Suzette looks as dead as Damien does sometimes.
How can the staff possibly live with themselves after inflicting this kind of torture on another living person?
Damien's eyes are on me. He doesn't even notice Suzette. “Addy, what is it?”
I don't break my gaze away from Suzette. She putters past us and I listen to her mumble, “I don't want you to touch me. I don't want you to touch me.” Her voice is vacant, lost. It's like she's in some other world where she's the only human who exists in it.
My eyes follow her down the hall as she uses the tan plaster to support her weight and keep her knees from buckling. It's during that moment that I know that I need to concentrate on one thing; getting out of here.
Chapter Fifteen
~After~
I dream of Damien.
Not the sick, twisted, and dead Damien I saw in the forest a few days ago.
I dream of my Damien.
We're wading in a creek a few miles behind his house. We're both in our underwear and neither one of us seems to care. There's water splashing. Roaring laughter. Fingers caressing skin. And enough kissing to make my knees buckle.
Damien walks ahead of me as we leave the creek, but I remain a few steps behind. He holds his hand out to me, a needy look in his sapphire eyes. “Come on, Addy,” he says.
I remain where I'm standing, looking over my shoulder. There's a man lingering behind me. At least a half a mile away. I can see his form. Broad shoulders. Over six feet in height. But I can't make out anything else. I keep glancing between him and Damien. I feel drawn to both, even though the man behind me is a stranger.
Damien is starting to get impatient. I can tell because when I look at him, his eyes widen then narrow and he's folded his arms across his chest. “What are you doing?”
I frown. “What do you mean what am I doing?”
He points over my shoulder toward the guy behind me. “I know.” The word freeze when they leave his lips and hang in the air like warm wafts of breath on a cold winter day.
“Know what?”
“Don't play coy, Addy. You're not very good at it.”
I take a step closer and snap, “And what is it that you think you know, Damien Allen?”
Hate smolders in his blue eyes. “I know you know that man. I know that you're attracted to him. That you might feel something for him.”
I shake my head and cross my arms, spitting out. “Jealousy isn't very becoming on you, Damien.”
He lets out an insane cackle and storms toward me, eyes cast downward into mine. “I'm not jealous, I'm furious,” he seethes. “To think that I gave you everything,” he tsks and shakes his head, “I gave you my heart. I gave you my soul. I gave you my life. And this is how you repay me? This is how you show you're gratitude? By having eyes for another man when you promised me forever!”
At that moment, I snap. And that's something I never thought I'd do. Dead or alive, I never thought I'd ever lose my temper and snap at Damien. “You'll never let me forget it, will you?” I scream. Tears sting my eyes and I dig my fists into them, my balled-up hands shaking. There's a wild look in my eyes that won't go away. There's a ghost in front of me that refuses to fade. And there's an old part of me that just can't let him go. “Don't you think that that day plays in the back of my mind every God damned day? Don't you think that I would have rather died in your place?” I throw my hands up and shove him. “I would have, Damien! I would have! I would have rather died a thousand painful, torturous deaths than watch you die one! I would have given up anything to go back to that day and relive it!” Damien takes a step back as I run shaky fingers through my hair. I lower my voice and cry, “When you died, I thought I lost everything. I was empty. Numb inside. And the pain...the pain of feeling my heart break over and over again was never ending. I'm sorry about what happened. I think you know that. But what I think you know more than anything is you haunting me and reminding me of what you sacrificed is the most mean-spirited thing you've ever done.” More tears well in my eyes, and I suck them back trying to be strong. “The Damien, I knew wouldn't want this for me. He wouldn't want me to live the rest of my life, loving his ghost. My Damien was too proud, good, and selfless for that.”
The one thing that I forgot was that in this dream, this is not my Damien. He's a sinister, sick, and twisted version of the boy I loved. And I know this when he lunges at me, wraps both of his hands around my neck, cuts off the air in my throat, and whispers in a deadly voice, “Love me.”
