Chapter 12
Charlotte
I don’t know how much time has passed by when I’m thrust feebly into my bed by yet another unknown orderly. They change out staff here like faulty lightbulbs. Except for the worst ones, those seem to be the keepers. Make it make sense. The cramps in my stomach have started to ease up.
With no clock or window, I had no idea what time of day or even what day it was. Meals seemed to come at random intervals. I tried to keep count of the seconds between them but always fucked up in the thousands somewhere. The harsh fluorescent lighting never dimmed, which made sleeping a remarkably arduous task.
I would stare for what seemed like days at the slight flickers coming from the glowing tubes. At one point, I convinced myself that it was the ghost of a patient who died in that room trying to communicate with me via Morse code.
After a while, everything started to blend together. Colors were no longer distinguishable, and textiles were all the same. The ceiling became a floor, and the floor became a wall. The wall became the entrance to my Hell.
I know a few things for sure. I had seven meals and six cups of meds, but each cup had three pills instead of the regular two and four bathroom breaks. The rest is a hazy recollection.
“Are you okay, Charlotte?” A timid voice calls from my left. My head feels fuzzy and heavy, and it’s a feat of strength to turn in the direction of the sound .
I blink a few times, trying to clear the veil obscuring my vision. My brows furrow in confusion, “Aurelia?” I question, wondering why she’s sitting on Cassie’s bed.
She nervously pulls her hands into her sleeves and nods. A flash of the bandages wrapping around her thin wrists catches my attention, and I make a mental note to revisit what happened there.
I look around the barren space. All Cassie’s little knickknacks are gone. The bedding is made up flawlessly, very not Cassie-like.
Aurelia chews on her lip, her gaze focused on the floor between us. “Where’s Cassie?” I ask. Because what the fuck is going on.
“She’s been moved to another room,” she explains. But why? “She asked to be moved because she felt unsafe with you as her roommate. Her words, not mine.” She adds as if I had posed the question aloud.
Well, whatever. Fuck Cassie. Maybe now I’ll be able to get some sleep without the sex fiend flicking her bean all night.
“And you? Why are you here?” I ask, my eyes boring into hers with uncertainty. She rolls her lips together, gaze darting around the room.
“I asked to take her spot.”
I damn near roll off my bed. Shock fills every part of my body.
“B-but, why? Aurelia, you should fucking hate me for what I did to you–” I ask, my eyes begging her to see reason. She shouldn’t want to be near me. “ – I hate me.” I admit quietly.
She leans back against the wall, sitting sideways on the bed to face me. Her chest expands with the deep breath she inhales. I watch the motion, flabbergasted by her admission.
“No one has ever defended me, Charlotte. Never. I’ve been picked on my whole life for one thing or another. I’m too pale, too skinny. My hair is too red, too frizzy. I have too many freckles. My style—” she pauses, looking at the door, no doubt plotting an escape route in the event I turn into a feral animal and pounce on her.
Her eyes find mine again. She gulps and continues, “I’m used to being everyone’s punching bag. But when you came after Charity like that… Charlotte, you saved me. In one of the darkest moments of my life, you came crashing in, a shining, blonde beacon of hope.” Her sky-blue eyes gloss over from unshed tears as she gives me the accolades that I absolutely do not deserve.
I sit up on the side of my bed, facing her full-bodied. Leaning forward, I rest my elbows against the top of my thighs, “I did the bare minimum of what should have been done. You know that, right? It was no act of heroism. It was basic human decency, and the fact that no one else stepped in just goes to show that the whole human population is garbage. We need another plague…”
She huffs out a small giggle at my comment. “I agree with you. In my experience, a vast majority of people do indeed suck. But in my book… you are no longer part of that group. Thank you, Charlie. For real. Thank you.”
I shake my head, staring at her in disbelief. I don’t deserve her forgiveness or reverence. I deserve her hatred, detestation, and fists.
“Ari–” I choke on the words I want to say. That I need to say. My feet carry me across the room and stop in front of her of their own accord. I kneel at her bedside and place my hands over the top of her feet, “ – I’m so, so, so fucking sorry.” I apologize. My eyes implore forgiveness with tears streaming down my face. Aurelia leans forward and cups my cheek with a soft, one-sided smile, “You’re forgiven, Charlie.”
We both move simultaneously, standing and embracing each other, the depth of our bond solidifying in the hold. Whispering apologies and gratitudes, we sink into each other, two lonely, broken souls desperately seeking repair and understanding.
Maybe that’s why I threw so much of my hate at Ari.
She is me. My fated sister. My cosmic companion.
* * *
Tick, Tick, Tick
A soft chuckle interrupts my mental formulation of clockly destruction worldwide. I’m seconds away from pulling a Hook and slamming the face of the insolent timepiece with the nearest hard object.
My eyes narrow at Dr. Turner, and a scowl sits firmly on my face. His tongue runs along his perfectly straight, white teeth as his lips curve into a smug smile. “A little loud, eh?” He tips his head toward the clock. I shrug a shoulder in response and focus back on the doodle on my lap.
Movement interrupts my focus, and my perusal stops short at the comical sight.
My very professional, very grown-up shrink is scooting his chair towards me on the thick carpet in small bursts as the wheels struggle to gain traction.
His large frame thrusts forward as much as the dense material will allow. Not only are his actions fucking hilarious to see, but his face of focus has me full belly laughing before he reaches me.
His arms flail outward beside him. Slicing through the air like he’s competing in a breaststroke heat to gain enough momentum to propel ahead. His face is screwed up in concentration, his brow is furrowed, and his gaze is narrowed on the floor. His bottom lip is tucked in, and his tongue has tipped out to cover his steep cupid’s bow.
