
It was like languishing in a cottony haze: cotton over his eyes, cotton in his ears, cotton in his mind. It was easier to take his medicine than to think about Jack trapped in his room less than five hundred feet away. It might as well have been miles.
Codependency, they called it.
co·de·pen·dent
[koh-di-pen-duhnt]
adjective:
1. Of, or pertaining to, a relationship in which one person is physically or psychologically addicted, as to alcohol or gambling, and the other person is psychologically dependent on the first in an unhealthy way.
“Does that sound familiar?” the psychologist asked him. His shrink was a young man this time.
August laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. What are you going to do about it? I like it just the way it is. What are you going to do?”
MOMENTUM
“You’re a smart boy, August,
” the psychologist said. The doctor was young. Pretty, this time. Probably Korean. She wore her glasses on the edge of her nose and smiled at him often. “The difficulty with this case is your reluctance to advance with your therapy. From what I’ve heard from my colleagues, you reach near breakthrough, then stop opening up and instead make flippant remarks until they’re forced to end the session with you. I don’t think it’s that you don’t understand. I think you’re acting out on purpose so you can stay near Mr. Rossi.”
August shrugged, but inside he was impressed. It had been six months and she was the only one who had noticed.
The psychologist began writing something on her notepad. “Unlike others who have handled your case, I think that you would benefit from less separation from Mr. Rossi, because it is not having the intended effect. At this point it just seems to be exacerbating your codependency. It is, however, a part of the conditions of your sentence, so I can’t do much about it. I can, however, make arrangements to increase your likelihood of seeing him.” She stopped writing and looked at him hard. “In order to do so I need your cooperation. I need you to trust me and I need you to stop acting out. We need to have confidentiality because I will be doing things that could put me at risk, not to mention complicate your case. You have eight months left and a parole hearing coming up in four weeks. Is this something you want, August? Because it’s the only way I see that can accelerate your therapy.”
“Yes.” He didn’t wait a second to think about it. It was worth it.
The psychologist tore a small scrap of paper from her notepad. “My cell phone number.”
He folded the paper until it was very small, then tucked it in the waistband of his pants.
AVE MARIA
The psychologist pulled him to the side during mealtime. “He gave me something to give to you. I read it and it didn’t make much sense.”
“That’s okay. Give it to me.” August snatched the paper out of her hand and opened it. His heart raced at the sight of Jack’s spindly handwriting.
The morning sun rose pink and gold above the field
and, oh glorious Ives, how his armor shimmered in the light.
How the feathers on his helmet framed his face. This is what had been missing all along.
And as the champion stood, boots firm on the ground, howling to the sky, I knew at once that he’d never been mine at all.
He was a thing of the earth. He belonged to the streams and the deserts and the darkness. To the sound of thunder and the whispers of the ocean as it clawed the shore. To the rain that fell when the sun was still blazing, to the grime clenched between my fingers.
I stood at his side.
Nothing but the king of a kingdom of mud. But I threw my head back anyway and joined his cry.
They send word on the wing of a bird
but faces are my currency,
and till i’m paid in full, they may as well send nothing.
11:23 2:45
August flushed. It was obscene.
“What does it mean?”
“He just … misses me. Thank you for this. I … really appreciate it.”
The psychologist nodded, but looked as if she didn’t quite believe him. August smiled to reassure her and tucked the note in his waistband to keep it for later.
“You should smile more often,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked down the hall. “It’s a good look on you.”
CHLORPROMAZINE
He didn’t even see him. He felt him first. Felt the weight of his gaze on the back of his neck. August turned around and there he was—walking between two orderlies. Thinner and frailer than August had ever seen him. Cheekbones jutting out, white and wan. But his eyes. They burned.
He heard the orderlies crying out for security before his fingers even touched Jack’s hospital gown. “Jack. Jack!” He buried his face in Jack’s neck and clung to him, frantically trying to memorize the feel of him, the smell of him.
“My Champion.”
August sobbed.
“August, you have to let go. You have to do it on your own,” Jack murmured against the soft curve of August’s ear. August lurched backward from Jack instantly, like Jack was made of acid. The guards thundered down the hallway like a storm on the horizon.
“Are you okay?” August asked weakly. He still wanted to touch Jack so bad. He wanted Jack’s clawlike fingers back on the nape of his neck. He wanted it to hurt so he could still feel it later. He wanted it so bad he could hardly breathe. He reached out again.
