The first girl glares at me from under a veil of dishwater colored hair matted against her head. She’s a frequent flyer, or so she’s told the group. Her crime? Slicing her wrists with anything sharp she can get her hands on. Cutter-Girl’s made three appearances here in the past few months. The next one ends with a long-term residential placement with the crazies.
Victim number two is a guy who’s suffered horrific abuse. He likes to tell stories about his father’s sexual escapades, life as a sex-slave and more graphic depictions of a world I can’t imagine. It’s all TMI. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not, but I’d like to pretend he exaggerates his problems for effect. So much easier than believing this tiny Central California town has such a perverted underground.
Abuse Dude’s hair hangs in greasy strands around his face, peeking out from an old, faded hoodie. He’s more depressed than last night, his eyes dark and half closed. Either that or the staff found a stronger cocktail of meds to shove through his veins. Something to calm down the horrors he describes.
The last girl in this morning’s group is here on a suicide watch. I think she’s the most interesting of the bunch. Flaming red hair, nearly translucent skin, she looks too strong for a girl who claims to want to end it all. What happened to her to make her want to kill herself? Sure, if you’re Abuse Dude, yeah. Do it. But this girl isn’t like him. She comes from a normal family, whatever that means. Dressed in designer jeans and a sweater, she doesn’t look the type to stroll around crazy town. She says her mother expects too much; everyone does.
I get it, sort-of. I mean, I guess I do. I’ve been under pressure before, told to earn good grades, behave a certain way. But even with my freak-out session, I’ve never considered taking my own life. In fact, there isn’t a situation I can imagine that would make my death the only viable option.
I stare at Suicide Girl, Mari, trying to imagine her life. Flashes bolt through me, clips of children laughing as they work in what appears to be a small lab. They whisper to each other as glass beakers float in the air above their heads. Mari is among the children. And me. More vignettes pass through my vision. More items floating with no strings, more sterile labs and experiments.
The images whirl too fast, blurring before I can understand them.
“Dakota.” The counselor’s voice breaks the trance. “Dakota, you’re required to participate in these groups in order to be released.”
I shake my head and look from Mari to Ms. Whatever. “What?”
“You are required to participate,” the counselor repeats with a palpable frustration.
What does she expect, some fairytale about my past? A family history of abuse at the hands of a secret cult? Fictional stories spring to life inside me, wild tales about experiments, secret government agencies, psychic abilities. The words lodge in my mouth, desperate to escape. I shove them aside and say, “I know” instead. “I’m sorry.”
More fiction.
“What do you want me to talk about?”
“Why not explain to the group how you can prevent future outbursts. Tell us what you’ll do differently when you’re under the kind of pressure you experienced before your episode.”
“I’m not under any pressure,” I whisper under my breath.
“What?” Ms. Whatever says, her glare pinning me to the chair.
Mari catches my eye, curious. She wants me to open up, too.
Not going to happen.
“I wasn’t stressed,” I say. “At least, not until I came here.”
“Then what do you think caused your breakdown?” The counselor’s fingers tap against her clipboard with impatient annoyance. All eyes turn toward me and wait.
Wait.
The air grows stiff as I prolong my reply. I want to say The freakin’ scary person in my head! or tell them about the nightmares I’ve had since forever, tales of death and a power I both crave and fear. Instead I mutter “I guess it was stress.”
“You don’t believe that,” Mari says, like she’s peering into my brain. “Not at all. At least be honest with yourself.”
“Why don’t you?” I blurt.
The counselor’s mouth opens and I imagine the lengthy diatribe she’s about to share, “Soapbox #528”.
“Sorry to interrupt,” an orderly I’ve yet to meet says, stopping the lecture before it begins. His voice is gruff and reminds me of an old man, despite his young age. “I need Miss Harrison to come with me.”
My brow furrows. I scrutinize the person who offers a little freedom from this stale room. Tall and burly, his bulky frame nearly fills the entire doorway. I’m sure he was hired for his size alone. I mean, what kid would put up a fight against him?
