by Amy Cross
Behind me, the door is slammed shut, and everything falls silent.
Alone at last, I guess.
Time passes. Loneliness settles around me, like a fine layer of dust.
I feel like I'm dead. I feel like every ounce of energy and fight and sense has been drained from my body, and now I'm just a husk. Sure, my friends and family might look at me and say "Yeah, that's her," but if any of them looked in my eyes, they'd see that there's no-one home any more. To all intents and purposes, I really am dead. Really, truly, totally dead. And that's fine. I don't mind. Just so long as everyone leaves me alone.
"Hey," says a voice nearby, cutting the silence of the room. It's a fragile female voice.
I try to look up, but I'm too weak. In fact, it's hard to believe I'll ever be able to move again. I'm just a body on the floor, waiting to be picked up and thrown about by anyone who cares to get me out of the way. I don't mind: I'm happy just to stay here and hopefully not get hurt anymore. Death can't come soon enough, and it feels like the end is coming. Maybe just a few more seconds...
Slowly, I feel arms wrap around me. Whereas the guard's arms were big and heavy, these arms are thin and bare and weak; whereas the guard was able to haul me up and carry me, these arms struggle to pull me off the floor and onto a bed. I can barely even keep my eyes open, but I can just about make out a vague, fuzzy shape holding me. As she struggles to get me onto the bed, I can hear her huffing and puffing through the effort. Why's she even bothering?
"There," she says eventually, pulling a sheet over my body. "At least you're not on the floor."
I open my mouth a fraction, trying to say "Thank you." Nothing comes out, of course, but it's a slight improvement. A couple of minutes ago, I wouldn't even have been able to open my mouth at all. Am I slowly getting stronger? I hope not. That would seem cruel. Why get stronger now, of all times, when I'm only going to get weaker again? I just want to fade away forever. Somewhere at the back of my mind, there's the memory of everything that's ever happened in my life. I don't want that memory to ever come back. That's why I just want to die. Plenty of other people will remember what I did. It's not necessary for me to be alive. What was it that the judge said? My crime will live in infamy. In other words, people will remember me...
"Thank you for picking me up and putting me on the bed," the female voice says, sounding a little sarcastic. "Oh, don't mention it, weird girl. Glad to be of help. Don't worry about saying anything. My name's Kirsten, by the way. Nice to fucking meet you." There's a pause. "Ungrateful, much?"
I make another attempt to speak, but it's still too difficult. Even breathing is hard right now. I find it impossible to believe that I'll ever do anything in my life other than fade away on this bed.
"Duodraxadine," the girl says, suddenly putting her face close to mine and sniffing. "I can smell it on you. Maybe five per cent Hexadrall mixed in. Enough to take down an elephant. You'll be like this for a few more hours, but you'll be up and about by morning. That's assuming they don't come and give you another dose. It all depends on how much of a threat they think you are." She leans in even closer, and now I can feel her breath on my skin. "How much of a threat are you, anyway? Should I be concerned?" She pauses. "Hopefully not too much. I mean, you're in here with me, right? No offense, but if you try anything, I'll fucking kill you, do you understand? I will literally smash your head open and smear your brain across the wall. And then I'll piss in your skull until it overflows out your mouth and eye sockets. You got that?"
I move my mouth a little, trying to speak. It's useless.
"You're fucked up," the girl continues. "Don't get me wrong, but you're seriously like... I mean, your face is so out of it. Can you even see me?"
I try to focus on her, but everything's still blurry. I don't know what drugs they put into my system, but all I can make out of the girl is a giant fuzzy blob hovering close over me.
"They must have given you a double dose," she says, sounding fascinated. "That means they must think you're seriously dangerous. Dude, well done. You've got a high score already." I hear her moving away, but then she comes back close again. "Remind me to talk to you about this when you're awake, yeah? I want to know all about it. I want to know who you are, where you're from, why you're here and what the fuck is wrong with you. 'Cause I can see one thing real clear. You're special. I thought I was the most dangerous one here, but it's blatantly you. Blatantly."
