Chapter 7 Axel
Axel
She’s never coming. With all the time that’s passed and no sign of her, I know I’ll never see her again.
I give up. There’s no point in trying to be good here so I can get out.
There’s nothing for me out there. My brothers will survive without me, especially Caspian.
I will no longer be baggage to him. His younger brother who’s been molested and raped repeatedly, with nothing but problems, both mentally and physically.
He will be free to live his life to the fullest without me in it.
That’s where my head is at as I sit in this fucking room with six other patients while Dr. Petrova holds a group therapy session.
This is the second time I’ve been here, and I want to stab my eyes out while sticking needles in my ears.
The clown girl is batshit crazy. She screams a lot at night and speaks to herself frequently, but the fucking giggling grates on my nerves.
There were a few new guys who just came in—Killian, Jagger, and Lucifer.
I’ve been watching them this past week and I’ve noticed they have a thing for the clown girl.
I’m still trying to figure out if they actually like her or want to kill her.
Not that it’s any of my business, but for some odd reason it's the only exciting thing happening in this place.
Other than the girl who never leaves her room.
I think her name is Brielle Waterford. I’ve heard the orderlies are afraid of her.
I'm not sure why, but they constantly call her Butterface, according to Micheal, the kid who sits next to me uninvited in the cafeteria and never shuts the fuck up and updates me daily on the crazy shit that happens around here. I’m guessing he doesn’t care that I never speak to him, but he told me her face is riddled with scars–slashes to be precise, as if she was mauled by an animal.
He also told me that the orderlies on the night shift tie her down, put a bag over her face, and use her body as they please.
She’s had numerous abortions while being here because of the amount of times she’s been raped.
I’m shocked she hasn’t killed herself, because if that was me, I wouldn’t be on this earth.
Otherwise, it’s dull during the day. At night, it's a different ball game, and I dread when the sun sets.
No matter how much they medicate me, I panic every single night.
My file specifically states to not touch me, but they don’t fucking care here.
It’s a mental institution for the criminally insane run by nothing but criminals, pedophiles, and abusers.
I truly hate it here. I could make my life easier if I would just talk to someone, maybe even ask for some drawing supplies I see others with, but no, I’m my own worst enemy.
I spend most of my days sitting in a rocking chair, staring out into the yard or watching everyone move around this place.
I won’t play chess with anyone or checkers.
TV does nothing for me. I think I may steal some charcoal pieces and some paper from Buttons the next time I’m in the activity room, but I don’t want these people to know what I enjoy.
The minute they know, they will use it against me to get what they want.
“Mr. Cyprus. Care to introduce yourself this session?” Dr. Petrova asks, and I slowly meet his stare, folding my arms and sitting back in my chair.
His stare makes me extremely uncomfortable because I can see right through him.
He may be a therapist in this place, but there’s something much more sinister underneath the uniform.
The funny thing is, he can’t force me to talk.
None of them can. No matter how many drugs they push through my veins.
Not even the beatings I’ve sustained because of my refusal.
I give them nothing. The only words that have left my mouth are my screams and Presley’s name.
Other than that, silence. I don’t like these people, nor do I trust any of them.
“He doesn’t speak. Haven't you gotten the memo, Doc?” Clown girl giggles, and I roll my eyes.
“I wasn’t speaking to you, Logan. How many times have I told you to not speak out of turn?” he asks her, and she narrows her eyes.
“And how many times have I told you not to call me Logan. It’s Lolli,” she fires back, and I smirk. Damn, the little clown has a bite, but my curiosity is piqued as to why she calls herself Lolli.
“Your birth name is Logan, that is your name while you are here, which, my dear, is for a very long time,” he informs her, and she growls.
“Logan died in that oven. We’ve been through this!
” she spits. Oven? What the fuck does that mean.
She stands abruptly and circles Dr. Petrova, while Malcolm starts to rock in his chair, and Celeste hums as her fingers draw stars in the air while her lips move a mile a minute but no words ever leave them.
I shake my head and turn my attention back to Lolli as she continues to walk around us, running her mouth.