I glance from the group to the grey sky beyond the window. The rain continues to pour, the rhythm now mocking my every thought. I stand and follow the large man from the room—no goodbyes, no regrets. Anything to get away from these people.
The walk down the corridor is silent save for the sound of our feet on the floor, his heavy and steady, mine betraying a fear I struggle to keep hidden.
“Here,” the orderly says as he nods toward a white door just ahead. “Go in and sit.”
“What is this? What’s going on?”
Before my question fully forms, he leads me into the empty room, an office by the looks of it. I stare at the door and swallow down my apprehension, focusing my energy on my relief. I’m out of the group for now, away from the others and their prying eyes.
“Thank you,” I turn to say as the man leaves. He nods and I’m alone.
Paneled in a dark wood that feels out of place in this part of the hospital, the office is furnished with an oversized wooden desk, two additional chairs, bookcases, and file cabinets. My gaze traces the vanity certificates lining the back wall; proof of the inhabitant’s numerous scholastic achievements. The dates on each plaque are before my birth. I guess he—or maybe she with a name like Riley Donaldson—hasn’t done anything too noteworthy in the past seventeen years.
I pace the perimeter of the room and take in the objects that line the bookshelves, the pictures that speckle the walls. Everything is old, like something from a bad 80’s movie. My reflection catches my eye and I stop in front of a mirror flanked by wooden display shelves. I look as dead as I feel—thin and wispy. The breakdown took more than my pride. I lost a piece of my soul. My blonde hair mats against my scalp, half frizzy, half straight. There is no sparkle in my amber eyes, no color to my normally tan skin. “Zombie” is the only word to describe me in this moment. Lifeless and pale.
Flashes of the meltdown burn against the backdrop of my eyes. Glimpses that resemble an old-fashioned film reel stuck on repeat:
The scent of exhaust.
The burning, white-hot pain when it slams into the man’s scalp, shredding his brain cells.
The terror when he understands his fate.
A scream pushes up my throat and I’m again overcome with a vision I refuse to believe. I grab the good doctor’s desk to steady myself.
“Stop,” I whisper.
Visions like these are nothing new. When I was younger, they used to happen as I drifted off to sleep and when I first woke. Clips of déjà-vu, moments of arguments I’d sense before they were ever spoken, images of strange deaths. They’d stopped years ago.
Hadn’t they?
My mind whirls with the unyielding pictures, desperate to prevent another trip into Crazyland. My heart beats too fast as the movie continues. I sharpen my focus and take a deep breath. “This isn’t real,” I say. My voice fills the room.
Heavy footsteps draw my attention. The door opens with a groan and Dr. Donaldson—definitely a he—walks in and smiles. “Hello Dakota. How are you feeling today?” His words are detached, fake. No kindness exists in them. He doesn’t care about me, so I return the favor, grunt fine and glance from him to the window, hoping, praying, someone will come and rescue me from this place.
“Your parents are on their way,” he says as though he c
an read my thoughts. “You aren’t ready to go home yet. These images, the delusions you witnessed in the coffee shop, are signs of deeper problems, Dakota. You need long-term care.”
I spin around to meet his gaze. What kind of quack tells the mentally unstable they’re crazy? I mean, seriously!
Dr. Donaldson paces, his moves resembling a panther preparing to strike. His dark suit and piercing amber eyes only add to his cat-like appearance. “I think we need to explore the source of your delusions. Discover what these images mean together. I plan to ask your parents to allow me to place you at Mountain View for the time being. In six months or so we can determine if you’re healthy.” He steps closer, his eyes glimmering with something that can only be described as desperate hunger. “It’s for your own good, Dakota. Trust me.”
I take a step back, stopped by the solid wall behind me. His words feel familiar in a way I can’t explain. Distant memories echo just out of reach.
“I’ve worked with your type before.”
A silent rage ignites through me. “What type?” I ask as I straighten to my full height.