With that, she's gone. I stay on the bed, and after a while I realize I'm drooling from my open mouth. I try to close my lips, but it's too much effort: I'm like a god-damned vegetable. I'm helpless. The only thing I can do is surrender to the crushing pressure of sleep, and hope and pray that they've accidentally over-dosed me so that I slip into a coma and then, from there, into the perfect nightmare of death.
Chapter Two
First comes the headache, and then the blinding light of morning. Opening my eyes, I see that the blinds in this tall, white room are open and sunlight is streaming in, warming up the air. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, and for a couple of seconds all I can think about is the headache. The pain is so intense, it's hard to focus on anything else. Finally, remembering some vague impression of being far from home, I decide I should sit up and see if maybe a change of position might stop the pain.
I sit up.
Mistake. It feels instantly as if some heavy weight has rolled from my head down into my chest. There's a sharp pain behind my eyes, the same pain I remember from earlier. If anything, it's worse. I sit still, and slowly the pain subsides just enough to be bearable. I look straight ahead and see my own pale feet sticking out from under the other end of the rough bed-sheet; sunlight is playing across the white wall that's facing me, and the room feels hot and stuffy.
I look over to my right and see another bed. The sheets have been ruffled and messed up, as if someone has been sleeping, but I'm alone in the room. Whoever was here before, they're gone now. I have no idea what time it is, but I guess I've missed breakfast. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and slowly stand up, but the pain in my head becomes so strong that I have to steady myself against the wall for a couple of minutes until the agony becomes a little more bearable.
"Fuck," I say to myself, mainly because I want to hear my own voice again. I sound rough, like I've been dragged backward through a bush. God, I'd hate to see myself right now; fortunately, there's no sign of a mirror in this room. In fact, there's no sign of very much at all. It's just a small white room, with two beds, and nothing else. There's not even a light switch. I wander over to the window, but I find that it's covered in hard plastic. No way in or out, not even a little gap; no wonder the room feels so stuffy and airless.
I stumble over to the door, which looks like it's made of metal. I already know I won't be able to open it, but I decide to give it a try anyway. There's no handle, but I manage to get hold of a small edge. No luck. I'm sealed in here, like I'm in a tomb. I pause, taking a deep breath and trying not to panic. I wouldn't say I'm claustrophobic, but at the same time I don't exactly like being trapped in confined spaces. I mean, if everyone outside suddenly died, I'd have no way of getting out. I'd just have to sit here and starve to death, or if there was a fire, I'd burn. I'm helpless.
"Get back from the door!" calls a voice from a buzzy, tinny intercom on the wall
"What?" I say.
"Get back from the door now!" the voice says, sounding angry.
Without really thinking about it, I take a few steps back, almost colliding with the bed. I manage to stay upright, but my headache returns with a vengeance. There's a faint beeping sound in the corridor outside, as if someone's entering a code on a keypad, and then there's the sound of a metal lock sliding open.
"Keep back," the voice says before the door opens and a large, well-built guard stares at me. "You're coming to the ward," he says.
I stare back at him. He's so big and strong-looking, I guess he must be the guard who carried me here last night. Or wa
s it even longer ago? Frankly, it could have been last week, or even last month. I've been losing track of time, and my mind is still foggy.
"I said you're coming with me!" he says firmly, stepping towards me, grabbing my arm, and pulling me out into the corridor with such force that I slam into the opposite wall. I can tell from the roughness of his touch that he's the same guard from last time. "Something wrong with your ears?" he continues as he pushes me along the corridor. I stumble ahead of him, finding it a little difficult to control my legs. Something's still not quite right with my head, and my balance is pretty off. I'm getting better, but I'm not there yet.
