by Celia Crown
I was mortified that someone could make my body react without making any physical contact.
I refuse to remember the fleeting touch of his tongue.
During the hormonal stage of my teenage years, sex and boys weren’t on my list of priorities. I don’t think I had any priorities other than to graduate so I could get out of that building.
I hardly remember anything from those years.
“I want to know about the hour you went missing,” she announces with an evil cackle of laughter.
I roll my eyes at her dramatic description as she shoves in a forkful of dripping spaghetti. I take another bite of my sandwich, using the time to gather my thoughts before answering.
“I didn’t go missing. Doctor Carrey wanted me to sit in on the group session as an outside element to expose the patients to new things.”
“As a heartless bitch would say,” Lisa begins with a scoff, “I don’t give a shit about the group. I want to know about the hunk of a man.”
She interrupts as an afterthought, “Is he proportionate?”
It doesn’t take a genius to get what she means. I hate to break it to her, but the fantasy of being mounted by a sexy hunk is not going to happen anytime soon.
Especially if the man is John Doe.
The man is more complicated than a two-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. I know he has been in Doctor Carrey's care for the last five years without a single incident of inappropriate conduct.
Doctor Carrey is a very mature and beautiful woman. Even I had admired her beauty when I first started working here.
A hot-blooded man like John would be more than tempted, but he hadn't done anything.
People in the asylum talk, and the rumors are true more often than not. Something about confined spaces and the ability to sneak around gathering gossip makes finding out the truth much easier.
If that doesn’t convince people, the assistant who is always at Doctor Carrey's side can confirm that nothing inappropriate has happened. He was assigned by the ethics committee that scrutinizes the work of all psychiatrists before research papers are published.
I’m surprised Doctor Hancock hasn’t pulled some superior, alpha male nonsense on her. When I was working with him, I cringed every time he corrected and belittled people just because they didn’t have a doctorate degree.
He was insufferable, to say the least.
“He is,” Lisa insists with a gasp. “You saw it! You felt his—”
I shake my head with a panicked squeak. My eyes dart around to see if any employees heard her discussing John’s private parts.
Being friends with Lisa is like I never left high school.
“You touched his… eggplant,” Lisa whispers as she presses her hand to her lips.
I scrunch my face into a grimace. “I didn’t touch him, and he didn’t touch me. It was completely professional with the aides and Doctor Carrey in the room.”
He was close enough to notice something indescribable about his heavy scent that limited my oxygen intake. It was all I could do not to lean in and press my nose into his bulging neck.
It was a very thick neck. It didn’t help that he had an inked pattern peeking out from the collar of his white shirt.
“Shame,” Lisa grumbles mutely. “There won’t be any more chances for you to be near him again.”
I haven’t told her that Doctor Carrey asked me to sit in on the group session again.
It’s not anyone's business; I’m doing what I can to help the patients. It’s the reason I’m here as a volunteer on my days off.
I do have a job, but I contribute time to the asylum because they’re always short-staffed.
“I know about that boundary stuff, but have you seen him?” she says with a wheeze.
“I saw him,” I comment with a stifled laugh at her swooning excitement.
“He’s the type of man who only happens in your wet dreams,” she mentions through another gasp of breath.
“Your wet dreams,” I point out.
“Don’t tell me that you didn’t imagine him naked when you were with him,” she accuses with a scowl.
“I didn’t,” I answer truthfully.
She narrows her eyes in disbelief but stays quiet until she can’t help herself. “Liar.”
I hum and shrug my shoulders; I’m different than Lisa.
My experience with men is nonexistent, and I don’t feel self-conscious about it. But I’ve learned a lot about men from the gossip that flies around inside these concrete walls.
As the first sip of water hits my mouth, a loud shriek pierces the air. My throat closes instinctively as the sound startles me. I slam the cup down on the table, my heart roaring as the vibration travels through my hands.
“What—” I sputter, confused.
Lisa has an equally confused look on her face as we look around to find the source of the inhuman sound. It turns out that it is human, coming from a frantic patient who keeps scratching the skin of her throat.
We jump up when we witness the patient dragging her bloodied nails over the face of a nurse. The sharp nails scratch the nurse’s temple as she tries to restrain the patient.
The patient is strong and throws the nurse off her. The nurse tumbles to the ground, clutching her side in pain.
I turn to help her up while another aide restrains the patient who went berserk. With crazy red eyes, the patient screams unintelligible things while kicking her feet.
Another aide comes to help, but the patient manages to land a kick on my shoulder blade. The force sends me lurching back into the nurse lying on the ground.
I, in turn, hit a screwed-down table and take the brunt of the collision on my face.
“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” one of the aides says to calm the patient down.
Pain spreads across my temple, throbbing all the way down to my cheekbone. I climb off the nurse to check on her, but she waves off the concern.
“I’m good,” she whispers as she breathes deeply. “Thanks.”
