Chapter One —Rule
When the year began, Rule Caldwell hadn’t imagined such a nightmarish turn for his life.
After his mother collapsed, his entire world shifted.
He adapted the best way he could, finding solace in the Bible, hope in the self-lashing and animal sacrifices, and friendship in the voices.
As life grew more hectic, the voices were a constant that kept him company.
They stayed with him when Rebel turned her back on him, when Mom devoted herself to Dad and her favorite children, and when his cousins and siblings looked down on him.
But those voices led him to a monstrous act, a sin that guaranteed damnation and cast him out from his family, filling him with regret.
And now, when he was bound to a wheelchair after his failed escape attempt at their urging, the voices had deserted him.
His psychiatrist, Dr. Patricks, assured him it was a sign he was responding well to the medicine, and to let him know if they returned.
The middle-aged man was short and stout, with a personality reminiscent of Father Wilkins, immediately easing Rule.
He also liked the new facility much better than the old one.
The staff seemed to actually care, and even the ones apathetic to the plight of the patients weren’t outright abusive.
The improvements didn’t alleviate the pain in Rule’s heart.
The company of the voices was a double-edged sword, but at least with them present, he wasn’t so alone in the world. Now, even prayer didn’t comfort him.
“Do you want to watch some TV?” Freya asked softly.
He looked away from the window he’d stationed himself at, hoping to see his father or one of his brothers striding up the long stone walkway from the parking lot. A time or two, he’d imagined Mom and Reb.
He’d give anything to see them. His mother’s cherry blossom scent always comforted him more than anything other than Rebel’s laugh. He missed Mom and Reb so much.
“We can watch cartoons,” Freya persisted. “Or I can wheel you outside.”
The hospital sat upon a palisade overlooking the Pacific Ocean. High fences, cameras, and alarms protected patients from accessing the cliff’s edge, but the scenery was still gorgeous.
Rebel would’ve loved it. Rule smiled. She probably would’ve found a way to bypass all the protective measures and planted herself on the edge of the palisade.
Easy to push her over.
The voice startled him and he jerked.
“Rule?”
“I-I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, afraid again. He didn’t want the mean voices.
“Are you hungry? We can eat outside.”
Rule finally faced Freya. Her caring personality was reminiscent of his mother’s, before she only had enough love for two of her nine children.
Freya reminded him of better days. Despite knowing what he’d done, she didn’t judge him.
Although he’d expect nothing less from Father Wilkins’ daughter.
The holy man had become a second father to Rule, so it would go to reason that he’d raise a fine child.
Rule’s one gripe with her was that she constantly tried to get him to socialize. He wasn’t ready to face the other patients. Forced group therapy sessions meant many knew how he landed in the facility, and he wasn’t blind to the judgment cast upon him by his group mates.
“No,” he said simply, looking out the window once more, though he no longer paid attention to the goings-on. Father Wilkins had gone to San Francisco for the day and would return tomorrow. No one else would come to see Rule. “I’m good here.”
Freya sighed. “Dr. Patricks wants you to interact with others, Rule.”
“I interact with them in therapy. Isn’t that enough?”
“You need to do so outside of therapy,” Freya reminded him. “The doctor wants you to make friends, and I think it’ll be a good idea. It won’t feel so lonely if you bond with someone else. Someone who isn’t a caretaker, like him, my dad or me.”
“And if I don’t?” Rule challenged, the question more forceful than he intended.
She shrugged. “It’ll just delay your release.”
“Socializing will just open me up to ridicule, and—”
“This is a mental hospital. Everyone here has their own issues. They’re more focused on themselves than you or anyone else.”
Rule wished Freya’s words were the truth, but bullies, gossip and rumors thrived in every environment, including mental hospitals. The ripest targets were the ones seen as the worst off, a group that Rule was included in.
“I’d like to pray now,” he stated, to end the discussion.
Annoyance tinged Freya’s huff, but she nodded and scampered to his wheelchair.
Though his room didn’t have the comforts of home, nor was it comparable in size to his bedroom, it was an upgrade from the small box he’d been kept in at the other place.
Instead of sparse, drab decor, his walls were a soothing blue.
According to Father Wilkins, it would calm him and help to heal pain.
