“You mean they don't help people here?” I've never been more confused in my entire life. I don't understand why the police and the staff would insist that they're here to help if they weren't.
Aurora's laughter dies down. “No they don't help people here.” Her breathing steadies and she plops down on my cot next to me. “They separate us from society and try to pacify us.”
“I still don't understand.” I fold my hands in my lap and start playing with my fingers.
“To most of society being crazy is like a virus. If we're out and about in public people think they can catch the craziness from us or something. It's much easier for them to separate us and forget we ever existed. Almost like being quarantined. I used to see a psychiatrist before I was brought here. I remember the way my mother's friends used to gossip about it. They wouldn't let me play with their children. It's kind of like women who are divorced nowadays. Other women don't talk to them. They're usually shunned.”
A dull ache throbs in my side and I clench my fists. “It’s like we're tossed out trash.”
Aurora smiles. “That's a great analogy, Adelaide.” She stretches her short legs out and crosses her ankles. “Even if we do get out, I don't think we'll ever have a normal life though. We'll always be the one people whisper about when we walk by. In their eyes, we'll always be lunatics.”
“I don't think of it that way,” I tell her. “If I ever do get out of here, I'm going to start over in a place where no one knows me.”
Aurora giggles. “Maybe I'll join you.” Aurora's back is now flat against the wall and we sit close, our shoulders touching. “It's a nice dream to have.”
A dream?
A dream?
Getting out of Oakhill is not and will never be a dream to me. I make a promise to myself in that moment, telling myself that I will get out of this place. I'll start a new life. I'll have a future. I'll do some of things I've always wanted to do like; swim in the ocean, ride a horse, learn how to drive a car, and see a movie.
I will get out of Oakhill.
I will.
No matter what it takes.
~ ~ ~
For the longest time, I fight off sleep.
I stare up at the ceiling, wondering what would have happened if things turned out differently for me and Damien. I wonder what would have happened if I would have died in place of him. There's a huge part of me that wishes I would have.
I think about it every minute.
Of every hour.
Of every day.
Damien and I had such different lives. He had hope. He had a future. A family who loved him. Me, I had nothing. And I know if I would have died in his stead there would be no one to miss me when I was gone.
And Damien, well, I know there are a lot of people who have been missing him. I can't speak for his family, but I've convinced myself that I miss him more than any of them. What hurts more than anything is me, thinking of the life we could have had. Thinking of the loving smiles we'll never flash at one another. The warm embraces we'll never share. The fact that our lips will never ever touch again.
The thoughts of the life we could have had is too much to bear, and as a deep plunging pain stabs my heart, I roll over on my cot. I curl my body into the fetal position. Then I cry myself to sleep.
Just when I think my nightmare from earlier is over, I realize that it's only just beginning.
I stand in my old bedroom.
The window is open. My pale yellow curtains dance against the cool breeze. My eyes avert to the spot on the floor where Damien died. The dried blood on the oak floor is a constant reminder of the boy I loved.
The boy I lost.
The boy who gave up everything including his life, for me.
I'm frozen in my spot, staring at the blood stain on the floor that is now brown in color, rusted like a muffler on an old car. Numerous questions run through my mind as pain pierces my heart and tears prick my eyes. Why didn't the police clean this up? Why did I come back here? Why do I feel like I'm reliving Damien's death over and over again in my own personal version of hell?
A gust of air leaves my lungs and I hit my knees. My chest vibrates with the sobs that are stuck in my throat, and the nausea slaps against my stomach lining in waves. Throwing my hands over my mouth, I hunch over in front of the brown stain. I think I'm going to be sick.