{AVERY}
"And how are we feeling today?"
The words make me cringe. I don't think I'll ever get comfortable with them. It's always like a knife being stabbed into my gut. Ironically, that happened on my fifteenth birthday. Granted it was a butter knife so it didn't get very far. Yet this question is still more painful than the physical abuse I endured.
As usual, Dr. Smith looks like he's off to a Wall Street event, while I wear baggy gray hand-me-downs—stunning attire for the modern day mental person.
"Fine," I offer.
He just nods nonchalantly and I have to give him credit, he's much more patient than I would be.
"Settling in okay?" he asks, trying another approach.
I sigh under my breath, considering the possibility that perhaps prison would be much better than this shithole. If I have to deal with this for years to come, I'm either going to end up dead or even more mentally insane than I am now.
"Okay, let's try this," he interjects when I don't respond. "What do you hate about this fucking place?"
The use of his curse words grabs my attention, shocking me. Obviously this was the desired effect, a tactic to break down my barriers.
"What do I hate about this place?" I repeat slowly, now wondering if this is a fucking hallucination. "Everything."
"The people? The staff? The building?"
I laugh. "The goddamn fucking flowers."
The words spill from my mouth before I can stop myself, and I curse myself internally. Fucking psychiatrists and their damn psychological tactics.
"Yeah, the roses are a bit much," he mutters, and I can hear some sincerity in his tone, leading me to believe that the excessive amount of floral decorations is definitely an overkill.
"Too much," I agree. "You would think they would at least put one damn lily in this place given the name."
Dr. Smith nods, putting his notepad down. "Tell you what. Let's not talk about your feelings. I know that's annoying. Let's talk about this place — just in general. Describe it to me."
I pause, pondering his suggestion. My instinct is to assess his words, trying to decipher what bullshit he is trying to achieve. I'm not a complete idiot. I know it's just a way to get me to open up. But if I'm being honest, I'm desperate to rant. I've spent my
entire life being isolated and while I didn't expect to make friends here, it gets hard avoiding any humanly interaction. At least Dr. Smith is a normal person. I can't open up to any of the other patients here. Who knows how my words would get used or twisted? Here, at least I know why they want to hear the inner ramblings of my mind.
Besides, it's not going to make a difference anyway. I'm here for good — may as well use the time to bitch about this place.
"It's cold," I start. "Always so fucking cold. And I hate the color gray. I should appreciate I'm not in orange, but it's so miserable staring at the same shade of gray all the damn time. The bathroom stinks of flowers and I barely have enough time to wash my hair. Everything feels incomplete — like the building is this immaculate, stunning project. And then there's us."
"Us, being the patients?"
I nod, rolling my eyes. "This building could have been used for something a lot more beautiful. An orphanage or a school. And they put us inside. We make it look ugly, but also better at the same time."
"It's kind of like a school."
"It kinda isn't," I argue bluntly. "It's an asylum. That's why you're here. No one talks, but they also do. People die here."
Dr. Smith shrugs. "People die on the outside too."
"It's not the same. They aren't force fed raw pasta and put in dangerous situations."
I realize as soon as I say the words, that he will disagree with me. And he does. But that doesn't stop me believing my thoughts.
Sure, life is dangerous no matter what. But this is next level — a real life survival-of-the-fittest. Because if the chicken doesn't kill me, people like Damon probably will. We spend the remainder of the session arguing over the facts of life before I'm promptly taken back to my tiny ass cell.
If I thought the chicken was bad, tonight's menu was some terrible version of Shepherd's Pie and I long for the days when a cafeteria served pizza. It may have been frozen from a cardboard box, but I now realize how blessed I was.
Staring at the roof of my room as I lay in bed, my mind turns to my life, replaying every single event that led me here. I should feel regret — but I feel nothing.
I don't give a shit that my father is dead, even if it was by my hands. He got what was coming to him.
I used to believe that karma was a real thing — but if that's the case, then why am I here?
Surely, my pain outweighed the suffering that led me to my crime. What ever happened to 'no good deed goes unpunished'?
My old best friend, Paige, used to tell me to count down the days until my eighteenth birthday. We would make plans to leave, get away from our families. But when my birthday approached, I swiftly realized it was wishful thinking.
It didn't matter that I was now an adult. I was trapped— forever.
I resigned myself to that fact, learning to numb everything. The good and the bad. These were the cards I was dealt, and it was my responsibility to deal with it. When Paige was murdered by her brother, I promised her cold body that I would get out before I ended up like her. And God knows I fucking tried. I really, really tried.
I don't think people realize just how strong your bond is with your favorite, chosen person. And to lose them, it's something you never recover from.
She was the only person on this earth who understood and knew what I was going through. Being with her, it was the only time I didn't feel alone. When she was taken from me, I knew right then and there, I would be alone forever.