“No!” I bolt upright in my bed choking on air. “No!” I try to steady my breathing, but I'm too shaken up to concentrate.
Dr. Watson is sleeping in the chair in front of me and his eyes snap open. I assume he's on suicide watch because he thinks I might try and hurt myself.
I lose my composure and the sobbing starts. Embarrassed, I bury my reddened face into my hands. I don't want Dr. Watson to see me like this. Then he might change his mind and call up Oakhill. He might tell them I belong there after all.
The sobs come out heavier and louder and my chest begins to vibrate. My hands move up my face like they have a mind of their and I grip my hair in bunches at the scalp. The mattress dips down next to me, but I barely notice. The wound of Damien's death has been sliced open and I'm bleeding everywhere. Hands There are hands on my shoulder. “Adelaide.” Dr. Watson's voice is soft. “It's okay, you were having a nightmare.”
“You don't understand,” I cry. “You don't understand.”
“I suppose I don't,” he says with a sigh, “but I do know that nothing in our dreams can hurt us in reality. Even though it seems real in our minds it isn't.” But somehow, gazing into his eyes, I get the vague notion that he might understand more than I think he does.
What I want to ask him is if our dreams can't hurt us in reality, then why do I feel like I've been stabbed in the chest? Why do I feel like pieces of me are being sawed off slowly to make sure I really feel the pain?
But I don't ask him anything.
I won't dare.
I'm already so unstable and I don't want to give him any more of a reason to think that I might not be in the right frame of mind. I also don't want bring up the reason of why I'm emotional in the first place and I don't think I can bring myself to mention his name out loud. The traumatizing events of my nightmare keep replaying over and over again my mind.
There are hands around my throat. Hands around my throat.
I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
I'm suffocating.
“Oh God,” I cry out. “Oh God.”
Dr. Watson moves his hand to my back. “Shhh. Just breathe, Adelaide. Just breathe.”
Bravely, I peek at Dr. Watson through my arms. He's watching me intently, a caring look etched on his face. I try to steady my breathing, but it isn't working. Every time I take a breath I sob harder.
Dr. Watson lowers his hands and gets up from the bed. He walks to the corner of the room and removes a syringe filled with something and then he walks back over to the bed, sitting down next to me again. “This will help you sleep,” he informs me. “No more nightmares.”
“No!” I shriek and scramble to the other side of the bed. “No! I don't want any! I don't want any drugs!”
I remember all of the drugs I was filled with at Oakhill. They pumped my veins with sedatives and barbiturates every day. I remember how the drugs made me feel. Like I was pointless. Not really supposed to be there but was anyway. I'd roam the halls while shadows did pirouettes on the plaster walls and I'd gawk at the floor. Because when I was on the drugs, it seemed to me that the floor was the only thing that mattered. I could never manage to break my gaze away from it.
Dr. Watson gazes between me and the tip of the needle on the syringe, a puzzled look on his face. He sets the syringe down on a tray next to the bed. “Lie down,” he orders. I don't obey. I sit across from him, terrified and shaking, my mind twisted between my nightmare and the drugs that were almost shot into my veins. “Lie down,�
� Dr. Watson repeats himself. This time with more force.
I lie back slowly. My heart thunders in my chest. My lip quivers. I watch Dr. Watson as he lies down across from me, facing me. “Whh...What...What are you doing?” I ask as a nervous tingle whips through me.
“Trying something different.”
I place my head on my pillow, my eyes never leaving his. “Different?”
“You refused a sedative and sometimes people who have nightmares find comfort in someone sleeping next to them.” How does he know this?
My spine stiffens and my heart races. “You're going to sleep with me?”
“For medicinal purposes only, of course.”
“Oh.” My voice drops to a whisper, but I've realized something. I've stopped crying already. I can't help but feel somewhat disappointed by the medicinal purposes only part of his answer. For some reason I feel drawn to this man. I can't explain why, but some part of me wonders if we might be more alike than he thinks.
