by Angel Lawson
“What are Charlotte’s motivations, you know, other than the obvious.”
“She’s a fighter. If she used that strength for good she’d probably be unstoppable. But there’s a darkness lurking under the surface that will ruin her.”
“Like, she’s actually evil?”
Her forehead creases. “The universe and the Goddess are aware of her deceptions. Too many and they’ll decide she’s truly bad.”
“So she can change? She can save herself if she wants?” The whistle blows, alerting us to the end of our activity hour. We cut across the field and basketball court.
“I don’t know if she can change, sometimes we just are what we are, you know?” She gives me a pointed look. “The universe determines our fate long before we’re even born. It’s up to us to figure out how to use the talent given to us.”
Vera walks off, leaving me standing on the edge of the muddy field. That was either the craziest conversation I’ve ever had, or the most realistic. I watch her disappear into the building, still trying to figure out which one it was.
Chapter 6
The next couple of days are quiet. My job shifts from residential detail back to grounds duty and I keep to myself. The first days outside are spent mowing and raking the yard. The guys handle most of the mowing, but sometimes the girls help. Usually they take the raking part, but either way, both jobs suck. However, it’s better than cleaning bathrooms.
I assume I’ll see Charlotte outside that first day and have already practiced my avoidance methods. No eye contact. No lip watching. No mind-wandering. Definitely no boob ogling. It would be easier if she hadn’t infiltrated my dreams the night before, licking her puffy lips.
“Good God,” I mutter to myself, cranking my lawnmower in an attempt to drown everything and everyone out.
It doesn’t matter because Charlotte never shows to work detail.
I consider it a blessing, hoping maybe she’d been caught and asked to leave. Much to my distress, I see this isn’t the case during lunch when she drops her Styrofoam tray in my usual seat, across from Max.
I grunt, moving to the other side of the table.
“Dude, what the hell, you stink.” Max fans his hand in front of his face when I sit down.
“It’s 90 fucking degrees outside, asshole.” I open my bottle of water and drink half of it in one gulp. “I could eat lunch or shower. I chose lunch.” Charlotte barely suppresses a laugh and makes some kind of weird eye contact with Max. I flick my eyes in her direction. “Where were you anyway?”
“Oh I got my detail changed.” She makes a disgusted face. “I don’t do well with manual labor.”
“Of course you don’t,” I say, taking a bite of my grilled cheese, the cheese already hard and the bread greasy. I force it down with more water. “What’d they do? Put you back on residence?”
“Actually no, I’ve been assigned to the nurse’s station. Filing and stuff.”
Max and I share a look. Helping the nurse isn’t a job other residents work and sounds incredibly cush for Brookhaven.
“So how’d you work that out?” Max asks.
“I talked to Marcy and she talked to Dr. Cross. They both thought my skills would be better suited for a job like that.” She nibbles on the edge of her sandwich. I haven’t seen her eat a complete meal since she’d checked in.
“Right, you know, because I have amazing toilet cleaning skills,” I say through a clenched jaw. God, she’s infuriating.
“You know, Connor, not everything is about you all the time.”
Max laughs and chokes on a potato chip. I glare at him. He hacks and coughs for a solid minute before finally saying, “She has a point. You do get a little self-absorbed.” He smiles at Charlotte. “I think it’s the artist in him. Kind of emo and dramatic. He’s good. I just hope one day I don’t wake up and find him with his ear cut off.”
Charlotte giggles, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. That or she’s high again. Whatever, I’m beyond done. I stand, scraping my chair against the linoleum floor, and grab my tray.
“Don’t be mad, man,” Max calls as I walk away from the table.
“Not mad, dude, just over it.” I shoot Charlotte a glance so she knows exactly who I’m over.
*
That night, in line for meds, I feel something soft press against my back. I turn to find Charlotte, a tiny smile on her face.
She has my sleeve in her hand, sniffing the fabric. “You smell better. Good even.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I get my tiny paper cup and pop the pills in my mouth. One red, two orange. I stick out my tongue, showing the nurse that I’ve swallowed them.
“It means you smell nice. Is there some kind of alternate meaning I’m unsure about?” She picks up her cup of pills and follows the same routine, crushing the cup in her hand.
“It’s just…” How do I tell her I don’t understand her quirky ways? Hot and cold. Manipulative then nice. And why does it matter? I have weeks left. Weeks. Then I can go home and be done with this shit forever.
“I like boys that smell nice. Like soap. None of that cologne crap you guys spray all over your body under the impression it attracts girls like a cat in heat. That’s bullshit. Girls hate that, you know. Soap and detergent. So we can smell that yummy boy scent underneath. That’s what we like.” She grabs the front of my standard issue white T-shirt and takes another deep breath.
“Um…” I glance around to see if anyone notices, but no one seems interested in the two of us.
“Oh, ugh,” she says reaching into her mouth, pulling out an orange pill. “I don’t like these.”
“You swallow them, not eat them. And you’ll get in serious trouble if they find out you’re not taking your meds.”
“Whatever. I’m not taking this crap. That’s why it’s so easy to manipulate everyone around here. They’re just a bunch of drugged out sheep,” she whispers. “Freaking hypocrites.”
