Part III
It was Sunday. I knew it was Sunday because my mother had started visiting on Sundays. I was slumped in my seat and could barely keep my eyes open. Whatever they gave me on Sundays was strong. They didn’t want someone acting out during visiting hours.
When all the people came to see the freak show.
The voice in my head had become my closest friend, my confidante, my only companion through the dark times.
My mother clutched at my hand, never thinking to pull my damn sleeve up and see the track marks on my skin. They’d started to shoot the Sunday sedatives intravenously since I’d gained a reputation as a biter.
“Ivan visits me once a week. He can’t wait for you to get better,” my mother cried, real tears tracing down her cheeks.
I looked away. I couldn’t stand the sight.
How long had I been here? I’d lost track. Between the weekly sedative and whatever else they gave me on a daily basis, I was growing more and more confused. Only my therapy sessions stayed etched in my mind forever.
Those I’d never forget. And one day, when I escaped here, they’d all answer for this.
“He says that if you get better soon, you could have a summer wedding. Isn’t that lovely?”
Summer? At least six months, then, that I’d been rotting in here. I felt sick.
“Aren’t you going to speak to me?” my mother asked.
I opened my mouth, but only drool came out. The sedative made my salivary glands work overtime. It was disgusting, but I was past feeling embarrassed about it.
None of this was my fault. I had to hold on to that fact above all else.
“Take me . . . home, please,” I murmured past my rubbery lips.
My mother stared at me.
“Thisss-is a b-b-bad place.”
Exhausted by the effort of speaking through a regimen of drugs that could probably fell an elephant, I slumped back.
My mother shook her head, more tears running down her cheeks. “I can’t. You’re not better yet. If you leave before you’re better, then all of this will have been for nothing.”
She was so close to getting it, but she could never seem to cross that final barrier to full understanding.
It had all been for nothing. She’d believed the advice of strangers over her own daughter. The only person I’d trusted in the world willingly kept me here and ignored my pleas.
My only family.
I’d never been more alone.
“Hi, Mrs. Dmitrova,” a warm voice said.
My mother turned.
Mira stood beside us, belly huge, a big smile on her young face.
She was my friend, the only one I’d made at Hallow Hall.
Pregnant at sixteen, she’d been taken in by the institute to help her through her difficult situation, whatever that meant.
She had no family and had been on the streets before coming here.
“Ah, Mira, you must be due soon.” My mother was clearly grateful for the change of subject.
Mira nodded. “This week.”
“This week! Goodness.”
They chattered away while I tried not to fall asleep.
Another visitors’ day passed, and my mother did nothing to help me.
Another day, left alone here to rot.