“Now go to sleep, Adelaide,” he orders. The tone in his voice is authoritative and adamant.
I yawn and my eyelids grow heavy. “You want to know something, Dr. Watson?”
“Adelaide, you need to sleep.” I hear the frustration in his voice.
“I know.” Another yawn. “I just wanted to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
I stare into his radiant eyes and then my eyes wander over every portion of his beautiful face. There's a hidden portion of this man that I'm determined to bring out. I know that deep down inside he can't be all cool stares, and stern orders. I know there's a part of him that's capable of feeling. Or a part of him that wants to. Why he doesn't show it, I can't be sure, but I just know that it’s there. I can feel it.
I open my mouth to tell him what I wanted to say, but the pull of exhaustion overwhelms me. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and welcome sleep instead.
Chapter Sixteen
~Before~
Aurora is a genius.
It has only been a few days since I’ve started weaning myself off my meds, but I’m already starting to feel like a new person. I feel more alive than I ever have and I still take the pills before bed. Part of me wonders what I’ll be like when I’m off them completely. I wonder if I’ll feel jubilant. Carefree. Excitement explodes inside of me whenever I think about it.
Of course Damien doesn’t like it.
“You know you need those pills to help you get better,” he tells me as he plops down on my cot.
“No, I don’t,” I retort, sitting down across the room from him, my back against the white padded wall of my room. This Damien has ulterior motives than my Damien. This Damien wants me to be dependent on the meds so I can be dependent on him. Because the only time I see him is when I’ve got a sugar high from a pharmaceutical sundae.
Damien opens his mouth and closes it. He narrows his eyes. Suddenly, the light above my head flickers and as I press my fingertips against the cool plaster I can feel the vibrating current of electricity. Somebody misbehaved today. I used to be terrified of when the lights flicker and the walls vibrate. I used to tuck myself into a ball on my cot when I’d hear the screams saturate the floors.
I think the staff performs these torturous acts when we’re all awake as a reminder of what could happen if we step out of line.
I don’t need reminding.
I’m well aware of what happens when we step out of line.
But I’m past the point of caring.
My head snaps to Damien and our eyes lock. He breaks his gaze first and shakes his head, tsking. “You know that could be you,” he taunts. “Of course, good girls who take their meds never wind up in the basement.”
“Can it!” I snap and hop to my feet, pacing the length of my room. Sometimes I wonder what my Damien would say if he could see this Damien and the way he harasses me.
My attention averts to the left when my door opens. For the first time ever, I breathe a sigh of relief when Marjorie steps into the tiny room to escort me to the mess hall for supper. I scowl at Damien as I sidle up to Marjorie and she grips onto my forearm.
But Damien isn’t going to let me get one up on him.
As Marjorie guides me through the open door, he calls after me in a chilling voice, “Goodbye, love. I’ll see you in a bit.” He pauses a beat. “Because I’ll still be here when you get back.”
~ ~ ~
I’m thankful for Aurora.
At the beginning of my stay at Oakhill, she was just a roommate, then a former roommate, and as the weeks dwindled by, I’ve come to think of her as more of a friend. She’s taken me under her wing, filled me in on the ins and outs of Oakhill, and even introduced to some of the more normal patients.
The mess hall is filled with rows of rectangular tables. Six on each side. Aurora and I sit at the middle table and she stops me, shaking her head as I'm about to cut into my slice of meatloaf. I shrug. “What?”
“Just skip the entree today.”
I stare at the rest of the contents on my tray. There's some corn. A roll. Some red Jell-O cubes. Even mashed potatoes. “But I'll still be hungry,” I insist.
Aurora raises her hands, purses her lips and looks down at the table. “Fine. Fine. But just so you know it tastes like—”
I don't listen to her. I’ve already shoved a cutlet of the browned lumpy meat into my mouth. “Rubber. Yuck,” I say as I spit the chewed up wad out.
“I tried to warn you,” she says in a sing-song voice.
