by Sabre, Mason
In the bed across the room—because William didn’t get to have his own space—Roni slept soundly ... so soundly that no one else could. His snoring rang out in a rhythmic growl that grated on William’s nerves. He glared across the room at the sleeping man. It wasn’t Roni’s fault, of course. He had some problem with his nose. Busted one too many times, judging by the crooked angle on it.
William ground his teeth and focused on the sounds out in the corridor. Anything but the racket coming from his roommate. He pulled at the bandage, unravelling it completely from his arm. He stretched it out between his hands and wrapped it tightly around his knuckles. The useless crepe paper fabric slowly tore in the middle as he imagined it around Roni’s throat.
He had to get out of there. The place was making him crazier than the night when he had walked through their doors, dripping wet.
His head fell back, hitting the concrete wall behind him, the thud echoing around his brain. Why would they have solid walls? Couldn’t someone go nuts and bash another person’s head into them? Like people with roommates that snored to the point of insanity?
One more night. That was all he had to survive. He hoped, at least. He was going home tomorrow … Well, if Dr Broadhurst signed the papers. Not that it would really matter. They couldn’t keep him here. He wouldn’t allow it.
Agitation had found its way into his legs so that he needed to move—needed to do something or sit there for the next few hours until it was breakfast and pill time. Not that he took them. The psychotic capsules were stuffed in a stocking at the back of his clothes drawer. Stockings … he couldn’t wait to wear socks again; those things deemed as ‘dangerous.’ The stockings were no use for anything, but to make his feet slide around in his slippers … and to store his pills in, of course.
William slid off his bed and crept to the door. It wasn’t locked. He was in the good part of the hospital—the lower risk area.
If only they knew.
He slipped out of his room quietly, leaving Roni to his adventures in slumberland. The small corridor just out of his door was dimly lit at this time of night, but it was enough to see where he was going. The main administration desk was lit up, the reflection of the television flickering as the receptionist watched whatever was on—garbage at this time of night. William had spent many twilight hours idly flicking through the channels and landing on nothing of interest, just things to keep the silence from his mind when he was at home.
One of the lights on the receptionist’s board flashed, followed by a faint hum. Someone had sounded one of the alarms. The nurse on duty flicked the television off and quickly rose. She punched the button on the board then headed in William’s direction. He casually leaned against the wall outside his room, minding his own business.
“Not sleeping again, Josh?” the receptionist commented as she walked past him. “I’ll get you something when I come back.”
Josh. He’d still not got used to that name. A spur of the moment lie when they had asked his name weeks ago. It seemed like a lifetime since that moment, but it was only just over a month. Why had he said Josh? He had no idea. But he did know that William was a fake, a liar. Useless. He didn’t want to be William any longer. Josh could be anyone—a mask he could wear and pretend to the world that he was normal and happy. William could keep all his past shit. That was his baggage. He could forget him. He would, too.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Just Roni.” The nurse gave him a smile and nodded. She understood. William had complained the first few nights about Roni’s snoring. He’d asked countless times for his own room, only to be told there were none in this hospital, but he could be transferred to another hospital if he wished. He didn’t. He didn’t sleep anyway, so what did it matter? His mind never wanted to calm. Always stuck in the nights … the darkness. Endless moments locked in that abyss where no one could hear him.
No more.
He shook it off like an old sweater cloaking his back, rolling his shoulders to ease out the tension his thoughts created. William died the night he threw himself into the river. William was gone.
The nurse went off to one of the bathrooms. No doubt one of the drugged up zombies had pulled the wrong cord again. That was usually the problem. Someone hadn’t thought it through when they designed the light switch right next to the alarm.
That was precisely why he didn’t take his medication. It wouldn’t help him anyway. He didn’t want to be zombified and become so numb that when his monsters came, he wouldn’t be able to run; he wouldn’t be able to think of how to hide and escape. He didn’t want to be trapped in a world of nothing where the demons roamed free and he couldn’t even scream.
