Insanity (4 page)

I don’t like the way he’s staring at me because it’s almost sensual. Every now and then I’ll catch a glimpse of him, his warm colored eyes sweeping over me and the smug look on his face tells me he’s wondering what I look like without my hospital gown or my under garments.” Daddy is in most of them,” I say. “Daddy has a bad temper.”

Dr. Watson narrows his eyes. “Does he now?”

I nod and exhale. This is painful. Talking about my daddy is like pouring salt into an infected cut, painful. It’s like just when I think the wound is about to scab over, someone brings him up again and suddenly the healed wound is gushing blood. A vision of a saltshaker flits through my mind and I can see the white particles pouring out of the metal holes. I clutch my arm and hold it against my chest. “He does.”

“It says here your father was an alcoholic,” Dr. Watson remarks as he flips through my file. “Is that true?”

I nod.

“Where was your mother?”

“She left when I was ten.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No. All I know is that I woke up one day and she was gone. Then Daddy said she’d left because she wasn’t cut out to be a mother.” There were also many times where he called her a whore and I always wondered if she left because she found someone else.

Dr. Watson tilts his head to the side. “Is that something that you believe?”

“No.”

“Why do you think she left?”

“Because of Daddy and his drinking.”

“Do you know why she didn’t take you with her?”

I shake my head, look to my right, and gaze out a small, square window. There isn’t much of anything to look at. Winter has taken a toll on the once green courtyard, now all there is, is a bunch of weeds and dead leaves. But that beat staring at the beautiful demon of a man sitting in front of me.

If I based my opinion of Dr. Watson solely on first impressions, I’d say that he was cocky yet complex. Before I thought he was evil. Now, I’m not so sure. I do know there is something sneaky about him and I definitely don’t trust him, but I’ve decided that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t be afraid of him.

At least not until he gives me a reason to be.

~ ~ ~

We get three hours of free time every day.

I spend mine in the corner of the rec room, either reading or watching the boys across the fence.

Oak Hill is split up into two sections. The girls are housed on one side of giant metal fence, the boys on the other. The boys spend a lot of time outside. I don’t know why we don’t. We meaning, the girls. Maybe we do and I just haven’t had the opportunity to yet. The cold weather has just broke over the last two weeks and on top of that I’m still new here. The excitement of actually being able to leave the building squirms inside of me. I love the outdoors. The delicious thought of breathing in the fresh, spring air swells in my lungs just thinking about it. The wind whipping through my hair. The sun on my skin. For a second I truly believe I am outside until soft whispers from a group of girls to my left snare my eardrums.

I don’t know all of them, just the blonde with a pixie cut named, Cynthia, who seems to be the ringleader of the group and a trouble-maker as well. The few times I’ve been in here she’s always been gossiping about somebody or making fun of another patient. Aurora seems to be the butt of her jokes.

My eyes wander over to Aurora who is seated in the far left corner of the room, humming to herself and coloring in a coloring book with a green crayon. She’s in full crazy mode. She lifts her head slowly, winks at me, then returns to her coloring book. I can see why Cynthia, and all of the others say things about her. I mean she’s a really pleasant girl, but I can understand why they gossip. I might have thought the same things they did if she wasn’t my roommate and I didn’t know otherwise.

Her words from last night surge through me;
It’s simple. You don’t.
Get to leave is what she meant. Doesn’t anybody here get better? Don’t any of these girls have parents who are waiting anxiously for the day they can pull up in their Buick and bring them home? My eyes circle around the group of girls to my left. I know I’ll never get close enough to them to ask.

It’s not that I don’t want to make friends, but I’ve always been the outcast. I don’t try to be, but for some reason girls either like me or they don’t. In most circumstances they don’t. It also doesn’t help that I’m painfully shy and choose not to include myself in their social circles for an obvious reason; I’m not the giggly, girly, gossipy type.

Sometimes the staff lets us listen to the radio. Today is one of those days and I perk up when Patsy Cline croons, “
Crazy.
” I have to laugh at how ironic that is. Until Cynthia’s low voice cuts into chorus of the song, “Did you guys hear what happened to Suzette?”