Muted yellow accents with touches of green created the perfect mental health color wheel.
After helping him from the overstuffed window chair to his wheelchair, Freya wheeled him off to the spiritual section of the facility.
Based on her tight-lipped frown, she wanted to say more about his interpersonal skills, but thankfully, remained silent.
It was something he liked about her. She knew when to let things go.
The hospital didn’t call their ‘spiritual room’ a chapel, but it had the same layout.
An altar was stationed between two windows, burning incense sandwiched between candles and flowers.
Rows of benches lined the space, with spiritual motivational posters plastered between the windows.
They included quotes and ‘fun facts’ from every religion, an attempt at inclusiveness.
The area was one of the least populated parts of the hospital, but it was always well-maintained and incredibly peaceful.
It was why he went there to pray at least twice a day.
After morning activities and again before patients returned to their rooms for the night.
Like always, she was there.
Rule didn’t know her name, but she never seemed to leave the area.
When she wasn’t kneeling before the altar, whispering prayers, she was in one of the pews reading a book, or playing solitaire on the floor.
The staff members allowed her to do so and didn’t seem to mind when she used the area for secular activities.
Whenever she saw him, she spared him a smile, before leaving.
He wanted to speak to her, but never knew what to say.
Today, she prayed by the altar, her hands clasped together, and her head bowed, the picture of piety.
Her dark curls cascaded down her back, the silky ringlets flowing freely.
“Why don’t you say hello to her?” Freya whispered, wheeling him closer to the altar.
“It’s rude to interrupt prayer,” Rule replied and hid a grin, imagining Freya rolling her blue eyes.
With a little sniff, she retreated to one of the benches, allowing him a moment of solitude. Impossible with the girl’s nearness, but he tried to focus on the Lord’s Prayer.
“Our Father, Who art in Heaven.” Rule’s attention strayed to the girl next to him. “Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come–”
“Amen,” she murmured, finishing her prayer as he was trying to begin his.
She lifted her gaze to him, catching him staring at her, but she simply smiled.
Suddenly the words he knew so well died on his lips.
Dr. Patricks wanted him to dispel the ‘harmful beliefs’ present about women and girls thanks to his exposure to the club by healthy interactions with the opposite sex.
He hadn’t tolerated Rule explaining how well-founded those beliefs were and even claimed his environment and upbringing had put false ideas about the fairer sex in his head.
It confused Rule. On one hand, the doctor wanted his opinion of his mother to improve, while implying his parents’ childrearing damaged him.
However, despite the contradictory advice, Rule wanted to please the psychiatrist.
His mystery girl made the sign of the cross and then stood. Rule cleared his throat and waved, praying he wouldn’t regret this choice.
“H-hi,” he stammered, cringing internally.
The attitude he’d begun to show at the club and around his family had faded away. Speaking to strangers once again became a challenging feat. Rebel was the extrovert. Rule was not.
The voices had made him bold, and without their constant presence, he was little more than the pansy Ryan bullied. The kid who only had Rebel to depend on.
“Hey,” she replied, her honey brown eyes kind and welcoming. The way Mom and Reb’s blue eyes once had been. “I’m leaving, so the altar’s all yours.”
He shook his head. “Don’t leave on my account.”
“Don’t worry,” she said with an infectious laugh, “I wouldn’t. I’m just not religious enough to chill around altars for fun.”
“You’re religious enough to spend your days here and pray daily,” he pointed out, grasping at straws to continue the conversation.
“Nah, it’s just quiet here,” she countered. “And…my mama and grandmother, they’d make me go to mass every Sunday and for every holiday. I wouldn’t call myself a believer, but prayer brings me comfort. It reminds me of them.”
Her words provided a minuscule glimpse into her personal life.
The openness, no matter how small, took him aback and intrigued him.
He thought of his mother and sister, his cousins and the club girls.
His resentment against them festered for many reasons, his belief that they were secretive schemers chief among them.
Therapy and medication helped combat the dislike but didn’t completely erase it.
Now, those thoughts inspired great conflict in Rule yet immediately strengthened his draw to her.
“Sorry,” she said with a giggle, one that sounded forced. “You came here to pray, not for me to hold you up.”