“I tried to warn you,” she says in a sing-song voice.
I know is what I want to say, but don't. While I'm appreciative of her informative tidbits about this place, I've come to learn that Aurora likes to gloat when she's right about something. And right now I just don't feel like listening to her.
Pushing my tray away, I cast a quick glance around the mess hall to keep track of the staffs’ whereabouts. Marjorie is at one end of the mess hall talking to the British orderly with brown shaggy hair that carried me into this hell hole a few months ago. There’s another chubby orderly with ash blonde hair and a round face, whose name I can’t remember on the opposite end of the mess hall. He’s conversing with Dr. Morrow and I shudder when I think about that man.
Aurora taps my arm and I lower my head, resting my chin on the plastic/wooden table and whisper, “I’m going to try for it,” I say boldly. “I’m going to try and escape.”
She lifts her head and flashes me a devious grin.” Not without me, you’re not,” she sings and the grin on her face grows wider.
My gaze centers on the lines in the table. Some are darker and grainier than the other and the slightly darker and lighter colors blur in and out of focus. “I don’t have a plan or anything,” I tell her. “But I intend on coming up with one.” I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Aurora, I need to get out of here. Every day I’m here, I feel another year cut off my life. Every day I feel like I’m dying.”
Her smile is ghost-like and her wide brown eyes are full of concern. “I think we all feel like that.” The she straightens her posture and pats my hand. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Adelaide. I’ve got a great plan and it’s going to get both of us out of here.”
I nod assuringly, but at the same time a wave of uneasiness rolls through my gut.
And all I keep thinking is; I hope she’s right.
Chapter Seventeen
~After~
Dr. Watson hasn't checked on me in weeks.
Nurses come into my room often and check my vitals. I've even seen an older doctor named Dr. Richard Pizzuto a few times. He has a kind face and a long hooked nose. He's gentle, and speaks with a deep, melodic voice.
But I can't help but wish that the cold, yet stunningly handsome Dr. Watson would come back into my room.
The night I had the terrible nightmare about Damien, he'd slept with me. He lied next to me in my hospital bed to try and comfort me. He didn't sleep.
But neither did I.
For the first hour, I kept my eyes closed, but was awake. He was watching me. Studying me. Then
he touched me and I felt a tingle as his fingertips brushed against my hand. The thing is I wanted so much more from that moment.
I know that sounds strange, but I wanted to open my eyes and ask him to hold me. I wanted to plant my nose against his neck and inhale his scent. Part of me thought about his full, rosy lips and what it might be like to feel them on mine. I banished the thoughts quickly and allowed myself to be pulled into a dreamless sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, excitement bounced in the pit of my stomach and I found myself wondering what Dr. Watson looked like after a night of sleep. But when I opened my eyes, the excitement twisted to disappointment.
Dr. Watson wasn't in bed next to me.
He was gone.
I touched the bare spot in my hospital bed and the coldness of the sheets bled through my fingertips, sending a wave of depression into my heart. Still, I tried to remain optimistic. He'd come to check on me, right? I kept telling myself that he'd come to check on me. It was the only way to keep the sadness inside of me at bay.
And when my door opened, my heart leapt.
A radiant smile curled on my lips, only to fade when I saw Dr. Pizzuto close the door behind him.
Then depression overwhelmed me all over again.
In the passing weeks I’ve only see Dr. Watson six times. And he'd acted even more distant than before.
He'd check my vitals, but never look into my eyes. Then he'd simply say, “You're recovering well, Adelaide. I'd estimate that you'll be out of here in a few weeks.”
But the thought of leaving terrifies me.
Before, I was so certain that I could make it on my own. I convinced myself that even if I had to live on the streets it would be better than my morning meds, straightjacket, and room with four white, padded walls. Doubt creeps into my mind like a vagrant thief on a darkened night and now I'm not so sure. Where will I go? What will I do? How will I survive on my own? I have no money. No job. No place to live. I can't even drive a car.