by S. M. Soto
“I’m not saying anything. I’m merely trying to understand my patient and her connection to her sister. Do you feel like you’ve taken on the traits of your sister after her death? Do you find yourself trying to live for the both of you? Do you feel some kind of guilt for being alive while she’s dead?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hating how close she is to hitting the nail on the head. I feel a lot of those things. The guilt, because, yes, I was the one who was supposed to die that night. And now, it does feel like I’m trying to live for the both of us. I’m trying to do right by her in this life because she suffered in death, but it seems like I’m failing at every turn.
“I’m my own person,” I bite back. “I’m not taking on her traits, or whatever it is you think I’m doing.”
She makes a face that clearly says she doesn’t believe me. “Okay. Fair enough. I want to talk about these episodes you’ve had in the past. You say your sister talks to you. What do you mean by this exactly?”
I mentally curse myself for saying anything at all. Any way I spin this, I’m going to sound like a psycho. Certifiable. And hell, maybe I am. Maybe she’s not far off, and I actually do belong here.
Would serve me right, I guess.
I avert my gaze, keeping my lips sealed. No need to dig my grave any more than I already have. Ignoring her, I center my stare on one of the male nurses. He’s standing there with his arms crossed over his pale blue scrubs, staring off into the distance. He looks formidable. His face is blank and stoic, devoid of any emotion. He looks like a trained bodyguard, just waiting for me to make the wrong move on the doctor, so he can pounce.
“So, is that what we’re doing now, Mackenzie? You’re going to shut me out? I’m trying to help you.”
“Are you?” I arch a brow her way. “Because to me, it feels like you’re trying to find any reason at all to keep me here. You’re going to twist whatever it is I say and make it into something it’s not.”
“You can trust me.” She implores me with her eyes to believe her. Too bad I know better. I don’t trust her. For all I know, she could be working with the Savages. How else would they know I was here? I haven’t proven my theory yet, but I know what I saw, and I saw one of the Savages in the flesh here.
That wasn’t a coincidence.
I shift on the bed, wincing and hissing from the pain that shoots through my body at the movement. I look her square in the eye, letting the words spill past my lips like a heavy oil, weighing all of us down.
“You and I both know that’s not true.”
Something flares in her eyes, but I can’t pin it down. I don’t know her well enough to figure out what goes on in her head, but whatever it is, she doesn’t like my response. I’m positive Dr. Aster doesn’t like me much at all.
Well, that’s too fucking bad.
“I would advise you to make the most of your time here, or you’ll be here for a very long time, Mackenzie.”
I’ve already shut off my mind and tuned her out. I take a page out of the male nurse’s book and keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, conscious not to give anything away to her that can be used as ammunition against me.
With a frustrated sigh, she rises from the chair, and they all leave the room as quickly as they came in.
The next day is much of the same thing, only this time, I ignore the doctor completely, refusing to speak. I’m in pain, and I’m angry. Every day it’s something new, a new emotion, a new level of grief. The last thing I want to do is have someone sit there and ask me questions, silently judging me. I’m doing that well enough on my own.
There’s a storm brewing deep inside me. It feels like a lightning storm trapped in a bottle, just waiting to be let free. I wonder where my parents are. Why haven’t they come to visit me yet? And my friends, I mean, surely, they’ve gotten my email by now, right?
Why isn’t anyone fighting for me?
I feel helpless and small here. With no one to talk to and confide in.
There’s a knock on the door, and suddenly, Stephanie appears. Of course, two burly nurses trail not far behind her in case I act up.
“You have a checkup with the doctor, so I’ll be wheeling you down to the exam room,” she says, just as she pushes the wheelchair through the door. I bite back my scowl.
When did this become my life?
“Don’t look so upset. You might get this cast off today.” She taps the bulky cast on my right leg. “You should be glad.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll be glad once I get out of this shithole.”
As she wheels me down the hall, we stop in the main area, where a handful of other patients are currently enjoying their semblance of freedom, while she talks to one of the guards who’s in charge of our access to the elevator that’ll get us to the next floor. While waiting for her to finish up with her conversation, I take a cursory glance around, taking in the patients. I scan the faces around me, trying to spot one of the Savages. Because I know, deep in my gut, it was him. For whatever reason, he was here, and I was almost positive it was for me.
One person in particular catches my eye, a woman watching me. She’s an older, frail woman with salt and pepper hair. She shuffles a deck of cards in her hands, her eyes glued to me. A tremor razes down my spine.
“Don’t worry about her. That’s Costas, the tarot queen of the hospital.”
I glance toward the voice, stumbling on a woman, a bit on the heavier side, with platinum blond hair and deep-set green eyes. There seems to be a permanent scowl etched on her face. She’s intimidating. I’m not going to lie. She’s the kind of woman you do not want to piss off in real life because, chances are, she’ll rock your shit with one punch. I’m certain of it.
My stomach churns when I realize this is the same woman who was eyeballing me the last time I was wheeled through here. She looked angry, specifically at me, like she wanted to rip my head off. I told myself I’d steer clear of her to avoid any issues, but obviously, that didn’t work.
