Madelaine’s grave is located on the west end of the cemetery, not too far from the Richardsons’ mausoleum. Balling my hands into fists inside the squishy gloves, I push off of the mausoleum’s outer wall and step lightly onto the flooded grass. It’s slick and slippery. I come close to falling a couple of times. Once, I nearly lose my slipper in a deceiving puddle. I grit my teeth and keep on going. I don’t know how I got here, but I know why I’ve come.
It’s little more than a drizzle when I find the right resting place.
The Everetts marked her grave with a giant stone angel. It’s hard to miss, but I run my gloved fingers along each wing, recognizing the carved lines and the chip on the right side. Almost six years later, through the rain and sleet and the snow, and that c
hip is still the same size.
I hardly pay any attention to the rain, the damp ground, even the chill as I kneel in front of her grave. Moving my hand lower, I trace each letter in her name until I’m satisfied that I’m with my sister again. I turn so that I’m sitting on the marble base, resting my back against her headstone.
There are no words. I sit in silence, my head bowed into my chest.
It’s only when the rain quits at last and the sky starts to lighten that I wonder if anyone from the asylum has noticed that I’m gone.
1
The first thing I see when I open my eyes again is my window. Six bars stretch vertically across the lengths of the glass plane. And it hits me.
I’m not at the cemetery. I’m back at Black Pine again.
The asylum.
Breathing in deep, I can’t get the smell of wet graveyard soil out of my nose. My bangs are plastered down to my forehead, but it has to be sweat. I mean, there’s no way that I actually could have left my room.
I haven’t been on the outside in close to six years.
I shove my bangs back. They squelch against my leather gloves. I can’t stop my shudder. Getting my gloves wet is even worse than when I’m forced to bare my hands in front of an audience. My stomach was already queasy from a poor night’s sleep full of vivid dreams and bad memories. The damp leather gloves make it so much worse.
Might as well get up. There’s no chance in hell I can even think about going back to sleep now.
That’s nothing new. Not for me. I always wake up before seven. I can’t remember the last time I was jerked from my sleep by the facility’s wake-up calls. Not since I stopped taking my sleeping medication regularly, I bet. More often than not, I’m up and dressed before the morning tech knocks on my door and tells me it’s time to get going. Most days I even have my bed made.
After all this time, I know the routine.
Amy is peppy, a real morning person. Today she chatters about her most recent attempt at potty-training her son while she checks my vitals. Blood pressure, pulse, temperature… she seamlessly goes from one test to the next, marking the results down on my chart. Once she pronounces me fit as a fiddle, she sends me off for my morning meds and my shower.
A blonde technician I don’t recognize is standing in front of the chalkboard at the nursing station. She writes the morning message quickly before hurrying off, wiping the chalk dust from her hands onto her scrubs. A faint white ghost hand leaves a trail down the side of her light blue pants.
I turn to look at the board. It says the same sort of thing it usually does, for those who can’t remember:
Today is Sunday. You are at Black Pine Facility for Wayward Juveniles. This is the residential ward for the 19-21 age group. It is raining outside. All windows must remain shut.
I feel better knowing that it’s raining out. That explains part of my dream, even if I still can’t figure out why my hair was so damp. Leaving it at sweat, I snort at that last line.
This technician must be new to Black Pine if she thinks we can open any of the windows here. Despite its stupid name, we all know that the asylum—sorry, Facility for Wayward Juveniles—is really more of an old-fashioned, obsolete psych hospital. Come on. We’re on the fifth floor. They’re not going to risk us jumping. None of these windows open.
It’s sad, in a way. Last night’s dream makes me remember how much I miss the fresh air. If I breathe in deep, I can still smell the damp earth and the rain on the marble gravestones.
Shit.
I’ve got to remember not to tell any of my doctors about that. If they think my hallucinations are stretching to different senses, who knows what they’ll prescribe for me next. All I do know is that I’m pretty sure I can’t stomach any more medication.
Speaking of medication—
Three other patients are already lined up at the nursing station, waiting for their morning meds. Since Amy started at our end of the floor, it’s all girls. Our crew will be the first in the showers, too. Sometimes I suspect that Amy does it on purpose, waking the girls up first so that we get that extra half an hour to use the showers before the boys do, but she’s never said. Then again, I’ve never asked.
I learned a long time ago not to bother asking any questions. People lie. It’s what they do. And, hell if I know why, but I’ve always been able to tell. It gets depressing after a while. I’ve gotten used to tuning it out, even if I can’t turn it off entirely.
Carolina brings up the rear, her long dark hair a curtain as she nibbles on her thumbnail. I get in line right behind her, trying not to notice just how loosely her Black Pine tee hangs off her bony frame. She’s the most recent chick to join our floor. New meat, too, not one of the kids on the fourth floor who aged out to ours. She’s quiet, seems sweet, and even if she didn’t open up during group therapy, I’d still have a pretty good idea why her parents tossed her inside with the rest of us.