“Everyone okay?” Lisa asks as she looks around.
I haul myself up from my knees before extending a hand to the nurse. She takes it and mumbles her gratitude, then immediately goes to check on the patient.
Outbursts don’t happen a lot here, but they are not rare either. There are a handful of patients the workers keep an eye on because they have a history of violent outbursts.
Being hurt is one of the job hazards here.
One of the aides comes over and scrutinizes the side of my face, doing the same with the nurse.
He recommends, “You should go to the medical bay and have it checked out.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. The throbbing in my temple is giving me a headache, but I don’t think I hit my face that hard. An ice pack will do the trick, and I still have a couple more minutes on lunch break before my shift starts again.
The nurse doesn’t think she is hurt too badly, so she just sends me on my way. Lisa goes back to tending the other distraught patients.
I arrive at the medical unit and am greeted by an older woman who doesn’t ask any questions at first. Her only goal is to examine the growing pain in my temple after I sit on the bed.
I guess my skin is red now.
“I can get you some ice, but I don’t recommend any medication,” she says.
She moves away to rummage through the small fridge by her desk. I don’t want medication either; it makes me woozy. I can’t allow that when I’m working with patients who need my undivided attention.
“Here,” she mumbles as she presses the ice pack to my temple. “Lay down for a few minutes, and we’ll go from there.”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly.
She chides softly, “The pain is in your temple, and I refuse to be responsible for your foolishness if you have a concussion.”
As much as I don’t appreciate the exaggeration, taking a five-minute break does appeal to my lazy side.
I lay back and sigh. The coldness from t
he ice pack eases the burning in my temple but doesn’t really help the soreness.
I close my eyes and make a mental note to return to work when I open them.
That was the plan.
Sadly, it’s not what my body had in mind.
I wake up to a bright fluorescent light hanging above me. Confusion turns into lethargy as I turn my head away from the glaring light.
A gurgling sound cuts through the haze of sleep, and I sit up in the uncomfortable bed.
I overslept. My eyes find a clock mounted on the wall. It’s past seven in the evening, way after the time I’m supposed to be gone.
This is when the night shift comes in.
I ruffle my hair in panic as I swing my legs off the bed to hastily find my shoes. I am trying to think of a way to tell Doctor Carrey why I was irresponsible and did not attend to my duties.
I’m under her supervision, but I don’t even know if she’s still in her office.
Luck isn't on my side when I can’t find her.
An aide who is just getting off her shift mentions that the doctor went home for the day because something happened to one of her outpatients.
I’ll just have to talk to her tomorrow, but I need a bathroom first. The pain has dulled, and I want to see the extent of the bruise if there is one. I don’t need people speculating about what happened when I show up at work tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Monday, and I won’t be coming back to the asylum until next weekend.
Examining the bruise in the bathroom, it is not as bad as I thought it would be after being face-planted into the table. It is mostly pink with some darker areas scattered around it.
While searching for the locker room so I can go home, I find myself walking down a hall that is reserved for more volatile patients. Each door has a small opening to see inside, and I can tell the walls are padded.
I cannot imagine being in a room without any stimulation around me. It would drive me crazy; part of me feels sympathy for the patients who have to stay in one.
“Oh, Jessie!” someone calls. “Wait up!”
I spin around and see a man in a suit jogging up to me. “Good evening.”
He returns my greeting as he catches his breath. “I need a moment of your time.”
He’s the man the ethics committee sent to observe Doctor Carrey. I could tell him I want to go home now, but his pay grade is above mine. I don’t want this experience as a volunteer to become a bad memory.
“Sure,” I say, “What can I help you with?”
Carefully hiding the bruise on the side of my face, I try to figure out what he is talking about.
“I’d like to get a second opinion,” he begins with a prolonged sigh. “When you met with John Doe yesterday, did he seem different than before?”
I can’t say because I just met John Doe for the first time yesterday. However, judging by the reaction from the aides when he pulled my chair towards him, I am guessing it wasn’t his usual behavior.
Deciding to be noncommittal, I say, “I don’t think so, did something happen?”
I did miss the group session today, but I don’t think it’s a big deal. The patients didn’t even look at me when I was there yesterday. I was just reading my book to pass the time, and there was no change in their routine from what I could tell.
“Well,” the man utters as his face twists unpleasantly, “John got violent with the aide and gave him a bloody nose.”
“John did?” I sputter in shock.
The man shakes his head. “The aide has a broken nose.”
“Oh, gosh,” I voice softly.
“Is everyone alright?” I ask, mostly concerned about the staff.
I’ve seen John up close, and he is massive. I can imagine the damage he is capable of inflicting on someone.
“Everyone is alright,” the man answers with another tired sigh. “The aide got help for the broken nose, and John was sent to the isolation unit.”
“I see,” I mutter.
“That’s what I don’t understand,” the man curtly hisses as he drags a hand through his hair.