“Broken.”
There’s nothing left to discuss. I’m not broken and I won’t stay here. Instinctively my focus sharpens, drilling into the doctor’s thoughts. I imagine his words disappearing. I picture him stepping back, sitting in his chair and staring out of the window silent and mute. A moment later, Dr. Donaldson’s gaze moves from ravenous to compliant and he retreats to his desk.
“Your parents will be here soon,” he says. The strength in his voice is gone. The sound is hollow, distant.
Just like I’d imagined.
My mind erases the thought too fast for me to consider it further. I sit across from the doctor and wait in silence.
Mom and Dad arrive faster than I expect. Dr. Donaldson stands, his mouth poised to persuade my parents of my “illness”. So much for his placid demeanor. Before the doctor can breathe one word, Mom orders me to the car. From the corner of my eye, I see Dad clench his jaw, his chiseled features set in his “don’t mess with me” look. I can’t tell if the look is aimed at me or the doctor, so I nod at them and walk out of the office and down the hall, toward the elevators. Barely a moment passes before a heated exchange ensues. Snippets of conversation—“She needs more help than you two can provide—”, “We don’t need your help, we never have—”, “You will release her. You know what’s at stake”—linger in the air. The nurses ignore it all. I guess they’re used to parents going three rounds with the doctor.
The argument continues when the bell signals the elevator’s arrival. I step into the empty compartment and let the hum of the motor lull me into a near trance before I reach the main floor. I don’t know where the car is parked, so I wait.
Wait.
Wait.
My parents should’ve been right behind me, catching the next elevator down. Why are they taking so long? A steady flow of people walk in and out of the lobby. The elevator doors open and close. Apprehension clings to my skin. Where are they?
My mind plays tricks on me. I envision a girl my age walking around the room, staring hard into everyone’s eyes. Her skin is transparent, gray, almost like she was formed from a newspaper clipping. She pauses in front of each person, hesitates for only a moment and moves to the next.
Until she reaches me and a fresh crop of thoughts—or maybe memories—begin.
SOMETHING TELLS ME NOT TO GAZE INTO THE APPARITION’S EYES, TO PRETEND I’M NOT AWARE OF HER PRESENCE. My pulse throbs too loud in my ears as old fears spring to life in the recesses of my mind. Familiar images bloom in front of my eyes—sterile labs, scientists, endless tests—all pulled from my strangest nightmares. Four children walk with me through my thoughts. The pictures morph and bend until I’m dizzy.
The apparition comes closer, a phantom familiar in ways I don’t understand. A scent—pine and rain—fills me with more memories. The ghost lingers and I steal a glance. She resembles Mari, Suicide Girl. Same flaming hair, same determined expression. Her face is inches from mine, her breath hot against my neck. The temptation to stare pulls at me. I resist, focusing instead on memories too foreign to be my own.
Laughter and games.
Screams and torture.
Death.
The macabre vision wields a power similar to the ghostly girl who refuses to move. My heart beats once, twice, three times. Her gaze burns into my skin as she reaches for my soul like some Grim Reaper determined to claim her next victim. I swallow hard, my sight glued to the floor, examining the frayed ends of my shoe laces.
Look at me.
I know who you are.
Look at me now.
The mantra repeats over and over. I’m compelled to peer into the eyes of the motionless apparition. My pulse pounds harder in my veins as I resist. Silent alarm bells rattle my mind as my instincts warn against moving, looking, breathing.
Another series of heartbeats chip away the time. I strain, tethered by an invisible force pulling me toward the girl. The attraction is both foreign and familiar, like an echo of something I’ve forgotten. Sounds chime in the distance. My resistance falters. Doors open and close. I raise my head and dark green eyes meet my own.
“Dakota, honey. Are you okay?”
The trance is broken. Suicide Girl fades.
“Dakota.” Mom’s fingers drape over my shoulder and the tension leaves my body in an instant. Tears prick behind my eyes. I reach for Mari as she vanishes.
