by Abigail Boyd
The prescription tore off. She handed it to Claire, whose head was bobbing like a dashboard ornament on a bumpy road. I still couldn't shake the paranoid feeling that they were conspiring against me.
"And then maybe after you adjust, we can work on why you feel like so much of an outsider," Dr. N said.
But there was no after. We never went back to the mental health center. Claire always came up with a justifiable excuse. She updated Dr. N via phone progress reports, in which she talked in melodramatic tones and used phrases like "firm recovery." That's how my pills kept magically getting refilled.
The matter had been dealt with. And all of these months later, in her mind, things were just fine.
Autopilot was my way of getting through home life. Not much different than at school. When I came home from my finals, I helped Hugh prepare dinner. After we'd eaten, the TV on to make up for lack of conversation, I cleaned up the dishes.
Ten minutes later, I stood in the downstairs bathroom, with one of the little white benzo pills in my palm. The exhaust fan in the ceiling buzzed noisily.
I hated the way the meds made me feel, like half of my brain was asleep. Unbeknownst to Claire, I'd been slowly lowering the dosage every week for the last few months, from three pills at the start to the half pill I took daily now.
Slowly, I'd begun to come out of the walking slumber I'd been living in. It was like popping a bubble that had been around my head: colors were brighter than I remembered them, sounds sharper. And the feelings that I had forgotten how to feel came rushing back, sometimes too fast for comfort.
The sparkling, commercial clean mirror reflected my face back at me. Deep shadows aged my hazel eyes, the black hair I'd kept up on dying a disheveled, shapeless mass. Blue veins crisscrossed beneath my translucent skin. Not my prettiest look.
Tipping my palm towards the toilet, I tried to pretend I wasn't doing it on purpose. The tiny tablet plopped on the water and dissolved. I met my eyes in the mirror, my reflection a silent accomplice.
"Oops," I whispered.
I picked up the orange prescription bottle and, before I could change my mind, shook out the remaining pills, flushing them away. Capping the bottle, I slid it into my pajama pocket, and shut off the light. I clicked the bathroom door shut and waited for my body chemistry to realize something was amiss.
CHAPTER 2
MY SLEEP THAT night was plagued by shifting, restless dreams. When I woke up in the morning, my neck was stiff, like I'd slept on a mattress stuffed with rocks. I had to drag my tired body through school.
Classes were just a formality now that were were done with finals. Still, we had to go through the motions. God forbid they not squeeze every ounce out of us they could, even though it meant crossword puzzles and movies all day.
An office attendant appeared at the door during English. Ms. Fellows, the teacher, didn't stand or acknowledge her, too busy playing mahjong on her computer. The attendant had to shout across the room.
"Ariel Donovan!" She seemed irritated, clutching a stack of manila folders. "I need Ariel to come down to the office."
I winced. What now?
"Ariel, go," Ms. Fellows commanded, only briefly glancing up.
Leaving my books behind, I stood and followed the attendant. On the way out the door, I glanced back. Henry's head was lowered above paperclips he was bending on his desk. But he was watching me. I could see his cautious eyes through his bangs.
The attendant was already halfway down the hall, and I rushed to catch up. She was a short, nondescript woman in a bright red vest. Her heels clicked steadily as I followed her.
"Let's go," she said, sounding more like she was talking to herself than to me.
The last time I'd been taken down to the office, it was to find out about Jenna. I wasn't thrilled by the prospect of returning. Even the sight of the front desk reminded me of that dreadful day, when I'd burst into tears and didn't stop until the wake.
"Did anything bad happen?" I blurted out, unable to contain myself. Not knowing was the worst, and I'd spent enough of my life not knowing things. A curious burning feeling crept along the back of my neck and arms.
"What?" she asked, frowning and cradling the folders closer. "No, nothing bad. You kids and your morbid fantasies. This is just a formality. Principal McPherson needs to tie up some loose ends before the school year finishes out."