Hands shoved into the pockets of the lounge pants he wore, he idled over to the main door. It was locked. Only openable by code or swipe key. William didn’t have a key, but he did know the code. Numbers were his thing. He could recall endless lines of them with ease. The door had a clear glass window in the centre. The glass itself was thick and double glazed. No doubt shatterproof, fireproof and nutcase-proof.
He eyed the darkened corridor on the other side of the glass that was actually a crossroad of hallways. Light spilled from one of the offices a short distance ahead. Someone was working late tonight. He pressed his forehead to the cool surface, palm of his hand flat against the metal door. There was a sign on one of the rooms. Mental Health Helpline. A second after he read it, the door opened and a young woman emerged. William stepped back, his heart thumping. Soft brown curls floated loosely on her shoulders as she pulled the door closed with a yawn and engaged the lock. Placing her fingers on her eyes, she massaged briefly before turning in William’s direction. Her gaze landed on him, her eyes locking with his, and William’s heart did a wild somersault. Unable to tear his eyes from hers, he moved closer to the door just as she lowered her head. As she passed, she stole a sideways glance at him, and he stopped breathing. He followed her with his eyes, pushing his forehead into the glass until she was out of view. Could it be her?
In the morning, William opened his eyes and was surprised to discover he was lying curled in his bed, no blankets. He didn’t remember coming back to his room or falling asleep, but he must have. Or maybe one of the nurses had brought him back—he might have had one of those moments where he did things and couldn’t remember. He hated when that happened. He hated having part of his life taken from him. It always made him paranoid, waiting for somebody to come along and tell him he was guilty of some heinous crime he didn’t remember committing. Then drag him to an area of the hospital where you couldn’t hide the pills away in your stockings.
Sunbeams danced on the floor, filtered by the metal grill covering the single window in the corner of the room. He glanced across at Roni’s bed and found it neatly made.
William rolled onto his back, fighting to remember last night. He’d gone back to his room after … He sat up abruptly. That woman. His heart hammered in his chest as he carefully traced over the memory of her.
He leapt off the bed, remembering another thing. Today was the first day of a new life for him. A new start for Josh. Fuck William.
The sounds of the cafeteria trolleys clanged against the floor. Shit. They’d done breakfast? He was late … God dammit. William snatched his clothes from their neat pile on the end of the bed and grabbed a shower as fast as he could. Shit, shit, shit.
Dr Broadhurst was locking his office when William finally reached his door. “You're late, Joshua.”
“I know,” he said breathlessly. “I overslept.” He’d managed to shower, get packed, and make his bed all in the space of fifteen minutes. They didn’t like the beds to be messy. Told them in sessions that having your things in order was a way to keep yourself in order. He couldn’t screw that up. Not today. To not get released just for the sake of a fucking bed? That would be his luck. And he had to get out. Especially now that he had something he had to do. God, he hoped that was her.
“You slept?” Dr Broadhurst smiled at that piece of inf
ormation. “I’m very pleased to hear that.” William was renowned for not sleeping. The doctor had tried to get to the bottom of it, but William had told them that it was just Roni and his endless racket. He knew Dr Broadhurst didn’t believe him.
William nodded his agreement enthusiastically. “It’s a good sign, right?”
“Could be.” Dr Broadhurst unlocked his office door and pushed it open. “After you.” He indicated the huge leather chair near his own. “Take a seat.”
There was no desk between them. That was off to the side, just under the window. Dr Broadhurst said having anything between them created barriers, and the therapy room was no place for barriers. That made sense, William supposed … for other patients. “It’s an exciting day today, isn’t it?”
“I think so,” William smiled.
Dr Broadhurst angled his head, shining his bald spot at him. “I don’t think I have seen you smile before.”
“I'm feeling really good about this.” Don’t screw this up. “Carly and I went through everything yesterday. The routines, you know?”
Dr Broadhurst nodded.
