by Ted Dekker
His breathing grew thick and heavy. He had to find Christy and get out of here. And he was staring at the one person who gave him any hope of doing so.
He swallowed. “Hey.”
No response. Of course not. She was wearing a muzzle. But she didn’t turn either.
His fear swelled to a panic that threatened to paralyze him. He had to find a way to shove everything except the problem from his mind. Just another problem to solve. Get her loose. Find Christy. Get out. Before anyone came.
How, he still had no clue, but he had to move quickly.
He jerked his arms violently and knew immediately that trying to break the plastic restraints was futile.
He snapped his head to the surgical instruments next to the exam table. Only a short distance separated him from them. No sound of approach from the hall.
Austin drew his legs up, bringing both knees toward his chest, then planted his feet squarely against the wall to his left. If he could kick the gurney away from the wall he might be able to reach the table.
He gauged the distance. There would be no second try. Push too lightly and he’d be stuck between the wall and table. Too hard and he’d likely knock the tray over.
He tested the gurney with a gentle push on the wall. The wheels budged, which meant they weren’t locked.
One chance. Taking a deep breath, he tensed his legs and pushed off as hard as he could. The gurney shot away from the wall, then began to slow.
Not fast enough. He was going to come up short!
Austin jerked on the gurney, hoping to coax more momentum into the rolling. The gurney surged a little and he repeated the motion, desperate to reach the center table.
With a clang the gurney struck the metal stand, nearly toppling it and sending its the tools to the floor.
Nearly.
The room quieted. He waited a few seconds, sure that someone had overheard the clashing of metals. The door remained closed.
Alice lay on her back, open eyes fixed on the ceiling, seemingly oblivious.
Working quickly, Austin slid the zip tie along the bedrail until it was as close as possible to the work tray. A scalpel teetered dangerously on the edge. His fingers grazed the tray. On the third try, his fingertip snagged the edge. He inched it toward him slowly.
Close enough for him to grab the scalpel’s cool handle.
He couldn’t stop thinking that Alice might not be able to help him in her current state. If not…
Austin carefully turned the scalpel in his hand until the blade rested against the zip tie that secured him to the bed. After a few tries the blade sliced through the plastic, freeing his right hand.
He sat upright and made quick work of the other restraints as well as the wristband that read SCOTT CONNELLEY. He slid off the gurney and onto the tile floor, which felt ice cold against his bare feet.
Scalpel gripped tightly in his hand, he circled around the autopsy table and hurried up to Alice’s gurney. The doors were still closed.
She looked up at him with the same expressionless eyes he’d seen earlier. She either hadn’t heard all the commotion or wasn’t in a mental space to react. Drugs?
He scanned her arms for needle marks. None that he could see. They could’ve given her oral medications. As far as he could tell, she had no bruises or cuts or any other signs of abuse, though he knew what he could see was barely half the story. The trauma she’d likely experienced in her life undoubtedly ran much deeper than her skin.
He sawed through each of the straps that held her body down, snapping each one quickly. Only when he reached her hand restraints did he realize they were made of thick leather. Cutting through them would be difficult without injuring her. He’d have to find another way.
He set the scalpel down and leaned over her bedrail. His trembling fingers worked at the buckle and strap that held the leather muzzle to her face. It came loose easily.
He peeled it gently from her head and dropped it on the floor.
The girl he’d found in the basement stared up at him, pretty, with blond hair and a serene face. Her rainwater eyes were bright, without the deadened look that sometimes accompanied drugs.
But she made no attempt to speak.
“Alice,” he whispered. “Remember me?”
No response. Her eyes stared into his, unblinking.
“I’m going to get us out of here, but I need your help. Okay?” He glanced at the door. They were okay for now.
“Can you hear me?”
She blinked once.
“Yes? You can hear me? Please tell me you can hear me!”
“Hello,” she said in a simple, sweet voice.
Hope surged. “My name’s Austin, I saw you in the basement. Remember? With Fisher.”
He could see by her stare that she either wasn’t tracking or didn’t see the urgency of their situation. She might not be catatonic, but she didn’t appear entirely lucid either. There was no telling what Fisher had done to her since the incident in the basement. Austin had to get through to her.
He cradled her face in his hands. Her cheeks were cool against his palms and the moment his thumb grazed her lower lip it nudged into a gentle smile.
“Listen to me, Alice. I overheard you in the basement. You said you already know the way out. ‘I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. I know.’ Been where? What did you see?”
“It’s going to be okay,” she said.
“What’s going to be okay?”
She held her faint smile.
“What did you mean by I’ve been there? Where?”
“He knows,” she said.
Austin removed his hands, relieved that she was talking, albeit in cryptic terms.
He glanced at the door again.
“Please, I need your help. You know something that Fisher doesn’t want you to know. He’s trying to keep you quiet. What you know may be able to save us.” He hesitated, then pushed more directly. “Tell me the way out of this place.”
Nothing.