“Did you just say the tarot queen?” I ask, trying to remain calm. Maybe she’s not as bad as I first thought. I glance back at the older woman, who is apparently named Costas.
“Yup. She’s an interesting character, that one.” I’m about to ask what she means by that, but one of the male nurse’s steps between us, glowering at the woman. I feel Stephanie grip onto the handles of the wheelchair behind me, obviously done with her conversation.
“Head back to your craft table, Jones, or I’ll have someone take you back to your quarters.” She smirks at him, enjoying getting a rise out of him. Raising her hands in surrender, she meets my gaze, and the smirk she’s wearing slowly dissipates. “See you around, Mackenzie,” she calls after me, as I’m being wheeled away. All the hairs on my body stand at attention, and my breath catches. My clammy hand grips onto the nearest wrist for support, forcing Steph to stop pushing me. I shoot my gaze over my shoulder, trying to find the intimidating woman, and when I do, she’s watching through narrowed slits.
“How do you know my name?”
She smiles. It’s not friendly. “You know, he told me you’d be fun to play with, but I didn’t realize just how much until now. Watch your back.”
“Jones!” the male nurse growls. Her laughter sounds far away and warped as my mind processes her words.
A deep pit settles in my gut.
Who is he?
Dread swirls deep in my stomach, a sudden foreboding sensation making it hard to breathe.
For the rest of the visit with the doctor, my mind isn’t really here. My thoughts are focused elsewhere, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Could her comment be a coincidence? This is a nuthouse after all. But something doesn’t feel right. Especially since I could’ve sworn I spotted one of the Savages the other day. Could that be who she was talking about?
But why?
He isn’t done with you yet. Isn’t it obvious? The voice in my head remarks. A zing shoots down my spine. The voice sounds oddly like Madison.
<
br /> Is she back?
The following morning, Stephanie wheels me out of my room for another visit with the doctor. After the odd encounter yesterday, I didn’t pay attention to what he had to say. If I had, I would’ve remembered that he wanted to do another MRI, just to make sure all was well in my head after the accident and concussion. The headaches are less frequent, but the fatigue and sensitivity to light are still there. And so is the clicking. There’s this irritating clicking noise that comes and goes.
He’s also taking one of my casts off today. One down, only about eighty more to go, until my body is back to normal.
Who am I kidding? That’ll never happen. There’s nothing about me now that will ever revert to normal. Every time I look at my reflection in a mirror here, all I see is the pain and the damage of the past few months. The past nine years.
My face is still covered in bruises and abrasions, my eyes look dull and lifeless, the bags resting under them consume my whole face and make my complexion look sallow and pale. My hair has to be the worst part of my appearance right now.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been trapped in this shithole, but it’s long enough that my real roots are starting to show through. Literally and figuratively speaking. I haven’t had a chance to touch up the roots of my hair with more black dye, so the natural blond has started to show through, growing long past my eyebrows.
I look insane.
As soon as I’m wheeled into the communal area of the facility again, I’m on the lookout for the strange woman from yesterday who threatened me. I also keep my eyes peeled for anyone passing through who looks like one of the guys.
I don’t spot either of them anywhere, so I figure it’s safe. I breathe a little sigh of relief, until I see the older woman from yesterday. Costas, I believe her name is. Apparently, the tarot queen of this place.
She’s watching me again. Shuffling those cards, which I now presume is a tarot deck, instead of a regular card deck. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I find myself wheeling away from Steph toward the older woman. It’s a struggle, trying to wheel myself with one good hand and one casted hand, but I manage. By the time I reach her, I’m out of breath, and there’s sweat beading along my forehead.
The older woman keeps her face impassive as I approach. Her hands still move the deck around as she stares at me. Costas never once looks down to watch her movements. She’s so skilled, she doesn’t have to. The way she shuffles, so neatly, not losing a single card, is impressive. Especially for an older woman her age. Her hands are bony and weathered. She may even have arthritis, what with the way some of the bones in her hands protrude in odd directions. You’d think she wouldn’t be able to shuffle as well as she does due to the pain in her hands.
I open my mouth to say something but pause when she suddenly stops shuffling. She pulls some cards from the deck, flipping each over, revealing the images on them. My brows furrow as I look down at the cards, trying to figure out what the meaning behind all of it is supposed to be. She flicks her gaze up to mine, and something in her eyes gives me pause. There’s fear there.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, quickly glancing back down at the cards.
“The spirits are talking. The guides are warning me. You’re in danger.”
Skepticism gives me pause, but regardless, a chill travels down my spine. “You got that from these cards? There are just pictures on them,” I mumble dubiously, taking each of them in.
The first card drawn from her deck is a man lying face down with swords in his back—ten of them to be exact. The next card has my throat drying as I read the single word at the bottom below the picture of the skeleton in armor riding a horse—Death. The next card is one that has panic flaring in my gut. The image is of a tower on fire and people falling. Under the picture it reads The Tower. The next card doesn’t need any explanation as I stare at the illustration of the devil.
She picks up two cards in particular and holds them up, her hands trembling as she does. I eye each of them warily.