Suzette used to be in the room across from mine when I was in solitary. She, like me had night terrors. I heard stories, mainly from Cynthia and her clan about how the staff used to have to give Suzette double the sedatives a normal patient would receive. Then it dawns on me, and I wonder how Cynthia gets her information.

I keep my head straight forward, my eyes closed, but my ears open. Most of the time the only excitement you get around here is eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

One of the girls, a thick brunette with medium length brown hair and cat-eye glasses gasps, “No, what happened to her?”

“Poor Suzette.” Cynthia’s voice is heavy with a sadness that isn’t genuine and it makes my stomach churn. I wonder if the bitch talks just to talk. “You know, they took her down to the basement.” Whispers and gasps fill the room. “I overheard one of the nurses saying that they were going to try this procedure on her.”

I sit up straight. So now I know where Cynthia gets her information. She likes to eavesdrop too.

“What’s the procedure called?” asks another girl in the group. She is thin, waifish, with blonde hair that stretches down the length of her back.

“A lobotomy.”

The entire room is still. Silent. Everyone knows what a lobotomy is. The procedure had been introduced by some German doctor in an institution like Oakhill decades ago. Some people come out of the procedure unscathed and feeling better. Like the screw in them that was loose had been tightened.

According to the staff, we’ve had none of those cases here at Oakhill. The patients either enter a vegetative state or die. Again, I’ve learned this from eavesdropping on Cynthia’s conversations.

I assume that in Suzette’s case it was the latter.

Just by looking at the girls’ faces in the rec room I know they’re thinking the same thing. And now we all know that Suzette is never coming back.

Blondie speaks. “Who administered it?” She swallows the quiver in her vocal cords. “I mean which doctor said she needed it?”

“The new one,” Cynthia whispers. “The young, dreamy one.”

“Dr. Watson?” I find my voice and insert myself into their conversation—for once.

Cynthia’s powder blue eyes widen and I notice that even Aurora seems attentive. She’s abandoned her coloring book and is gawking at me. She sucks on her thumb, careful to not drop the crazy act completely. “You know him?” Cynthia asks.

“I met him today.” My eyes return to the window. “He’s treating me.”

“I think he brings life to the cliche; if looks could kill,” Cynthia adds. “You better hope he doesn’t
treat you
the way he treated, Suzette.”

“But I thought you said he ordered it, but didn’t actually do it.”

Cynthia shrugs. “It’s basically the same thing. Potato, pototo.”

She’s right. I don’t know why I said what I said in the first place. It’s like a person who holds the gun while his partner cleans out the vault during a bank robbery. That doesn’t make the person who isn’t cleaning out the vault any less guilty. In fact, in my eyes he’s even guiltier than the guy cleaning out the vault.

A nanosecond later, Dr. Watson breezes past the rec room. All of the girls shut up and I stare at his silhouette of a reflection and his cold, beautiful eyes rest on my back through the window. A shiver of panic runs down my spine and now I know…

I should be afraid of Dr. Elijah Watson.

Very, very afraid.

Chapter 5

~BEFORE~

My relationship with Damien progressed quickly.

That surprised me. I never defied, Daddy. My unrelenting obedience came mostly from my fear of him and his actions, but I found out that when it came to Damien, everything I used to be didn’t matter anymore. As the weeks passed, I’d fallen so deeply and hopelessly in love with him that I didn’t give a damn about Daddy or the punishments I knew I’d receive if I got caught.

Daddy used to tell me when I was little that I wasn’t allowed to date unless he met the boy and he approved. “My beautiful little girl deserves an honorable young man who is going to treat her with respect,” he’d said a few times with a smile.

Daddy used to be so handsome. I could see why Mommy liked him. I also knew why she left him. She’d told me once. “Daddy’s three friends are going to be his undoing,” she’d said.

I know, Mommy. I know.

Now, the only thing I hope for is that they undo him a little faster. I know that’s a terrible thought to have, but I don’t know how much more of his violent temper my bones can take.

My window creaks open and a soft gust of air creeps in and tousles my pale yellow curtains. Damien smiles at me through the darkness and inside I’m elated to the point where I think my love for him might burst out of me if he doesn’t touch me. “Come on,” he whispers into the darkness. “What are you waiting for?”