No loving family, no more friends. The kids at school just laughed at me as a teen, thinking everything was a huge joke. Fuck. If only Paige could see me now. She'd be rolling in her grave.
I'm more trapped than I ever was. And still, no one cares enough to give me freedom. I envy Paige. She got her freedom — just not the type we had hoped for.
But at least she's not here. Surrounded by screaming lunatics, wishing for death. Cold, ass soggy food and… footsteps?
I'm ripped from my train of woeful thoughts by the sound of footsteps outside my room.
I could be losing it, but they aren't the guards' footsteps. There's no heavy padding of steel-toed boots or dead silence besides their movements. I can hear laughter, jeering.
Creeping up to the door, I press my ear against the metal, trying to hear anything distinct. I could be fucking mental but I swear I hear Vivian's voice.
What the ever loving fuck?
The voices fade away with the sound of footsteps, leaving nothing but silence again. It's definitely past bedtime so no one should be out of their rooms, not even for duty.
I decide right now that I am, in fact, going fucking insane and crawl back into bed, the mattress making my back itch.
There's no way people would be out of bed, pacing the hallways like normal young adults without a care in the world. We're in Hell. There's no Heaven here.
***
It's an odd day with no professional appointments so I relish the time before class.
As usual I'm stuck next to Grey in Charmaine's class, his relaxed posture looking out of place as he watches her pace the front of the class. His eyes follow her movements, a faint smile on his face like life is great. It's a nice change from having his attention, but I'm still on edge.
He makes no effort to even glance at me the entire duration of the class, and when the SWAT team arrive to escort us to the hall, he's the first one out the door.
Knowing the routine now, I follow the rest of the class out, mentally preparing myself for 'free time'. I'm tempted to try my luck with the library, but terrified of crossing paths with Damon and Grey.
As I approach the hall and spot the crowd, I briefly panic, wondering if I'm still in fucking group three — whatever that means.
Today, it's not the usual guy climbing on to the table to address us — it's Damon. My heart sinks and I slip to the corner of the room, making myself as small as possible.
"Hallman!" Damon yells, obviously addressing someone. "We need to talk. The rest of you, leave now."
"Fuck me," I mutter, watching as everyone scatters out of the hall. It's another curveball to the so-called hierarchy that I can't seem to follow. How do they expect us to know what the hell to do when no one tells us the rules?
I take off quickly to the library, not keen on being left behind to find out what's going on. Most people are vanishing towards the courtyard and I wearily check between the shelves when I enter the dusty room to make sure I'm alone.
As far as I know, Damon was still on the table as I left the hall so I think I'm in the clear.
Finding the darkest aisle, I take refuge at the end, pressing my back against the wall. It's the last lot of shelves before the open table area and I tuck myself into the corner, checking for spiders.
It's so peaceful in here — I can only hear the faint chatter from outside the library, but otherwise… nothing.
This was a good idea. A great idea, in fact.
I close my eyes, trying to stop my mind from doing that thing where it wanders back to old memories. Instead, I create a new reality, one where I'm free — loved and happy.
I let myself stay there, picturing myself on a beach, hearing the waves crash against the shore. My skin is warm from the sun, the sand scratching into my legs as I stretch out on a beach towel.
I'm on the verge of imagining a food van pulling up on the beach to deliver some decent fucking food when the library door smashes open, bouncing off the wall at the other end of the room.
Did I say this was a good idea?
This was a terrible fucking idea.
Curling my legs into my chest, I notice a gap in the bottom shelf behind me. I squeeze as much as my body in as possible, the sound of angry approaching footsteps making my heart race.
There's multiple voices — all male — talking angrily. They don't bother to lower their tone, obviously not at all scared of being heard or seen.
Through my knees, I watch as the group walk by the aisle, heading to the tables. I catch a small glimpse of a man being dragged, and I realize it's Vivian's friend.
"Put him there," I hear, immediately recognizing Damon's voice.
There's a loud crash as I assume a body hits one of the tables forcefully.
My eyes widen in panic, my body staying frozen while I look at my legs still partially hanging out of the shelves.
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.
"Hallman, you piece of shit. You've had plenty of warnings, and you still can't do as you're told," Damon snaps.
"God, it was just one fucking night. Give me a break," he pleads, managing to sound annoyed.
I'd be fucking terrified — what an idiot. There's always a time and a place to know when you should shut yourself down.
I hear another thud, and I shiver, recognizing the sound of flesh hitting flesh. It happens again, and tears well in my eyes as memories flash before my eyes.
I don't know whether to stay in the moment and listen to what's happening, or let myself drown in the memories. The groans of pain from Hallman make it difficult to leave the room and I know the choice has been made for me.
"I think he needs another reminder," comes a sing-song voice.
Grey's voice floats through the library, chirpy as always, and it occurs to me now that I know why he didn't care about my presence today in class.
It's because he was waiting for this.