I know is what I want to say, but don't. While I'm appreciative of her informative tidbits about this place, I've come to learn that Aurora likes to gloat when she's right about something. And right now I just don't feel like listening to her.
Pushing my tray away, I cast a quick glance around the mess hall to keep track of the staffs’ whereabouts. Marjorie is at one end of the mess hall talking to the British orderly with brown shaggy hair that carried me into this hell hole a few months ago. There’s another chubby orderly with ash blonde hair and a round face, whose name I can’t remember on the opposite end of the mess hall. He’s conversing with Dr. Morrow and I shudder when I think about that man.
Aurora taps my arm and I lower my head, resting my chin on the plastic/wooden table and whisper, “I’m going to try for it,” I say boldly. “I’m going to try and escape.”
She lifts her head and flashes me a devious grin.” Not without me, you’re not,” she sings and the grin on her face grows wider.
My gaze centers on the lines in the table. Some are darker and grainier than the other and the slightly darker and lighter colors blur in and out of focus. “I don’t have a plan or anything,” I tell her. “But I intend on coming up with one.” I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Aurora, I need to get out of here. Every day I’m here, I feel another year cut off my life. Every day I feel like I’m dying.”
Her smile is ghost-like and her wide brown eyes are full of concern. “I think we all feel like that.” The she straightens her posture and pats my hand. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Adelaide. I’ve got a great plan and it’s going to get both of us out of here.”
I nod assuringly, but at the same time a wave of uneasiness rolls through my gut.
And all I keep thinking is; I hope she’s right.
Chapter Seventeen
~After~
Dr. Watson hasn't checked on me in weeks.
Nurses come into my room often and check my vitals. I've even seen an older doctor named Dr. Richard Pizzuto a few times. He has a kind face and a long hooked nose. He's gentle, and speaks with a deep, melodic voice.
But I can't help but wish that the cold, yet stunningly handsome Dr. Watson would come back into my room.
The night I had the terrible nightmare about Damien, he'd slept with me. He lied next to me in my hospital bed to try and comfort me. He didn't sleep.
But neither did I.
For the first hour, I kept my eyes closed, but was awake. He was watching me. Studying me. Then
he touched me and I felt a tingle as his fingertips brushed against my hand. The thing is I wanted so much more from that moment.
I know that sounds strange, but I wanted to open my eyes and ask him to hold me. I wanted to plant my nose against his neck and inhale his scent. Part of me thought about his full, rosy lips and what it might be like to feel them on mine. I banished the thoughts quickly and allowed myself to be pulled into a dreamless sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, excitement bounced in the pit of my stomach and I found myself wondering what Dr. Watson looked like after a night of sleep. But when I opened my eyes, the excitement twisted to disappointment.
Dr. Watson wasn't in bed next to me.
He was gone.
I touched the bare spot in my hospital bed and the coldness of the sheets bled through my fingertips, sending a wave of depression into my heart. Still, I tried to remain optimistic. He'd come to check on me, right? I kept telling myself that he'd come to check on me. It was the only way to keep the sadness inside of me at bay.
And when my door opened, my heart leapt.
A radiant smile curled on my lips, only to fade when I saw Dr. Pizzuto close the door behind him.
Then depression overwhelmed me all over again.
In the passing weeks I’ve only see Dr. Watson six times. And he'd acted even more distant than before.
He'd check my vitals, but never look into my eyes. Then he'd simply say, “You're recovering well, Adelaide. I'd estimate that you'll be out of here in a few weeks.”
But the thought of leaving terrifies me.
Before, I was so certain that I could make it on my own. I convinced myself that even if I had to live on the streets it would be better than my morning meds, straightjacket, and room with four white, padded walls. Doubt creeps into my mind like a vagrant thief on a darkened night and now I'm not so sure. Where will I go? What will I do? How will I survive on my own? I have no money. No job. No place to live. I can't even drive a car.
Maybe my rash escape from Oakhill wasn't that smart at all.
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