I place a finger against my lips. “Shhh.”

Daddy’s snores penetrate through the walls and I remain frozen in my spot for another minute. I always like to give myself a few minutes before sneaking out just to make sure Daddy’s is in a deep sleep. I’ve learned how to tell the difference between Daddy’s deep sleeping and his dozing through the years.

That also has to do with which friend he had over for the day. He had Jack today and when Jack comes over, Daddy sleeps like a mummy in a sarcophagus. He’s wrapped up and dead to the world.

My eyes flit over to Damien’s. His blue eyes cut into the darkness, a needy hungry look in them. At the same time I feel like my skin is itching for his touch. After a few more seconds, I’m at the window and Damien has me by the waist, lifting me out of the window and lowering me to the ground. We don’t even make it a step before he tugs on my lower lip with his teeth and presses into my body, pinning me against the side of my house. My hands are in his hair and his tongue slips between my lips and I breathe softly into his mouth.

I cherish these secretive trysts. They mean more to me than life. I think about them all day long, all night long, and even dream about them. In the past I had nothing to look forward to. Nothing pleasant to think about. No hope for my future. I simply existed and felt a part of me die a little more every day.

Then Damien came along in his cherry red Cadillac and taught me how to hope and feel and love. Damien is the only person who loves me.
Me. Me. Me.
Of all people. He could have any girl he wanted and he wants me. He chose me. He loves me. I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet.

I once asked him why he chose to pursue me and he answered me with a radiant smile. “You’re not only beautiful, but enigmatic. I find that fascinating.” It was one of those situations where I really didn’t care why because he had chosen to love me, but out of curiosity, I wanted to know.

Damien pulls away from me and tucks wisps of my hair behind my ears. He smiles and I touch the dimples I love so much on his cheeks. “My beautiful rebellious love,” he muses and places his forehead against mine. “Remind me again where I’d be without you?”

I laugh. “Probably dating some gorgeous socialite or maybe one of the other pretty girls in town.”

Damien tugs on my hand and pulls me away from the house. “Why would I need one of them when I have the most beautiful girl in the world right here?” There’s a teasing tone in his voice, but a deep unwavering sincerity in his eyes.

Why does he always tell me that? I know it’s far from the truth.

Don’t misunderstand me, I do think I’m attractive in a
Plain Jane
sort of way. But not like some of the other girls I go to school with. The type of beautiful girls someone like Damien belongs with. I make a joke out of him calling me beautiful. “Apparently, I’m not beautiful at all. Apparently, I look just like a whore.” My whore of a mother to be exact.

To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure that I know what a whore looks like. Daddy doesn’t let me watch television. I’m not allowed to buy any of the latest books or magazines. But I assume that most women people call whores dress in scantily clad outfits and have multiple sexual partners.

Damien comes to a stop, faces me and releases my hand, an electric spark of anger present in his pools of blue. I almost slam my body into his chest, but he snakes his fingers around my wrist, gripping tightly before I do. “Where the hell did you hear that? Did
he
tell you that?” Hate drips from his voice like grease from a frying vat and my body stiffens in response to the harsh edge in his tone.

He
meaning, Daddy. “Yes,” I say, but I don’t go any further than that. I want to tell him that Daddy tells me that at least once a day. Sometimes more. I also want to tell him that sometimes he hits me even when I’ve done nothing wrong and then tells me it’s because I look just like
her
.

But I don’t. He’s already so angry. I don’t want to add more criteria to fuel his rage further.

It’s during those times that I wish I knew where Mommy was, and why she didn’t take me with her. Daddy tells me it’s because she didn’t want to be a mother anymore. I don’t know if that’s the complete truth. More than anything, I think that’s something he tells himself so he doesn’t have to live with the guilt of knowing that his inability to control his drinking is what drove her away.

Damien has reached the point where he’s breathing so hard, that his throat rasps. He’s let go of my wrist and paces in front of me, his lean muscled body tenses. I reach out to him, but he shoos me away. I tell him, “Calm down.” But he ignores me.