I wondered if this woman knew how to use her smiling muscles. My shoulders relaxed, just as I realized they were tensed. No one was hurt. No one had died.
But then what could possibly involve me? I'd tried to fly under the radar as much as I could, only answering questions when I was called on, never raising a fuss.
Once we reached administration, she ushered me into McPherson's office and shut the door. McPherson didn't look up from behind his desk, the bald spot on the crown of his head gleaming. For once, his hideous retro jacket was off, slung on the chair back.
"Have a seat, Miss Donovan," he said apathetically, waving his hand like he was shooing a fly. I did as I was told, sitting back to await whatever fate he had in store for me.
The office was ultra-organized, neat white labels sorting all the shelves. Each office supply had a place, including paperclips and white-out. Garish paintings of zombie-like George Washington and Abraham Lincoln hung facing each other on opposite walls. An enormous brass eagle spread its wings on the bookshelf.
McPherson scooped up a stack of papers, tapped them straight, and set them over by a gargantuan shredder in the corner. I thought of a great Senior prank: coming in and switching all the labels. I filed it away for a couple years.
"Looks like you've redecorated since my last visit," I observed.
He grunted. "I didn't do the decorating. They hired somebody."
"I was gonna say, it looks a bit...overstated for someone who prefers simplicity."
He cocked one bushy, gray-streaked eyebrow. I wondered if I'd given too much away. Theo and I had gone snooping after him a while back, when we thought he was up to no good. But he'd never let on whether or not he'd discovered that.
"Wait, who's they?" I asked.
He ignored my question, rolling the top desk drawer open and pulling out a computer printout. He slid the paper towards me.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Incident report."
"For what incident?"
"For the accident that happened in PE class last November," McPherson said matter-of-factly.
He slid a ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket, and clicked the point out, setting it on top of the official-looking form.
"You mean when Lainey broke my nose with a tennis ball?" I asked sarcastically. "I thought we had forgotten all about it."
"Yes, that. Accidentally," he reiterated. He was being very careful to keep saying that.
I scoffed loudly. But he remained passive, lacing his fingers together over his ample stomach.
"The school certainly took its sweet time getting around to it," I said, gripping the form. I didn't know what game McPherson was up to, but his intentions weren't innocent. "Should I be filling this out without my parents present?"
The zombie presidents glared at me, awaiting my compliance. I couldn't tell if their green skin was due to the oil paint aging or the original intent of the patriotic artist.
"I'll tell you what," McPherson said. "Read over the form. If there's anything that makes you question it, or causes you to be the least bit comfortable, then don't sign. But I assure you, it's simply a waiver. A disclaimer."
This new calm, cooperative McPherson was freaking me out. Had my parents won the lottery and not told me?
I sighed and looked over the form, curious as to what was so important as to prompt this little visit. The brief paragraphs merely stated the bare facts, or at least the school's official version of the bare facts.
It had been gym class, we were playing tennis. Lainey "accidentally" hit the ball into my nose, causing me to fall down and knocking me out. They hadn
't seen the cold-blooded look she'd given me right before whipping her racket back. If they had, they never would have used the word accidental.
The school also hadn't taken into consideration the fact that I was dating the boy Lainey had wanted to get her claws into from day one. Or the fact that she had eventually gotten him. But that made sense; the administration viewed our little student dramas as pithy and unimportant, no matter how huge they were in our own lives.
McPherson stood up, retrieving a handful of brown paper towels and a bottle of glass cleaner. He twisted the blinds on the lone window, revealing a pile of dead flies on the sill. His obsession with cleanliness reminded me of Claire.
I picked up the pen and scrawled my signature, still a work in progress. The form didn't contain anything Hugh and Claire didn't know about. The matter had long since been dropped in our house, why not drop it all the way? I reasoned.
At least my nose had healed up. I had checked it every day in the mirror for months, until I could no longer notice the bump that the tennis ball had raised.