“Honey? What’s wrong?”
Relief rains down on me as the last images of the phantom disappear. I turn to Mom, wrap my arms around her neck and beg to leave.
“You’re okay, Dakota,” Mom says, returning my hugs.
I glance over Mom, searching. There is no phantom now, no pictures of familiar children in a sterile lab. Whatever happened, the memories have disappeared as swiftly as the girl.
If she was even here.
The car ride is quiet, nothing but the relentless tap of the rain against the windows and the hum of the tires as they speed along the highway to break the silence hanging in the air between my parents and me. I don’t know what to think. The visions, the memories, I need to believe they didn’t happen; they’re just a by-product of stress like I said in group. I imagine what the others would say. Cutter Girl would understand. Maybe even Mari. They’d both say I’m losing my grip on reality; anyone would. One problem: everything inside tells me it’s real.
The hallucination.
The memory.
Mari’s phantom appearance in the lobby.
I should be freaked out again, begging for a long-term stay at the nut-house. Instead I’m intrigued. I want to understand what the visions are telling me, let them answer the unyielding questions now circling my thoughts.
I stare out the window, searching for meaning. Shades of grey, varied and complex, paint the sky. The rain continues to pour. A slate-colored ocean stretches out to my right, matching the imposing skyline. My mind blurs as Dad pulls off the near empty highway and the car winds up the road to our home.
We live on one of several bluffs in this quiet town. Dad slows the car with each turn, his hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel. He’s warned me about these roads since before I can remember. “You have to pay attention here,” he’d say every time someone sped past us. “These turns come fast and that guard rail won’t stop you if you miss one of them.”
He wasn’t wrong. Each year we’d read about at least a few crashes, usually by drunks or teens racing down the hills that define this part of Cambria.
I refocus my eyes as Dad continues up the hill in silence. I stare at the front console. A newspaper sits between Mom and Dad, crumbled and damp. “Mental Health Crisis in California Rages On as Another Teen Suffers a Breakdown In A Small Central California Town.”
Crap. I’d made the news.
“Say something you guys.” My voice cracks the fragile silence. “Yell, scream, cry. Anything.”
Dad sigh
s his annoyance.
“What do you want us to say? We’re worried about you?” Mom’s voice trembles. “Well, we are, okay? Happy now?”
“This isn’t my fault, Mom.”
She spins around and pins me with her glare. “Is that what you think?” she yells.
There’s no way for me to answer her questions without making things a lot worse, so I let the silence engulf us and count the minutes until we’re home and I can hide away from Mom’s expectant glare.
“I’m speaking to you, Dakota.”
“What am I supposed to say, Mom?” My voice is strained and hollow. “I saw something weird and it freaked me out. This doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”
“And in the lobby?” Mom won’t let this go. “What happened?”
I wish I could disappear, get swallowed up by the back seat of the car. I guess silence is better than her version of the Inquisition.
I stare back out of the window, noting the thick forests as we reach the top of the hill. This isn’t our street; we aren’t headed toward our house.
“Where are we? Why aren’t we going home?”
Dad clenches his jaw.
“Mom?”
She grabs the paper and hands it to me. I read the newspaper headline again, noticing the large San Francisco Chronicle across the top. National news. About me and my little breakdown. Great. I scan the page and pull out the highlights:
Screaming about a man dying, her head exploding, the young woman threw scalding hot coffee at the barista and several patrons before trying to flee the scene. Friends and family have refused to comment on the situation. The injured barista stated that the girl is a regular and has never “acted strange” in past visits to the coffee shop.
The words form a noose around my neck, making the event more and more real. I get why Dr. Donaldson wants me committed, why my parents are pissed. I’m nuts.
Crap times two.
“So?” I ask again. “Did you decide to send me to Mountain View after all? I didn’t do anything!” I crumple the paper and throw it on the seat.
Collide (The Solomon Experiments Book 1) Page 2