He sniffs and adds, “I was under the impression that John hasn’t had an outburst like that since the last time someone touched him without his permission.”
“Did someone touch him today?” I question, cocking my head in bewilderment.
“According to the aide and Doctor Carrey, no one was near him when the group session ended.”
Even though John made me feel unnerved yet bizarrely safe in his presence, I still want to check on him. It’s not my job to take care of him, but the least I can do is see if he needs a new face.
He did react differently to me.
Maybe I can help find the reason for his violent outburst. It would help the man in front of me who’s about to rip his hair out.
“Unpredictable things happen all the time. It comes with the job, but this is different. I can feel it in my gut, and I just wanted your insight before deciding how to proceed with this.”
“Okay,” I say, somewhat confused.
He smiles with a defeated quirk of his lips. “The ethics committee is a strange group with even stranger policies.”
That’s enough of a reason for me. I’m not in that world, but I can make this man’s day better.
“I could go see him,” I say.
I don’t have a good explanation for what I want to do, but he understands what I’m trying to say. His smile couldn’t get any bigger as he bobs his head in agreement. The man gestures towards the hall where the isolation unit is located, and I follow his eager steps.
He stops at a metal door with a small opening and peers inside. What’s different about this padded room is that there are metal bars behind the outer door as another layer of protection.
I have heard this unit is used for uncontrollable patients.
“I can only open this outside door, the interior barricade stays locked,” he warns.
I nod and wait for the final snap of the lock as he turns the key. The open door reveals the carnage in the room. Crimson covers the pristine white pads; some are drag marks, and others are little splatters.
“What the—” the man beside me stutters.
That can only mean it wasn’t like this when he last saw John. I can safely say this change in John’s behavior is alarming as the man scoots closer to see the damage inside.
I lick my lips and survey the room, but don’t see John.
“John?” I call out, and my voice cracks at the scent of copper.
He appears in the blink of an eye.
The vehemence in his eyes cripples my heart, pumping erratically.
Paralyzing fear and uncertainly make me wonder whether I am safe from his wrath.
“Hi,” I whisper hesitantly.
Glancing at his hands when he reaches for me through the bars, I see specks of blood dotting the raw skin of his knuckles. Now it’s clear the pale scars on his knuckles did not come from hurting others; he did it to himself.
I let him curl his thick fingers around my wrist despite the frantic warning from the man beside me.
John still seems temperamental when he sneers dangerously at the man. His grip gets a bit tighter and a bit too smothering.
“We should give John a new room,” I suggest.
The man purses his lips as he gives the room another glance. “Good idea.”
He calls for the aides with the little pager on his belt. The aides come in less than a minute while I keep John’s temper under control by not moving away from his grip.
It’s not our place to tell the man what to do, and John doesn’t listen when they ask him to let me go. He merely changes hands to keep a constant hold on my wrist. I wonder if I’m some sort of leverage for him.
All I care about is getting a clean room for him.
As the aides guide us to another room, John drags me along.
John doesn’t give any indication that he is going to enter the new isolation room. He just stares at the entr
ance with a dreadfully blank gaze that sends chills down my spine.
“Make amends,” the man behind me suggests.
Amends? What amends? I didn’t do anything wrong—oh. Oh, right.
“John?” I whisper to get his attention.
He jerks his head down to the fingertips that are branding my skin with fresh bruises. I swallow and smile through the pain as my bones grind against each other. Slow-burning soreness spreads to my swollen fingers.
The lack of blood flow is not a good feeling.
“I’m sorry I broke my promise,” I say with a rueful smile. “I overslept and didn’t come to see you.”
Speaking of oversleeping, the side of my face aches for attention. It’s as if it doesn’t want me to forget the earlier incident today.
His grip loosens, and blood rushes towards my fingers. My lungs expand with a sigh of relief that I managed to do one thing right today.
“I promise I’ll see you soon?” I propose as a peace offering.
His eyes narrow, and I hold my breath. Everyone around us inhales sharply, ready to deal with whatever this man does next.
John releases my wrist, but he’s not stepping into his room either. His colossal body hovers over me with a contemplative stare boring into my forehead. He raises his hand, and the spooked man from the ethics committee screeches at him.
“John—” he tries again, but it goes unheeded.
John’s big hand cups the side of my face with surprising gentleness as he tucks the hair behind my ear. The next stroke is anything but delicate as his thumb nudges the side of my cheekbone.
The pain returns with a vengeance as my temple screams silently.
He suddenly lets me go and turns around with his broad back facing me. His steps are confident, and he doesn’t look back when he stands inside the padded room.
What a strange man, but did he have to dig his thumb into my very noticeable bruise?
Chapter Four
John
My little girl is a dirty liar.
She promised she would come back to the group sessions, but she hasn’t.
She promised to see me again very soon, but she hasn’t.
It took her three days to come back, daring to look guilty sitting in front of me now.