Plus, I just wanted out of McPherson's lair. Being this close to him always spooked me. He still had his back to me, busy cleaning off the offending flies.
"You don't like me much." The words just slipped out. I didn't know why I even said it, but it seemed so obvious.
"What gave you that impression?" McPherson asked flatly, not turning around. He picked up a trash can and tossed the paper towels in.
"You did. You always give me that impression," I said, unable to zip up my trap.
The leather chair creaked as McPherson settled himself back in it. He snatched at his jacket as it began sliding off of the back.
"Did you sign?"
I handed him the paper in answer. He gave it only a cursory glance, then slid it into a file folder.
I'd begun to feel strangely anxious. Not just the general nerves I'd noticed when I woke up, but like something horrible was happening, when nothing much was happening at all. My vision started to blur, as though I'd been staring into the sun. The feelings had been creeping up on me as I'd been sitting there.
I really wanted out of the cramped, sterile room. My right leg bounced up and down, and I felt unable to control the urge to keep doing it. In my head, I could see the zombie presidents coming alive, reaching their bony hands out to grip the picture frames, diseased flesh peeling off in clumps...
"Ariel, there are many types of people in this world," McPherson said in an unusually soft voice.
Shut up and let me go, my brain shot back. But my curiosity won out again, and I kept mum.
He glanced upwards towards the ceiling, swiveling back and forth in his chair. "Not all of those people will get along, or find one another favorable. But the world keeps turning, regardless of what we want."
"Yeah," I said. Weirdo.
"Everyone has to know their place in the scheme of things. And accept it for what it is," he continued, lost in his own speech. "The mouse is just as important as the cat. The insect is just as important as the person who destroys it."
I blinked, staring blankly at him. After a minute, I asked, "Is that all you needed?"
He nodded towards the ceiling. That's how I left him.
The uncomfortable feeling didn't go away for the rest of the day. It ebbed and flowed in strength, but it was always there.
As soon as I got home, I was on the internet, looking up benzo withdrawal. Apparently, my symptoms were extremely common. That didn't comfort me very much, especially since the website claimed they could last for months.
I was careful to delete the history. I didn't need Claire seeing that particular research.
At dinner, my parents and I were eating in silence. I picked at my food, mostly drinking water as I couldn't seem to get enough. I contemplated bringing up the form, but I didn't want to have to deal with them if they got pissed off. They still thought I was five years old, in need of twenty-four hour protection from myself and the bad, bad world.
"Pass the salt," Hugh asked my mother.
"You already put salt on your plate," Claire said, but she passed the shaker anyway.
I caught Hugh giving Claire the evil eye when she wasn't looking. It wasn't good to stand between the man and sodium.
Cottonmouth ruined any appetite I may have had. Hugh and Claire were discussing work, as usual. They both seemed tense, although whether it was from job stress, or if I was just seeing them through the filter of my own feelings, I couldn't tell.
"How is Theo doing with her painting?" Hugh asked me, splitting apart a roll. "I'm excited to see it. She's like my own personal ball of clay. I've never had a kid think I was such hot stuff."
"Referring to yourself as hot stuff isn't helping," I said. It hurt my mouth to talk. My jaw was locked up tightly. "She's getting frustrated. But she's Theo; she'll do a great job. She'd make fruit look amazing."
"I wouldn't have brought up the idea if I didn't think that," Hugh said. "Theo's going to go places and leave us all in the dust."
"She was actually talking about maybe heading out to the mall this weekend," I said, although all I wanted to do at this point was curl up in my bed and never come out. It was something Theo had brought up that day in class, on my suggestion about stepping away from the easel.
"You're not going to go this weekend, are you?" Claire asked, looking up.
"I...It was just an idea, I don't know yet." I stammered. "What's bad about this weekend?" Since Jenna's disappearance became her death, they had gone from being overprotective to downright prison wardens.
"I just mean, the mall's forty five minutes away. And it's in the bad part of town."