“I’ve got to say, Doc, Jethro is really getting sick and tired of your attitude.
He thinks you suck as a doctor. With all the crazies that have come and gone through the years, you’ve never rehabilitated any of them.
It seems all you do is send them to their death beds,” she accuses, and all the doctor does is tilt his head, looking at her like she is crazy, which granted she is, but who is Jethro?
I’ve never seen him before. My eyes scan the room but there’s no one new here. She really is batshit.
“So Jethro is still hanging around I see. Do I need to up your meds again?” he asks, and her eyes widen while shaking her head. Interesting. “Very well. Now, if you are done interrupting me, you all have homework tonight. I want the six of you—”
“Seven, Dr. Petrova,” Lolli interrupts, and he clears his throat.
“I want the seven of you to write in your notebooks about an event that haunts your waking mind. So then next session we can work on overcoming it. It’s time for the things that hurt you the most to be wiped from your mind,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
Fat chance of that happening. I’ve been here for months.
While this is only my second time in group therapy, I’ve had sessions with this doctor twice a week since my arrival.
I know what he’s trying to do, and it may work on everyone else, but it’s not going to work with me.
I’m not their fucking lab rat. They might as well kill me and remove my brain from my skull and study the inner workings of it, but even then, I don’t think that is possible.
“You are all dismissed for lunch and midday meds,” he tells us, and I quickly rise from my seat and high tail it out of here.
Giggling behind me has me rolling my eyes as Lolli catches up quickly and elbows my arm gently.
I look over at her then down at my arm then back up to her eyes.
She frowns, and I shake my head slightly.
She nods in understanding, but I can’t look away from her eyes.
They are the bluest I’ve ever seen. Caspian’s are almost white, but Lolli’s are like the color of the sky on a cloudless, hot, sunny day, but the starburst of translucent grey is what makes them so alluring.
I can see and feel her sadness. She may be a freaking lunatic, but a sad, frightened little girl is trapped inside her mind begging to be loved—begging to be saved.
I almost want to whisper the same words I said to Presley when I saw beyond the mask–beyond all the makeup.
I’m not sure how to feel in this moment as I stand in the hallway of this institution with my head tilted, staring into the clown girl's eyes and not wanting to look away. The feeling in my chest is different then what I feel for Presley. I’m not attracted to Lolli. No fucking way. But maybe it’s—
“Stop staring, mute boy! I know my scars are hideous but I’m not a fucking sideshow act,” she spits and walks away. Shit. That’s not why I was staring. Goddamnit.
The sun set a couple of hours ago, and it’s almost time for the night shift to come in.
Caspian came to see me today, and the moment I saw he was alone, I sent him away.
He was pissed—beyond pissed—but she is the only way out of here.
Have I expressed that to him or any of my brothers?
No, I haven’t. Should I? Probably. It will save them all the trip out here.
But I know my brother. He will be the last person to give up on me.
I bet he’ll even try to break me out of here.
Actually, I’m a little disappointed that he hasn't already, come to think of it.
My door creaks open, and Cynthia walks in with my nighttime meds.
Taking the cup, I pour the pills into my mouth and take a swig of the water in the second cup.
She smiles then leaves the same way she came in.
That’s interesting. She didn’t strap me into the bed like she does every night.
Hmmm. I lay back in my bed, the thin mattress squeaking as I get myself comfortable.
The room isn’t big by any means. There’s no bathroom in here either.
Just a bed, a desk with a wooden chair and four big windows.
The lights go out and the moon shines brightly against the white tile floor.
My eyes begin to get heavy, and I pull the thin blanket up to my chin, shutting my eyes and letting the meds flow through my body, sending me to sleep.
“You know you ruin everything. Just like your brothers. I should’ve had an abortion when I had the chance, or matter of fact, I should’ve swallowed you,” my mother spits, raising her hand and slapping me across the face. My head flies to the side from the impact and slams into the back window.
“I-I’m sorry, Mama. I-I’ll do better next time,” I cry out, and she huffs.