The guards tackled him to the floor.
HALVED AND BOUND
“Did you like your gift?”
August scrunched up his nose. “What are you talking about?”
“Jack. In the hallway. I arranged to see him so he would be moved from his room when pills are dealt out, about the time when your name should have been called. The two of you should have crossed paths, if I planned it correctly? I apologize for any resulting punishment.”
“No … no … that was fine … You did that?”
“Yes,” the psychologist said calmly. “What did you feel when you saw him?”
August paused. Then, deciding she had more than earned his honesty, he answered. “Desperation, mostly. Panic. And beneath that, relief and worry.”
“What were you desperate for?” she asked, quickly jotting down his response.
August blushed. “A lot of things. I was desperate to be alone with him, so the orderlies and other patients would stop staring at us. Desperate for time to talk to him. I felt like I wanted to simultaneously … crawl inside his skin and pull him so close that we fused together.” He laughed with embarrassment. “It’s gross, I know.”
“It’s not gross,” she said kindly. “May I ask you something else?” He waited. “Had you ever felt like that before your stay here?”
“No … not like that. It was never like that.”
FEALTY
August had studied the verse Jack sent to him. He’d kept it well hidden, folded small. At first he’d wanted to carry it with him, like a talisman, but that seemed far too risky. So instead, he hid it in the gap between the molding and the wall.
11:23 2:45
It was a date and time. It was written so it couldn’t be deciphered at passing glance. The only thing that tipped him off was the 45. It could have been two different times, but that would be useless, so it had to be a date and a time. And there aren’t forty-five days in a month, so 2:45 had to be the time and 11:23 had to be the date.
That gave him hope. Jack was speaking in code. That took effort, so August knew Jack’s mind couldn’t have rotted completely away if he was still doing that.
Tonight was November 23, fifteen minutes from 2:45 a.m.
August got up from bed and pulled the string he’d used to rig the lock to his room, and the door unlocked with a soft click. He opened the door and stepped into the hall.
DORMOUSE
Jack cracked his door open a bit and gestured for August to come in. August glanced around. Then he walked quickly, slipping silently into Jack’s room. They both closed the door as slowly as possible, then leaned against it, staring at each other. Alone.
Jack’s eyes were very gray as he studied him, and August shrank beneath the other boy’s gaze. “You look tired,” Jack said.
“You look near dead,” August replied.
Jack’s laughter was hollow. He ran a skeletal hand through his hair and looked upset. August had never seen Jack’s hair before. It had always been shorn so short that you couldn’t quite tell what color it was. It was blond and brittle, like he hadn’t had water in years.
“I don’t know what to say now,” August admitted. Every molecule in August’s body was hungry and demanding. But he couldn’t just take what he wanted. That wasn’t how this worked. He needed permission.
“Wow. You’re, like, shaking. And I can still see you as you! I didn’t expect that. Everything else is just—” Jack waved his hand around to describe the crazy
, and August tracked the movement with his eyes.
It got quiet again. August gathered his courage and reached out. Then he paused.
Jack smiled and it cut him to the core.
PULP
August gasped as Jack pulled his hair fiercely. “We don’t have much time. They’ll find you soon,” he said.
August was barely listening. He scrambled to get closer, pulling up the back of Jack’s shirt so he could brush his thumb against the crosshatch on Jack’s ribs. The wicker that he’d unwittingly etched into Jack’s skin.
“I miss the way you fucking smell,” Jack admitted, his voice thick. August hummed his agreement into Jack’s chest as he curled close to him.
“Christ, you’re completely mad.”
“I don’t care. You’re the most precious thing in the world to me. They’re trying to make you forget that. Don’t let them make you forget it.” August sighed.
It hurt to say. Like someone had reached down his throat, pulled his organs out through his mouth, and deposited them in Jack’s lap.
“August.” With a single word, the Wicker King accepted his sentiment and wore it proudly.
“I can hear them looking for me,” August whispered.
“We didn’t have enough time. This isn’t enough.”
“Will it ever be?”
“They’re coming down the hall. They’ll be here soon.” Jack pulled him so hard, so close, that his bones protested, but his heart? It sang, keening at the feeling.
Then they drew back, stepping out from under the ropes of obligation and sentiment. The Wicker King and his Champion sat next to each other on Jack’s bed. Close, but not touching. And waited for the guards to open the door.