"It's in the business part of town," I countered, but arguing with my mother was just making me feel worse. "I figured she could use a break. She's getting painter's block or something."
"It's a nice idea," Hugh said, and left it at that. "I've been having an awful lot of trouble finishing my own concepts, lately. Maybe it's something in the air."
"Sure, maybe you need a vacation from scribbling," Claire said sarcastically. Hugh grinned at her, but I got the strong impression, as usual, that Claire didn't take Hugh's business as seriously as hers.
After I pushed around my hamburger for a few more minutes, I stood up.
"Can I be excused? I'm pretty tired, and tomorrow's my last day." I was trying to sound casual, but the plate was shaking a little as I held it.
"Are you feeling sick? You look a little green." Claire said.
I shook my head, although I knew she was right. I felt green. "Not sick. Just sleepy. I thought I'd get to bed early."
Neither of them noticed I'd barely touched my food. They went back to talking about an unprepared intern at Claire's insurance company, and how many days they had put up with her before letting her go.
I couldn't be around people right now, especially not my parents. I ran down the stairs and into my room, diving on top of the green and blue comforter. But I found I couldn't rest, either. When I closed my eyes, I felt bugs crawling around my skin.
Bad thoughts began popping into my head unbidden. I tried deep breathing, but it didn't help, and if anything made me woozier, enhancing the lightheaded feeling.
Maybe this withdrawal would lead to me getting really sick. Maybe I would have to be taken to the emergency room, have needles and tubes stabbed and looped through my body like a bad science experiment.
Maybe Henry had been dating Lainey the entire time, and they met up every day to laugh at all my foolish attempts at flirting. Maybe every word he'd said and every kiss we'd shared was an utter lie.
And Jenna...how much suffering had she endured before she died? The newspapers reported she had cuts on her body, even though her official cause of death was drowning. So did the little girls, and Alyssa and Susan's throats had been cut. Every single report mentioned torture.
I jumped off the bed and began pacing my room. My heart beat strange and unfamiliar like bird wings. I had to stop stressing so
much about things I had no control of, and no way of knowing the answer to.
For no real reason at all, I looked at the wall above my desk, where the lamp cast a fractured halo. Months and months ago, I'd heard a knocking sound there, one I'd never identified the source to. I knew it had something to do with the ghosts I was seeing. I hadn't heard it since Jenna was found.
I stood and pressed my ear against the wall, hearing nothing but my own frantic pulse. Shutting my eyes, I tried to focus. To make out any kind of sound that wasn't the dishwasher running or voices upstairs.
But no sound came. And the more I wished for a sign, the more the silence filled my ears.
Hours passed as I ticked off the seconds. I finally began slipping in and out of consciousness, after laying on my side with a pencil between my teeth for a while. I thought it might help on the off chance I had a seizure. I remembered seeing in on some medical drama.
It wasn't a restful sleep. Every few minutes, my body would force me awake. Either because I randomly stopped breathing, or when blood would rush to my temples, making me feel like I was swimming in it.
A distorted dream floated into my head. Angry, turgid colors twirled and blinked like the lights of a carnival. Scarlet to orange, to blinding neon yellow, back to orange, then to the ruby red again.
My feet were moving. Solid ground held me up, though the scenery continued to shift. The world began to come into focus, more solid and recognizable as edges and corners appeared.
The warped rainbow melted away into flat, greenish-gray walls. I was in Hawthorne High School's basement, altered slightly in its dream state. It stank of chlorine, and I waited for the urge to hurl. It didn't effect me while sleeping, apparently.
A wall sprang up before me, the barren cement undulating as though it had just been poured. I turned, and yelped. I was face to face with Warwick.
He tilted to and fro before me, his eyes too pronounced, like a anime character. The pupils were stricken with a maddening look, the same one I'd seen right before he'd pointed the barrel of his gun at me. It struck me as grim and ironic how familiar his face was. Like a member of my own family.