"Hang on," he says, putting a hand out to block me. He pulls a rolled-up magazine from his back pocket and hands it to me along with a pen. It's some tabloid scandal rag, and my face is on the cover. The headline screams 'Killer Jailed!'; other stories, about stars like Kim Kardashian and Justin Bieber, are pushed to the side of the cover. I'm famous. I guess Americans are all agreed that I'm a monster. "Sign it," the guard says.
"Why?" I ask.
"Just sign it," he says. "Just your name."
Realizing he wants an autograph, I write my name and hand the magazine and pen back to him. It's kind of humiliating to be treated as some kind of celebrity, but I understand all too well that I have no power to resist. This asshole's probably gonna have the magazine up on an online auction site before the end of the day. He'll probably turn a nice profit, too. After all, I've never given an autograph before.
"Keep moving," he says, pushing me along the corridor as he puts the magazine back in his pocket.
As we walk, other patients wander past and I see that they're all trying to pretend that they don't want to look at me. Great, even the psychos and nut-jobs know who I am. My fame has spread. Too bad that none of them know the real story. They just see me as that bitch from the news, the girl who shot her little brother. They think it's that simple.
"Stop!" the guard says. I do as I'm told, as the guard knocks on a nearby door; as he does so, the sound of his knuckles rapping against the wood seems impossibly loud, and I step back, putting my hands over my ears. The guard turns to me and laughs, and then the door opens to reveal a short, old man with untidy gray hair. He takes one look at me, and steps aside. The guard grabs my arm and guides me into the room, and I hear the door slam shut behind me.
In contrast to the earlier room, this place is much larger and more airy. There are tall, open windows all along the opposite wall, and there are chairs arranged in a circle in the middle. There's no-one else here, though; just me, the guard and the older man.
"Annie, won't you take a seat?" the older man says, stepping past me and gesturing toward the middle of the room. "My name is Dr. Campbell, and I'd like to ask you a few questions. Is that alright with you?"
I turn and look at the guard, and then I reluctantly wander unsteadily over to the circle of chairs. My head still feels groggy, and I'm not sure whether I've understood what Dr. Campbell said. Does he want me to sit in one of the chairs? Does he want me to move them? I feel like I should understand, but I don't.
"Please sit down," he says, taking a seat himself. He smiles, a look of amused surprise crossing his face. "I won't bite. This is just an introductory session. The biting comes later." He pauses. "That was a joke."
I nod slowly, not sure what to do or say. I've got this terribly uneasy feeling coursing throughout my body, as if some silent part of my mind is desperately trying to warn me to be careful. I want, more than anything, to turn and run, but I know I wouldn't get far. I get the impression that this place is pretty tight when it comes to security, and any attempt to escape would probably just invite trouble. Besides, my head's all wrong; if I'm going to come up with a plan, I need to wait until my system's free from whatever crap they've been pumping through my veins.
"Here?" I ask, indicating a seat nearby.
"If you like," says Dr. Campbell.
I sit down, cautiously glancing over at the guard. He stares at me with a blank expression. I'm pretty sure he sees this whole thing as stupid: he'd probably prefer to just knock some sense into me with his fists. Dr. Campbell, though, at least gives the impression of caring. That'll do for now. I just wish I could get my mind back.
"We'll start with a few questions," Dr. Campbell says, looking at a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. "Do you know your name?"
I stare at him. Of course I know my name, but as I try to say it, I realize that it's not quite so easy. I have a sensation of knowing my name, but I can't quite put it into words. "I..." I start to say, "I'm..."
"Go on," he says.
I suddenly remember that he called me Annie a moment ago. "I'm Annie," I say tentatively.
"Good," Dr. Campbell says, writing something on his sheet of paper. "Annie, I want you to listen very carefully to me, okay? Do you know how many days have passed between the time you were committed to this institution, and today?"
I pause. "How much... time?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies. "How long have you been a resident here at Lakehurst?"
"Not long," I say. "I think I came last night."
"I see," the doctor says, writing something on his chart.
"Isn't that right?" I ask, reaching my hands down and gripping the seat of the chair on either side. I look over at the guard, but he's no help.