She takes one more huff of my shirt and shoves the pill into the dirt of a nearby plant.
“Night, Connor.” She turns and walks off in the direction of her residence hall, leaving me more confused than ever.
*
Tap, tap, tap.
I shift and mumble, “Shut up, dude,” before pulling the pillow over my head and falling back asleep.
Tap, tap, tap.
Cracking an eye, I see it’s still dark and Max is quiet in his bed. I listen, but the room and hallway are both silent and there’s nothing but the faint glow of light under our door.
I roll on my back and blink at the ceiling, pissed that I’m awake. Sleeping 10 hours of the day is the only thing that makes Brookhaven bearable. I think about Charlotte ditching the drugs, wasting the opportunity for approved medicinal bliss. Why would she risk smoking weed in the broom closet when she could get a script to take away her pain? Especially with her persuasive abilities, Dr. Cross would probably give her whatever she asked for.
Damn. Charlotte. That girl is racking up a long list of violations; skipping meds, ditching work, bribing a guard, possession of contraband. Any of these could get her sent to long-term lock up. Is that what she wants?
The faint light in the room moves and I glance at the space under the door. Shadows pass back and forth.
Tap, tap, tap.
This time the echo comes off the door and I quietly get off my bed and walk over. I press my ear to the cool, metal surface and listen. Nothing but the faint hum of the building. We have a small window, barely a slat. It’s more for the guards to check on us periodically than anything else and I dare a look.
Nothing but the barely lit hallway.
Maybe, I tell myself, it’s just the air conditioner, like the way the furnace makes noise at my house. Or maybe I’m groggy with sleep. Or it’s the meds. Who knows? Who cares. I’m wasting shut-eye.
I’m heading back to bed when I feel a gust of cool air wash over my feet. I glance down and see what looks like black smoke twisting ar
ound my ankles. A shiver runs up my spine, either from the cold or from the fact I may have been hallucinating. If I’m hallucinating then…shit.
“No,” I whisper.
My eyes dart to Max, still soundly asleep, although snoring now. I back away from the murky cloud, the back of my calves hitting the edge of my mattress. I sit. I wait for the ghost to appear. What will it be this time? Male? Female? Former resident? The transformation never comes—well not into a person. The black, inky smoke twists into itself, curling and molding until it begins to take shape.
I let out a long exhale when a fat, sleek black bird appears in the middle of my room.
“Who are you?” I ask, knowing in the pit of my stomach that it’s a who and not a what. The crow doesn’t respond. Its beady eye holding mine as it ruffles its feathers. It leans over and clicks the curved, black beak on the tile floor.
Tap, tap, tap.
“What do you want?”
The crow spreads its wings, as though it’s about to take flight in our small room, but the feathers curve and slip back into the less tangible wisps of smoke. The smoke forms a tight ball curling into itself, until it rushes upward with a sharp, cool gust of air. It blasts to the ceiling like a plume of water, disappearing on impact.
What the hell was that?
I blink, feeling the goose bumps on my skin from the cool air—from the whole, weird scene—and wait. Nothing happens though. It’s just me on my bed and Max snoring like a bear.
I lie back against my pillow and wait for morning.
Chapter 7
The sound of voices, panicked and rushed, wake me with the feeling I’ve just had the weirdest dream. I sit up on the bed and rub my eyes, “What’s going on?” I ask Max, who has his ear pressed to the door and is trying to see out the small window.
His position seems vaguely familiar, like a form of déjà vu. “I don’t know. It’s late though—past wake up.”
“We’re locked in?” This happens on occasion. During contraband searches or like last month when Jackson tried to hang him—“Shit.”
My dream (was it a dream?) comes back to me.
“What?” Max asks.
“Nothing. I just…I really need to piss.”
“Well you’re going to have to hold it, brother.” He peers out the window. “Here comes Dr. Cross.”
Dr. Cross only makes it down to our hall in an emergency. So does that mean Jackson or someone else is dead? Did someone kill themselves? Is that why the crow was here? Vera said they were harbingers of death. I’m not exactly sure what a harbinger is, but it can’t be good.
Whatever is going on, the staff moves quickly and soon a guard arrives to release us from our room. An hour later I pass Vera on the way to the cafeteria. She has dark circles under her eyes and looks as bad as I feel.
“You hear anything about the lockdown?” I ask her.
“A rumor. That Jackson tried to kill himself again.”
“Tried?”
She shrugs. “That’s all I heard.”
I reach for a carton of milk and a plastic fork. “I think I need to tell you something.”
She eyes me. “Yeah?”
The idea makes me nauseous. I’ve never told anyone about what I can do. What I can see.
“Yeah.”
*
It’s very easy to be different, but very difficult to be better-Jonathan Ive.
We troop past the quote of the day and settle in our seats. All members accounted for except for Jackson. Max heard the rumor too, and obsessed over it during breakfast, trying to figure out if we could convince Marcy to tell us if it was true or not. She takes counselor-patient confidentiality pretty seriously.