“Do you know where we are?”
“We’re here,” she said. “I’ve seen it.”
“Seen what!?”
No response. For all he knew, she was in a totally different zone, deluded by fanciful images that connected with a reality only privy to her. Austin felt his frustration rise. He briefly thought he might have a better chance at searching for Christy on his own.
Time was running out and he was getting nowhere.
“Alice—”
“It’ll be okay,” she said.
“No, you don’t understand. Maybe you can’t understand. This place is not okay. It’s dangerous and we have to leave as soon as possible.”
“You can see too.”
“See what, Alice? What!?”
“The key. The way out. I saw the lamps.”
Austin’s heart lurched. “There’s a key? Where? A key to what?”
She searched his eyes, apparently fascinated with him.
“Where’s the key? Please, Alice. I’m begging you, just tell me where.”
Her smile softened.
“In the basement,” she said. “Where I was.”
His mind spun. “You mean where I saw you with Fisher?”
She looked at him a moment, then spoke in a calm, reassuring voice.
“It’s going to be okay, Scott. I promise.”
Scott? He took a step back from the gurney.
“I’m not Scott. Who told you my name is Scott?”
“When you came in.”
“But I didn’t tell you my name was Scott. Fisher told you my name was Scott?”
Alice’s eyes shifted to the ceiling as if something there was drawing her attention. He followed her gaze but saw only the florescent lights.
Still no one at the door, but someone could walk in at any moment.
His mind spun with Alice’s words. She’d called Christy ‘Alice.’ And him ‘Scott.’ But that was explained easily enough. Fisher had worked on her before readmitting her. Schizophr
enics had highly suggestible minds.
Unless by when you came in she was referring to their being admitted at the same time, which, according to the administrator, they had been. Yesterday morning. He, Christy, and Alice, all new cases at Saint Matthew’s. Him being Scott, and Christy being Alice.
Only problem was that couldn’t be. He was Austin. Always had been; always would be.
“I’ve seen it,” Alice said, smiling gently at the lights above them. “I’ve been there.”
The hinges on the door behind them creaked and Austin went rigid. For a moment he refused to turn. He was only hearing things.
But then he turned and he knew: the door was open.
Fisher stood in the entry, considering Austin with a flint-hard face, arms loose at his sides.
He closed the door quietly behind him, then calmly removed his glasses, blew a speck of dust from them with a single puff, then returned them to his face. Without speaking a word, Fisher approached a wheelchair in the corner, his hard-soled shoes clacking against the tile.
If he was surprised by Austin’s attempted escape, he didn’t show it. It was as if he’d expected as much.
Fisher reached the wheelchair, bent down to unlock the wheels, swung it around, and pushed it toward them.
Austin stood unmoving, feet rooted to the hard floor. He wasn’t sure whether to run away or rush the man. Neither, of course. He didn’t stand a chance against Fisher, who was twice his size.
Even if he was able to get out of the room, then what? Break down every door until he found Christy? Get on the elevator and stroll out of the building? His logic had delivered him to the upper level, but it now failed him completely.
Fisher stopped three feet away, strangely calm. He looked at Alice, who wasn’t paying either of them any mind. Her gaze was still on the ceiling. But Fisher had to know that she’d spoken. The implications settled into Austin’s gut like a steel shot-put.
His attention drifted down to the wheelchair in front of him, then back up to Fisher, whose eyes were back on him.
“Sit down, Scott,” he said. There was no anger in his voice. No malice, no emotion.
Austin hesitated. “My name is Austin Hartt.”
“You really want to play games with me?” Fisher asked.
No, he thought. I don’t want to play games with you.
But Austin’s mind was otherwise too busy spinning through complicated thoughts to come up with a reasonable answer.
“If you want to live out this day, sit.” Fisher held his gaze. “I won’t ask again.”
Austin did the only thing he knew he could do. He took a tentative step forward, turned around slowly, and lowered himself into the wheelchair.
CHRISTY FELT herself being pulled from a dream—one in which she was a student at the Special School for Advanced Placement, which ironically, was best known for its football team. And its cheerleaders.
As the law would have it, every student had to participate in a sport. The problem was, Christy wasn’t exactly cut out for sports. And, worried about morale, the faculty had come to the conclusion that putting her on the cheerleading squad would dampen school spirit. She was too ugly, you see? The fans in the stands would spend the entire game wondering why such a prestigious school would put such an ugly mug directly in their line of sight. The fact that she often broke down in tears didn’t help matters either. They couldn’t very well have a weeping cheerleader.
But a solution had been identified. Christy could be of great use to the school by helping with the sports field.
“How?” she asked the board.
“Why, by watering the grass,” an old board member with a crooked nose said.
“Water the field? How?”
“With your tears, of course. Every night while the rest of the world is sleeping, you will come down to the field and water the grass with your tears.”
Christy opened her eyes and let the dream drain from her head. She was sitting on a floor. The bathroom floor.