Carly was William’s support worker. At first he hadn't warmed to her. What did she know about everything he was going through? She didn’t give up, though. He opened up enough … enough that she thought she was helping. “We’ve set out all of these plans and made a schedule.”
“Good.” He made notes on the pad that rested on his knee. “All packed?”
“Yes, sir,” William said. “Good to go.”
“Someone is going to pick you up? Mother? Father?”
William internally jerked at those words. The doctor was fishing. Such innocent words, but the names of monsters. “My mother is dead. I told you,” William said easily. Dr Broadhurst always pretended to not know things. He was testing. They were all testing him, waiting for him to trip up. But he was smarter than that. If there was something his parents had taught him, it was how to lie. In their world, it was the only way to survive. “I’ll catch a cab.”
“You have money?”
“I have some at home.”
“Ah, yes. With your brother. He’ll be there?”
“He’ll be at work.” Another lie, but what did it matter? They knew Josh, not William. William the siblingless nobody. The child his mother birthed that caused her to be barren. Stole her womanhood, she had said.
“Your brother hasn’t come to visit you here.”
Shit. William stared at Dr Broadhurst. Not now. Not when he was so close to getting out.
He mentally calmed himself. They couldn’t keep him. He’d leave on his own if he had to.
Dr Broadhurst smiled. “Okay, Josh. I’m feeling good about this, too. I’ve arranged for you to see Carly as an outpatient. You're okay with that?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t miss any of your appointments?”
William shook his head. “No.” He let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Dr Broadhurst smiled again and went to his desk to sign off the release forms. He put them in a file and handed it to William.
“I wish you all the best, Joshua. Remember, Carly is there to help you. And you have all of the contact numbers?”
“Yes.” William forced a smile on his lips as he took the folder from him.
“Oh.” The man spun and reached across his desk. “Here,” he said, handing him a bright orange wallet. “We give this to everyone leaving us.”
William took the neon gift that reminded him of criminal outfits.
“It has leaflets inside. The Mental Health Helpline has a number to call including the opening hours.”
William’s heart strummed as he examined the contents, pulling out the slip of paper. It was a sign. It had to be. He flipped the leaflet over.
“They’re good if you can't get hold of Carly for whatever reason. They can get hold of us if you need it.”
“I’ll keep it safe,” he mumbled. But he had no intention of calling the number for the reason the doctor suggested. He had much bigger ideas. They began on the back of the paper, in small letters that read Volunteer here. Apply online.
It really was a sign.
Chapter Two
Rosie
Rosie stumbled, literally, out of the hospital doors and into the blinding arms of the 11:00 a.m. Tuesday morning. She squinted and paused, looking around. Shit, where had she parked? She scanned the parking lot, feeling like she’d been at work for twelve days, instead of twelve hours. Putting a hand over her brow, she shook her head. “Big dummy,” she muttered.
Her gaze paused at a guy sitting on the cement bench, next to the bus stop. In two seconds she realized he seemed familiar. She tried to place him just as he turned and locked gazes with her. Crap. The way he looked at her said she was right about knowing him. The stare became one of needing to recall who he was or glance away. Was he a fellow worker at the hospital maybe? She decided to toss a wave and smile, because she was at stalker-weird staring point now.
Aaaaand he didn’t wave back. Just … sat staring. Ooookay. She hurried into the parking lot, embarrassed to hell, only to realize she’d still not located her car.
Dead tired, dead stupid, and dead dumb. That’s the same as stupid, stupid. She paused and stood for several seconds. The last shred of self-preservation gave her the bright idea to pretend to check her purse for something. Keys, look for your keys. She gazed around as though appreciating the gorgeous day just as her fingers touched on her sunglasses. She pulled them out and slid them on—officially out of stall time. At least the tint of the shades felt like a protective wall as she went back to locating her vehicle.
Where the Goddamn hell did she park? Geeze, he was probably staring at her. The notion suddenly produced a burning on her backside. She hoped to God her panty lines weren’t half way up one side of her ass.