"Not entirely," Dr. Campbell replies. "But don't worry. We'll soon get you sorted out. You're still feeling the effects of the Duodraxadine and Hexadrall we had to put in your system. If you're feeling a little groggy, rest assured that you're simply experiencing a natural side-effect of the treatment. Nobody expects you to be a whizz right now. We'll just let you come back to normal slowly. Do we have a deal, Annie?"
"I guess so," I say.
"Do you know why you're here?" Dr. Campbell asks.
I open my mouth to respond, but I'm suddenly hit by a flashback to a time, several weeks ago, when I was standing in the forest. I don't remember much, but my father was hugging me and trying to get something out of my hand, and my mother was on her hands and knees. "No," I say, my voice bringing me back to the room. I stare at Dr. Campbell. "I don't know." It's a lie, but one that I'm hoping will get him to lay off the details for a while. I look around the room, which seems to still and calm.
Dr. Campbell scribbles something on his clipboard. "Do you believe in ghosts, Annie?" he asks, not looking over at me.
I stare at him.
"Annie, I asked you a question."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I'm not sure what to say.
"It's not a trick," he says. "Just answer the question. Would you like me to repeat it?"
I shake my head. "I don't know," I say eventually.
Sighing, he writes something down. "And do you believe in morality?"
I pause again. These questions aren't what I expected at all. "Morality?"
"Right and wrong. Good and evil. That sort of thing." He stares at me, clearly studying me, analyzing me. I don't like it. "Are you driven by an inward sense of what you should and shouldn't do, or do you base decisions solely on what you think you can get away with? Do you think about, and care about, other people?"
I consider the question. "I think I believe in it," I say eventually.
He sighs. "When you see other people going about their daily lives, bound by a sense of morality, what do you think? Do you admire them, or do you think they're idiots?"
"I... don't know."
He writes something down. "That's interesting," he says.
"What is?" I ask.
"Oh, nothing. It's just that most people have a very firm answer, one way or the other. Even if they don't, they pretend to have an opinion. You're the first person who has ever expressed any doubt." He puts the clipboard aside, pops the pen in his top pocket, and leans forward with a smile. "Now Annie, I'm going to tell you why you're here and what's going to happen to you."
I take a deep breath.
"Lakehurst is a level f
our psychiatric evaluation and treatment center. What that means is that we're going to determine what's wrong with you, and what can be done to fix you. Now, I know a lot of specialists avoid using terms like 'wrong' and 'fix', but I don't believe in beating around the bush. I think it obscures the truth." He stares at me for a moment. "Annie, are you aware that there is something very, very wrong with you?"
I narrow my eyes a little.
"Well, there is," he continues. "Your head is not functioning properly. Your mind is damaged, and you've shown evidence of this by making some very bad decisions. The good news is that all such abnormalities can ultimately be traced back to some kind of physical cause, usually related to hormone imbalances or structural problems in your brain. And these, you'll be pleased to hear, can be treated. We have a one hundred per cent success rate here at Lakehurst." He smiles. "No-one who leaves this place has ever gone on to re-offend. No-one. Do you know what that means for you, Annie?"
I shake my head slowly.
"It means you're going to get better," he says. "You're going to be alright. It might be a bumpy road, but you're going to get out of this mess, back on the straight and narrow. I'm going to make sure of that." He smiles. "Okay?"
I stare at him.
"We're going to do this together, Annie," he says. "It's a big mountain to climb, but we're going to start at the bottom and methodically work our way to the top. And we're going to get you to the point where... Well, you can't ever forget what you did to your brother, and that's not what I want to do anyway. I want you to be able to come to terms with it, and move on. Is that clear?"
I look up at the wall as the air conditioning unit seems to shift into a different mode, its buzz rising slightly.
"Is that clear, Annie?"
I look back at him. "Yes," I say. "It's clear."
"Excellent," he says, getting to his feet. "Eddie will take you back to your room, and we'll have another discussion tomorrow. Is that okay?"