I’m curious though, and figure we should just ask. What could it hurt? He’s a member of our group and asking shows our concern. Max disagrees, saying that if we asked and she says no, then we’ll have to drop it completely. Instead he painstakingly compiles a list in his wobbly handwriting of vague questions to bring up during group, hoping to trick her.
All his preparations go to waste. Charlotte sits on the other side of Max, (she’s always on the other side of Max these days,) and doesn’t even wait for Marcy to issue her standard, “Everybody settle down,” before she says, “I know we aren’t supposed to ask, Marcy, but we’re all so worried about Jackson. Not because he was successful, but because maybe he wasn’t. I know I’ve thought about…doing it before…killing myself. I knew it would be the only way to keep myself safe from…you know?” She takes a deep breath and works up a fresh batch of tears. “If death gives Jackson peace, I can’t fault him for that. I’m just glad that by coming here, I’ve learned new methods of coping. I’m just hoping I can use the skills I’ve learned so that I never get to that dark place again.”
She finishes and looks around to the rest of us with sincere, innocent blue eyes. I think, and not for the first time, that Vera is probably right. Charlotte may be the devil incarnate.
I try to follow Charlotte’s train of thought but it’s impossible. All I gathered is that at some point she wanted—or wants—to kill herself. Big deal, all of us had that desire at one time or the other. I know I did when I set that fire. Standing in my living room, watching the flames engulf everything but the ghosts. Yeah, suicide seemed like an entirely acceptable option. But the fact she took Jackson’s attempt and turned it back on herself to express how strong she is…I’ve never met a more narcissistic person in my life.
Marcy nods at her every word, even wiping away a tear.
“Jesus,” I mutter. Is no one above her manipulation?
“I’m not supposed to discuss Jackson’s case with you, but since Charlotte put it so well, that you’re all here to help him, I guess it’s okay to tell you that Jackson did make an attempt last night. A very serious attempt and he was nearly successful.” She holds up her hand up as Max jumps in to ask for specifics. Marcy brushes him off. “I can’t share anything else. But he is going to be okay. Thank you for your concern, Charlotte.”
I risk a glance across the room at Vera. Nearly successful? What did that even mean? She doesn’t return my look, but her eyebrows are furrowed and her mouth set in a hard frown.
“You’re welcome, Marcy.”
“Now, would anyone like to start today?” the counselor asks. She looks around the room until her gaze rests on me. I raise my hand dutifully and begin my routine of lies and ass kissing. Anything to get out of here. I keep my focus off Charlotte though, unable to swallow the reflection of my hypocrisy reflected back at me.
*
I think about what I’m going to tell Vera all day. The whole story? Part of the story? It doesn’t feel right. I’ve held this information so close to the chest for so long that revealing it, in any way, feels like a personal betrayal. It feels like a risk—a huge risk—one I can’t take so close to my release.
Especially if I’m seeing things again.
But I need to talk to someone, because (dammit, the sessions with Marcy may actually be working) I have got to learn how to cope outside of this place. Right now Vera may be the only one who has any idea what I’m going through.
Luckily she and I both have garden duty late that afternoon. Apparently, Dr. Cross is an avid gardener and believes we should try our best to be self-sustaining. So much of our fresh food comes from the garden on the west side of the facility. There are several rotating shifts a day, but in the summer he wants us to water and pick any ripe vegetables before the nighttime animals come out.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Vera asks while putting tomatoes into the basket she’s carrying.
I’m on my knees, reaching for green beans growing between the rows. “Remember what you said to me? About using the gifts given to us? I think I have a gift that I’ve really struggled to figure out how to use the right way. Like it’s always been overwhelming and I’ve thought the best thing to do was to ignore it—or if I can’t ignore it then figure out how to suppress it, but now I’m not so s
ure.”
“Did something happen?”
“I had a dream last night—about a crow.”
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
I describe the dream to her, even though I know it wasn’t a dream. It had actually happened. I’m sure of that now. I stand and brush the dirt off my knees. “Do you think it had anything to do with Jackson?”
“My aunties would say so for sure.”
“What do you think?”
“Has anything like this happened to you before?” she asks, her eyes dart to my face and then back to her task.
I hesitate to answer. I’ve held on to this secret for so long that breaking my silence seems like an incredible feat. Vera doesn’t pressure me though. She just keeps plucking tomatoes off the vine with a swift twist and carefully placing them in the basket. Finally I say, “I’ve never had a dream like that before, but yeah, weird stuff has happened to me.”
“Like what?”
I rub my hand through my hair even though it’s brown with dirt. “People sort of trying to communicate with me.”
“What kind of people?”
She’s fishing. She knows. “The kind of people that use crows to communicate.”
Vera hoists the full basket with the crook of her elbow and looks me up and down. She’s trying to decide if I’m full of shit. I don’t blame her. I’m telling her a load of crazy stuff and half of it’s a lie to make me sound less crazy.
I’m no longer sure that’s possible.
The whistle blows and it’s time for us to head back in. I step in stride with her and she says, “So you think Jackson was trying to tell you something?”
“Maybe.” If he was, I’d failed miserably.
“Does anyone else know about this?” she asks, stopping to pick a couple of leaves from a potted plant, shoving them in her pocket.