One is a card with two individuals embracing, called The Lovers, and the other is the same eerie image of the devil that quite literally reads The Devil.
“Trust no one. The enemy is closer than you think.” I’m quick to glance around, but all I see are insane people. People who could potentially be dangerous but aren’t necessarily out to hurt me. A moment passes between us, and I want to ask her more. I want her to tell me what she sees, like she’s some kind of fucking fortuneteller, but I scoff as I look back down at the cards.
This stuff isn’t real.
She’s in here for a reason. Obviously, she’s not exactly the best person I can use for reliable information or advice. I brush her off, forcing a smile, thankful when Steph comes over and begins wheeling me away.
This time during my checkup, I’m present enough that I’m able to remember what the doctor is doing, but my mind still wanders, images of the cards constantly flashing behind my lids like warnings. I’m still extremely unsettled over my apparent tarot reading. I’ve never believed in stuff like that. I mean, they were just cards with pictures on them. How much could the old lady know? Despite all my debunking theories, I can’t help but feel like she does know. And why do I suddenly feel the need to heed her warning?
Part of me wishes she would’ve told me more or I would’ve had the guts to ask questions, but I shake that away, refusing to feed into the madness.
I wince uncomfortably as the doctor finishes checking me over. Getting a cast taken off is a lot more annoying than one would think. And when it does come off, I grimace at how skinny my leg looks. After I’m fully cast free on one leg, the doctor gets rid of the bars that are embedded into the cast on my left leg for my hip. He seems to think I’m recovering quickly, and even though that cast won’t be off for some time, he didn’t want my body to grow dependent on the metal bars for support. I eventually need to start stretching and try to walk around with a walker to help my muscles strengthen.
My sour mood from earlier only grows worse as I’m wheeled into Dr. Aster’s office. The last thing I want to do is spend time with the doctor after the day I’ve had. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me, not that I thought she would be. This was probably all her idea. Have the doctor take off my cast, thinking it’d make me happy, and more open to having a conversation with her.
“Mackenzie. You’re looking well,” she says, dropping her glasses down the bridge of her nose, as she looks at me over her mountains of paperwork. They’re probably all notes on someone else’s life she wants to ruin.
I grunt at her lame attempt to get me to respond to her. I’m still hell-bent on refusing to give her any words she can use against me. Using this unfortunate meeting to my benefit, I home in on the calendar behind her, and my chest caves when I read the month and date.
Four weeks.
I’ve been here four hellish weeks but it’s felt longer than an eternity.
“Still not talking, I see?” she remarks. After several moments of silence, she sighs, takes off her glasses, and folds her hands in front of herself. “Look, I feel like we keep getting off on the wrong foot, Mackenzie. I’m sorry if you felt I pushed too hard before. I just want to…I want to understand. This situation with your sister, I’ve never had any patients like this. I want to help.”
I glance away, feeling a sting behind my eyes at the mention of Madison. “You can’t help.”
“Why not?”
My bottom lips trembles. “Because she’s gone.”
No amount of talking or psychoanalyzing will ever bring her back. My twin sister is dead. My other half was murdered.
“From your head?”
I glance at her, fighting back my emotions. Why is she always so in tune with what I’m thinking?
I’d gotten so used to hearing my sister, now that I don’t have her constantly in my head guiding me, I’m suffering without her. I miss her. I feel like I’m drowning without her.
“Have you tried…asking her to co
me back?” She seems pensive, asking a question like this. It goes against everything she believes in, everything that pertains to her craft.
“It’s not like she’d listen. Madison was her own person. She was vibrant and always did whatever the hell she wanted.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?” I counter.
“You seem to always talk about Madison. What she was like, what others thought about her, but what about you? She’s gone, Mackenzie. Why not focus on the you that’s here?”
“I can’t do that,” I snap. “It was supposed to be me.”
“What was?”
“The night she died. I was supposed to be there that night, and she went instead. Do you understand now why I can’t let go? The wrong twin died that night. It was always supposed to be me. She was supposed to go on in life and do great things, not me. She would’ve been successful and beautiful. Everything I’m not.”
Clarity lights her eyes. “So, it’s guilt. That’s your driving force,” she muses. “This part of your mind, that part that’s holding on to your sister, you need to let go of it. It’s your consciousness speaking to you. It’s your fears from the past, and the guilt eating you up. It is not Madison. It is unhealthy, this obsession you have with your dead sister.”
“My…my obsession?” I stutter over the words incredulously, shooting forward. The movement must be too threatening because the nurse hovering near the door grips my shoulder in warning, causing pain to shoot down my spine. “It’s not an obsession! She was my twin. My other half. We’re connected in life and even in death.”
Her lips purse. “That’s not possible.”
“Take me to my room. We’re done here.”
“Mackenzie.” She sighs. “You’re on edge. This is exactly why you need to let this go. Your sister brings out the worst in you.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, trying to hold myself back, but the words come anyway.
“Is there anyone you love in this world, Poppy?” I spit her name venomously. “Is there anyone you love with your entire heart?”