She turned enough to put him in her peripheral vision. Not finding him, she causally swung her eyes right over the bench he’d occupied.
Oh my God. He’s not even there. You idiot.
She looked around the parking lot, again, and finally found her stupid Volkswagen. She headed casually toward it; no hurry, no rush. Woman of confidence and leisure, that’s what she was. And no life.
Stop your whining. What you seriously need is a lick of self-esteem. Jacking love interests off a random guy who happened to randomly glance your way? Really? Correction: glance through you.
She unlocked her car, peeking one last time for any signs of the guy. Still none.
The dinosaur that lived in the door hinge, gave its tormented squeal as she opened it. She was glad he was gone, or else she’d have to find reasons to take forever just to not have to start that thing she called transportation.
Her Volkswagen was like that hole in your shoe—too big to hide. Or the sign over your life that said Failure in progress.
“Or disaster waiting to happen,” she mumbled, turning the rear-view mirror her way and removing her sunglasses. “Oh, dear God,” she whispered at her reflection. “You look like the walking dead.” She gave a light snort at the puffy-lidded eyes staring back at her. “That’s why the man stared for more than a second. And why are you obsessing over a guy staring at you for a couple of seconds?” she mumbled to herself. “Quit talking to your reflection,” she added, turning the mirror away. “You’re at the right place to go crazy, Rosie.” She shoved the key into the ignition. “Maybe if you went to one of the hundred parties they’re always having, you might have more than your reflection to talk to.”
Looking around the parking lot, she spied several people coming and going. Grabbing her purse, she pulled out her little personal calendar. She wasn’t about to try and start her car with an audience and finish off her already shredded ego.
She dug out her jumbo pen and clicked the top, opening the calendar to the spot needing another X. She marked it perfectly and counted how many days left before being promoted to a paid position. She already knew how many, but she had to count anyway.
It did something for her—she wasn’t sure what, and had quit trying to figure it out.
The tiny pages popped out from under her thumb, and she stared at the other X’s.
The caller that never called back.
Don’t do it, Rosie. Just don’t. Even as she said it, she did it. She turned the pages to the first day when she’d started marking the calendar for him. Don’t count. Don’t you count it.
But she did. She knew the numbers on that, too. As she counted, she felt it. The negative vibes of doom eating up the X’s she’d put on her good girl goal’s side.
Wow. She shook her head, amazed. Thirty days. When would she leave it? Accept he wasn’t going to ever call ever again?
She let her eyes close while shaking her head a little. Stupid dance in her stupid mind. She was sick and tired of hearing the fear of what could have happened, might have happened, likely had happened to him.
You know, he could have very easily gotten his second wind, Rosie. Your words could have helped him. He could be in a new life, starting over. That is just as plausible and possible as the other wretched scenarios you conjure up.
The attempt at positive thoughts only served up a burning pile of dread in the pit of her stomach. She stared at the taunting X’s. There were only twenty because she’d gotten pissed, and quit marking. She filled the empty squares to get it current, digging her pen into the squares. The ink skipped and she scribbled roughly on the side of the paper. Piece of shit. The ink returned, only to run out again on the next one. She pounded the pen tip onto the book, making holes. This time she pressed hard enough to rip the X’s onto the squares, one after another until she’d completed all thirty, then threw the pen on the floor.
“See, I don’t give up,” she said to the calendar. “You know what? I don’t think you need to be in my life at all, messing up my schedule with your stupid no calling bull crap.” She ripped the pages out, then ripped them into pieces and threw them as hard as she could onto the floor. She ripped all the pages out now and slammed them to the floor, too. “You don’t own me,” she yelled, pointing at the mess. “You don’t make me or break me, I do.” She poked her chest a bunch. “You want to give up? Fine, you give up. Just give up. It’s not my fault you’re not going to fight, Mister. That’s on you.”