As if dumped from heaven, the events of the prior night thudded into her mind. She’d seen herself in the mirror. In the bathroom, which had become a room of mirrors that she could not escape.
Her pulse quickened. White walls. Tiled floor. One mirror above the sink. Only one.
She lifted her hand and saw with great relief that her fingers, although far too stubby, weren’t as thick as those she’d seen last night. Scrambling to her feet, she lurched to the mirror and stared at her face.
At Christy’s face. Still one pimple, angry red, but not perched on a fat face that would scare away fans in the stands. It had been a dream then?
She twisted to the door. If so, what was she doing in the bathroom?
Because it wasn’t a dream, Christy. You were awake and delusional.
Maybe.
She took several calming breaths. Maybe, but maybe just a dream.
Then why is the door locked? From the outside.
Christy hurried to the door, reached for the knob, and twisted. Locked.
Oh no… Oh no…
Knuckles rapped on the wood and she jumped back, thinking that maybe it wasn’t over.
Oh no… Oh no!
Her heart was thudding in her ears as the door swung open. She stared up into the face of the Kern Lawson, who was chewing on a toothpick, expressionless except for what might be slight curiosity.
He glanced at the room behind her, then fixed his eyes on her again.
“Good morning, Alice.”
She blinked at him.
“You look like you could use some sleep,” he said.
“I…” She wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m fine.”
“Better now?”
“Not really. No.”
“No,” he said. “Not really. But you will be. Let’s go, shall we?”
“Go where?”
“You have an appointment with destiny, my dear. A little ther-I-py to help you see your way to the ugly truth.”
He walked into the room and Christy followed, not sure what to make of the man. Somehow, he didn’t seem as strange to her. More like the man she’d first met than the one who’d spoken to her last night.
Lawson walked to the door, waved his hand over a pad on the wall, and pulled the door open, facing her.
“Tell me, Alice. Did you see anything last night?”
She stopped in the middle of the room, at a loss. Play along, Austin had insisted. She had to get out, but right now she was helpless.
No games, just play along.
“I had a dream,” she said.
“I see. And what did you see in this dream?”
“That I was ugly.”
A smile slowly formed on his face. He withdrew his toothpick and flicked it across the room.
“Good. Progress, and so soon.”
She looked at the toothpick lying in the middle of her bedroom floor. She was making progress; let him think that. The sooner she convinced him she didn’t belong here, the better.
“The problem is, my dear ugly duckling,” he said, grin now gone, “you still aren’t making the proper distinctions between what is illusion and what isn’t.”
“Of course I am. I looked, didn’t I? I saw the real ugliness that I secretly imagine in myself. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Ah.” Lawson wagged his finger. “But you still don’t understand, sweetheart. You weren’t having a hallucination in the bathroom last night. You’re actually having one now. As we speak.”
For a brief moment, her heart stalled.
She wanted to play along, but doing so felt obscene.
“Of course I’m not. You’re saying this room isn’t real? That you aren’t real? That’s not possible.”
“I’m not saying this room and I aren’t real, Alice. I’m saying the you that you see right now isn’t the real you. You’ve suffered some kind of trauma that makes your mind see yourself differently than you really are. I’m guessing that you saw the real you last night.”
“Your mind sees only what it can handle. But not seeing the truth is keeping you locked up in delusion.” He paused. “When you walk into the bathroom, what do you see?” he asked.
“What do you mean? A plain bathroom.”
“And the walls?”
What was he getting at?
“Just walls.”
“Color?”
“White.”
“You see? At this moment, you see this room, you see me, as we really are. Plain as day. But you see yourself as Christy, a far more palatable rendition of the true you. And when you’re in your delusional state, you don’t see that the bathroom is actually walled in mirrored glass, all the way around, every square inch.” The administrator grinned, pleased with himself. “It’s one of the things we do here—a little physical change can often trigger a change in thinking.”
“That was only a delusion!”
“So you admit that you are delusional. Good. But I can assure you, the bathroom doesn’t have white walls. You just see it that way because your mind can’t bear to see you for who you are. It can tolerate one little mirror, maybe, but not a room full of them. It’s too much. Last night you were able to emerge from your delusion long enough to see yourself for who you really are. When you woke, the real you had retreated and the false you had reasserted itself. Capisce?”
The tremors took hold of her bones, deep down where no one could see them yet.
“That’s impossible.”
“Not at all. Entirely common in my trade.” His eyes shifted in the bathroom’s direction. “Now that you’ve heard the truth, you might even be able to take a peek and see for yourself. Maybe it’s too early.”
His eyes alighted on her.
“Would you like to try?”
His suggestion, that she really was the girl she’d seen last night, was screaming though her mind, stopping up her lungs, tilting the world.
Something’s really wrong with you, Christy. Something is very, very wrong with you.
“It’s all right, Alice. Let’s take this step by step.” He extended his hand, palm down. “Come with me. Let’s get you to your appointment with Nancy.“