Our eyes meet. Mine misty with laughter-induced tears, his with pride, determination, and arrogance. He finally comes to a stop in front of me, knee to knee. I simply shake my head, a small smile playing on my lips as I press my ballpoint pen back to my paper.
A line begins to appear before me. Ink flows out of the fountain pen in a straight line, gliding gracefully across its canvas. I watch transfixed as another line is duplicated at its side. The fountain pen elegantly weaves a lattice on the lined parchment.
I glance up at Dr. Turner, my eyes questioning. He looks down, his pen still moving. Without words, he merely tips his chin down at the paper. When I look back down, my shoulders shake with barely restrained laughter.
There’s an “o” in the top right corner of the grid. I humor him and place my “x” in the top left corner.
Dr. Turner scoffs at me like I just made the gravest of mistakes. Yeah, okay, Mr. I-Have-A-Masters-Degree. That degree doesn’t mean shit in the house of Charlotte, Reigning Queen of Tic-Tac-Toe. You can take your little “o” and go cry alone in the corner when I stomp your ass at this game.
Completely ignorant of the trash talk flowing throughout my brain, he marks the next “o” in the center. I inwardly punch the air in celebration. He’s fucked now. I place my “x” in the bottom left corner and smirk at him. He simply shrugs a shoulder, not bothered by the move, as he puts his next “o” in the bottom right corner. “Checkmate, biotch!” I declare as I put the winning “x” in the middle left column.
I pause the small victory wiggle sesh I’m having in my chair when I sense eyes fixated on me, and I remember I’m not alone.
Heat blooms over my cheeks, and I shrink into myself a little. I chance a look up, and sure enough, Dr. Turner is watching me with amusement –and a little something undefined– dancing across his handsome face. Jesus Christ.
I clear my throat, pretending the last ten seconds or so didn’t happen. I didn’t just perform an embarrassing shimmy for my therapist. That was simply a shared hallucination… nope, didn’t happen at all.
“Ah, she speaks,” he jokes, reminding me of the vow of silence I had entered with myself. I internally kick myself for breaking said vow.
I scoff at him, “I speak when there’s someone worthy to listen,” I sassily refute.
“I take it you haven’t designated me into the worthy category yet. Tell me, Miss Johnson, how does one find themselves in your good graces?”
Yet ? The balls on this man. Why would I talk to him? He’s one of them . Anything I say will be jotted down in his little notebook, surely to be passed around like a shared joke between staff members. My eyes roll of their own accord at his audacity.
A gentle hand rests on my knee. I look up to its owner, distrust filling my gaze. “I would never break your trust. What goes on inside these four walls is strictly between you and me. Unless I fear for your safety or the safety of others, I am a steel vault of secret keeping. You can trust me, Miss Johnson,” he avows, pleading with his words and eyes for me to open up, to let him in.
Can I?
Should I?
My lips purse, as if the secrets that beg to stay locked up came down to guard the entrance into their sacred tomb. They are trapped in the deep recesses of my mind. Secured in a box, wrapped in barbed wire, and tucked in the forgotten corner of my anguish and avoidance.
Do I want to filet myself open for yet another person? Will the sight of my flayed, darkened soul send him running for the nearest straight jacket and a shot of Lorazepam?
I have nowhere to hide, nothing to numb the pain. I’m forced to sit with my thoughts and memories, day in and day out. This place is supposed to help me get better? All it’s doing is bringing my worst traits to the surface, placing them on display for those who wish to get a gander.
Might as well place me in a pretty clear box to sit atop a pretty shelf with a placard that reads: Here sits the poor depressed girl whose mom died. The girl who went crazy and wanted to kill herself, but she was too much of a coward, and she almost died anyway. She pushed away the boy who wanted to love her and ended up in this shit hole, alone. Or, you know, something shorter that’s bright and shiny.
My lips roll together, tightening the entrance to the covert echoes that dwell beyond. The grip on my pen increases, the cylinder embedding itself into my flesh. My jaw clenches repeatedly, the indecision playing out on my molars.
A deep breath flows from my lips, an unsealing of the tomb beginning.
“I’ve fantasized about my death since I was little. Do you know how many ways you can kill yourself, Dr. Turner?” I turn my focus to the death grip I have on my pen and bring my other hand to it, rolling it back and forth between my palms. Like I could light a fire of acceptance in my hands.
“In my mind, I’ve died a thousand times. Each time, more imaginative than the last. I’ve lived a thousand lives, and they all end the same way. At my hand,” my voice flows steadily as the darkness ebbs out of me.
Dr. Turner is silent, his presence looming but not imposing.
“Do you know what it’s like to be scared of your own thoughts and have those in charge of protecting you act like nothing is wrong? Brush it under the rug and take you to some quack who throws a bottle of pills at you and says, ‘Okay, take these, and you should be good to go’,” I laugh, though the sound carries no humor, “I’ll tell you what, you get used to hiding your real feelings for the comfort of others real quick. I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be someone else just to make everyone else feel better. They couldn’t tell that I wanted to fucking die inside. That I was dying. As long as I fit the mold of the normal, presentable girl, no one dared to peek further,”
My head shakes, the disappointment flaring up inside at the thought of those closest to me overlooking my wounds for the sake of ease.
“You know what my last thought was as my body was shutting down from the drugs that were forced inside me? My vision was hazy, and I kept going in and out of consciousness. Pain like I’ve never experienced before coasted through my body as the poison settled into my veins. Sounds of my rescuers whomped in and out of my ears, and all I could think was– ”
The pen continues to roll between my palms as I look up at Dr. Turner, our eyes locked onto one another. He instinctively leans forward ever so slightly.
“ – fucking finally.”