“Jones!” the male nurse growls. Her laughter sounds far away and warped as my mind processes her words.
A deep pit settles in my gut.
Who is he?
Dread swirls deep in my stomach, a sudden foreboding sensation making it hard to breathe.
For the rest of the visit with the doctor, my mind isn’t really here. My thoughts are focused elsewhere, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Could her comment be a coincidence? This is a nuthouse after all. But something doesn’t feel right. Especially since I could’ve sworn I spotted one of the Savages the other day. Could that be who she was talking about?
But why?
He isn’t done with you yet. Isn’t it obvious? The voice in my head remarks. A zing shoots down my spine. The voice sounds oddly like Madison.
Is she back?
The following morning, Stephanie wheels me out of my room for another visit with the doctor. After the odd encounter yesterday, I didn’t pay attention to what he had to say. If I had, I would’ve remembered that he wanted to do another MRI, just to make sure all was well in my head after the accident and concussion. The headaches are less frequent, but the fatigue and sensitivity to light are still there. And so is the clicking. There’s this irritating clicking noise that comes and goes.
He’s also taking one of my casts off today. One down, only about eighty more to go, until my body is back to normal.
Who am I kidding? That’ll never happen. There’s nothing about me now that will ever revert to normal. Every time I look at my reflection in a mirror here, all I see is the pain and the damage of the past few months. The past nine years.
My face is still covered in bruises and abrasions, my eyes look dull and lifeless, the bags resting under them consume my whole face and make my complexion look sallow and pale. My hair has to be the worst part of my appearance right now.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been trapped in this shithole, but it’s long enough that my real roots are starting to show through. Literally and figuratively speaking. I haven’t had a chance to touch up the roots of my hair with more black dye, so the natural blond has started to show through, growing long past my eyebrows.
I look insane.
As soon as I’m wheeled into the communal area of the facility again, I’m on the lookout for the strange woman from yesterday who threatened me. I also keep my eyes peeled for anyone passing through who looks like one of the guys.
I don’t spot either of them anywhere, so I figure it’s safe. I breathe a little sigh of relief, until I see the older woman from yesterday. Costas, I believe her name is. Apparently, the tarot queen of this place.
She’s watching me again. Shuffling those cards, which I now presume is a tarot deck, instead of a regular card deck. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I find myself wheeling away from Steph toward the older woman. It’s a struggle, trying to wheel myself with one good hand and one casted hand, but I manage. By the time I reach her, I’m out of breath, and there’s sweat beading along my forehead.
The older woman keeps her face impassive as I approach. Her hands still move the deck around as she stares at me. Costas never once looks down to watch her movements. She’s so skilled, she doesn’t have to. The way she shuffles, so neatly, not losing a single card, is impressive. Especially for an older woman her age. Her hands are bony and weathered. She may even have arthritis, what with the way some of the bones in her hands protrude in odd directions. You’d think she wouldn’t be able to shuffle as well as she does due to the pain in her hands.
I open my mouth to say something but pause when she suddenly stops shuffling. She pulls some cards from the deck, flipping each over, revealing the images on them. My brows furrow as I look down at the cards, trying to figure out what the meaning behind all of it is supposed to be. She flicks her gaze up to mine, and something in her eyes gives me pause. There’s fear there.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, quickly glancing back down at the cards.
“The spirits are talking. The guides are warning me. You’re in danger.”
Skepticism gives me pause, but regardless, a chill travels down my spine. “You got that from these cards? There are just pictures on them,” I mumble dubiously, taking each of them in.
The first card drawn from her deck is a man lying face down with swords in his back—ten of them to be exact. The next card has my throat drying as I read the single word at the bottom below the picture of the skeleton in armor riding a horse—Death. The next card is one that has panic flaring in my gut. The image is of a tower on fire and people falling. Under the picture it reads The Tower. The next card doesn’t need any explanation as I stare at the illustration of the devil.
She picks up two cards in particular and holds them up, her hands trembling as she does. I eye each of them warily.
One is a card with two individuals embracing, called The Lovers, and the other is the same eerie image of the devil that quite literally reads The Devil.
“Trust no one. The enemy is closer than you think.” I’m quick to glance around, but all I see are insane people. People who could potentially be dangerous but aren’t necessarily out to hurt me. A moment passes between us, and I want to ask her more. I want her to tell me what she sees, like she’s some kind of fucking fortuneteller, but I scoff as I look back down at the cards.
This stuff isn’t real.
She’s in here for a reason. Obviously, she’s not exactly the best person I can use for reliable information or advice. I brush her off, forcing a smile, thankful when Steph comes over and begins wheeling me away.
This time during my checkup, I’m present enough that I’m able to remember what the doctor is doing, but my mind still wanders, images of the cards constantly flashing behind my lids like warnings. I’m still extremely unsettled over my apparent tarot reading. I’ve never believed in stuff like that. I mean, they were just cards with pictures on them. How much could the old lady know? Despite all my debunking theories, I can’t help but feel like she does know. And why do I suddenly feel the need to heed her warning?
Part of me wishes she would’ve told me more or I would’ve had the guts to ask questions, but I shake that away, refusing to feed into the madness.
I wince uncomfortably as the doctor finishes checking me over. Getting a cast taken off is a lot more annoying than one would think. And when it does come off, I grimace at how skinny my leg looks. After I’m fully cast free on one leg, the doctor gets rid of the bars that are embedded into the cast on my left leg for my hip. He seems to think I’m recovering quickly, and even though that cast won’t be off for some time, he didn’t want my body to grow dependent on the metal bars for support. I eventually need to start stretching and try to walk around with a walker to help my muscles strengthen.
My sour mood from earlier only grows worse as I’m wheeled into Dr. Aster’s office. The last thing I want to do is spend time with the doctor after the day I’ve had. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me, not that I thought she would be. This was probably all her idea. Have the doctor take off my cast, thinking it’d make me happy, and more open to having a conversation with her.
“Mackenzie. You’re looking well,” she says, dropping her glasses down the bridge of her nose, as she looks at me over her mountains of paperwork. They’re probably all notes on someone else’s life she wants to ruin.