“Code red, Floor B.”
“She is not sticking those sausages in my butt!” I roared at the ceiling, hoping if there was a camera whoever was behind it would see. ”She. Will. Not. Violate. Meeee!” It was a bit melodramatic, I’ll admit, but my ass was on the line. Literally.
Everything played out in slow motion. I could see myself running—see the patients shooting me curious glances, a mixture of interest and fear entering their eyes as they realized what direction I was heading toward: the cracked door at the end of the hall. I’d pegged it as my safe place the second I saw all three orderlies hot on my tail.
“Shit, she’s going to Laces!” I heard one of the orderlies shout right as my black flats slid across the marble floor. Thrusting my arm forward, I grabbed the doorknob, stumbling on shaky knees as I attempted to regain my balance—“Hey no! You don’t want to do that! Listen to me—”
—and get two fingers shoved up my ass? Hard pass. The choice was a no-brainer for me. Once I caught my bearings, I lunged into the room and slammed the door behind me, my back sliding down the cold metal as my knees slowly collapsed. My hands tented over my nose. “Shhh…breathe…you’re mommy’s little bumblebee…you’re a bumblebee, yes you are. You’re a bumblebee to the stars. You’re a bumblebee, yes you are. You’re mommy’s little bumblebee.” I hummed the song at least three or four times while imagining the secret closet in my old basement. Safe. Secluded. Whenever my nerves got the best of me, that small room hidden behind a wine cellar became my refuge from any and all chaos. It had seen me through some dark days.
You shouldn’t be here.
No.
I repeated the same chorus a couple more times, until my heart found a steady rhythm, and then opened my eyes. Orderlies were pounding on the door, the vibrations of their fists slamming into my back as Nurse Kline begged for me to come out—but I barely heard anything because of him. He was lying back on his twin bed in the furthest corner, his attentive blue eyes peeking over the sketchpad in his hand. I’d seen a lot of men in my lifetime, a lot of attractive men…the guy sitting on that bed was not a man. No. The very word seemed offensive for someone of his caliber. He looked like a model that had just stepped off of the runway in Paris—long, silky black strands falling into his eyes, thick lips, and a taut, lean body. His arms were well defined, each muscle curving smoothly into the next…he was a vision, like one of the men on my grandma’s favorite romance novels.
And I’d like to say that I played it cool, that I rose to my feet and put my best southern manners forward and extended my hand and introduced myself as the newest patient of Asheville’s most notorious asylum for troubled youth.
But my eyes started to wander—and the sketches hung around the room suddenly came into view. Dead women…dead women everywhere. My throat constricted. Oh God…my eyes flew every which way, taking in the scene before me, all of the Hannibal-Lecter-like sketches proudly displayed around the small confined space.
Oops…
I had picked the wrong room.
Clearly…
Suddenly I felt dizzy and hot.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Hannibal Sketcher as he rose from his bed. The shadow of his six-foot frame towered over me as I scrambled to find the doorknob behind me. No, no, no…The word “help” was on the tip of my tongue, but it never made it out. My heart was in a new state of panic, my breathing ragged…my eyes rolled back and my body suddenly turned limp. The last thing I saw before the darkness overtook me was the floor rushing up to greet me.
Two
Laces
She looked like a scared kitten that had just escaped a potential downpour. Her wide, brown eyes were blazing with fear, her arms and legs shaking as she tried to process everything. I’d seen that kind of fear before, the—my life is over, what’s the point in trying—fear that seemed to fill the air when no bright light could be found at the end of the tunnel. For four years I’d watched it suck the life out of my mother, watched her die right before my eyes, and though I knew it was useless, I’d fought tooth and nail to bring just an ounce of her light back.
That was what drew me to her in the first place.
The need to protect her, to guide her through this hell, seemed to overpower the walls that I’d built around myself to keep my human instincts at bay. The urge to reach out and touch her, to ask—no, demand—what was wrong, paralyzed me. In the two years leading up to her arrival, I’d made peace with my situation; It wasn’t the life I’d pictured for myself, but was definitely better than the life I had grown up in and been forced to accept.
The tip of my pencil had punctured my sketchpad, creating a small hole in the arm of my latest sketch, resembling a mole, but I didn’t give a damn. Not today, anyway. Her eyes roamed over my body, stopping at the pencil pressed deep against my forefinger. I wondered if she would start singing again—or breakout in prayer—which was customary for newbies. Both seemed plausible. But instead her eyes slowly drifted to the wall, to a land of death and despair, and what fear she had entered my domain with escalated to catastrophic proportions.
Fuck.
Lifting my palms, I carefully rose from the bed, my sketchpad and pencil clattering to the floor with a deafening echo. My mouth opened, the word “easy” was poised on the tip of my tongue, but before it could pass through my lips her eyes rolled back and her lifeless body fell to the floor.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” I muttered under my breath. Normally women were throwing themselves at me—proposing fuckin’ marriage—but not this one. This stray had cowered away and completely shut down.
“Where is a camera when you need one?” My buddy, Reyes, chuckled from behind. I glanced over my shoulder to see him curled up in a dark corner, an apple in his hand. Taking a bite, he gestured with his chin toward the scene displayed before him. “Smooth. Very smooth.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off.”
“She saw you coming from a mile away. ‘No I don’t want your autograph, get me the hell outta here.’” Reyes snickered. “She’s a smart girl. I like her.”
I shot him an arrogant grin. “Maybe she fainted because of me? Did you ever think of that?” I challenged, knowing damn well that was not the case. My ego had taken a major hit and I was grabbing at every straw at the bar. “She’s probably never seen this much man. Didn’t know what to do with all this masculinity.”
Reyes’ eyes flew over my shoulder, to where Stray’s lifeless body laid. He smirked. “Oh, she knew exactly what to do, trust me.” Fuckwad. He gestured toward her body, which was splayed out like a chalk outline at a crime scene. “You better take advantage of your muse before Kline sends her lackeys in, tranq guns blazing.”
“How can you think about art at a time like this?”
“How can you not?” And when I didn’t jump to get my sketchpad, he shook his head in dismay, a knowing grin spread across his lips. She had fallen to the floor on her side—both arms clutching her chest, one leg shot out—like someone who had tried to run. Had it been anyone else I would’ve dropped to my knees and started sketching away, letting the strokes take me to a place that made sense. But I couldn’t do that with her. I didn’t want to.