“Take who?” I asked to 5B, perusing his body for a reaction. It couldn’t be healthy for me to feed into his hallucinations. But it also wasn’t worth denying it.
“They need to stop. They won’t stop. They won’t. I’m sorry. Please take them. Take him. Take them.” His voice rose an octave, his body alive with frenetic energy.
“Who are they?” I asked.
Wrong question. His eyes narrowed, his voice deepening.
“Be quiet. Quiet down. It won’t hurt a bit, you know. Sit still, goddamnit. Mom, please. Please don’t make me go. Get Tilson. Get him! Goddamnit, Robert. The lieutenant said to stay put. Little red around the bed.”
The chants continued, his movements a frenzied, pastoral chant of fire and brimstone. Bits and pieces melded together in a nonsensical, riddle-like format that frustrated me. He continued on, parts seemingly from the war, snippets from his childhood, chunks from a tenuous past I wasn’t privy to.
I reached out and clutched his shoulders, shaking him. I was desperate. I needed to understand.
“Focus. Who is this?” I pointed to the stack of drawings in my hands.
He grabbed my arms, twisting them. I fought the urge to scream. He pushed me backward. Stupid girl, I thought to myself. However, the fear was quenchable. The desire to learn more about the supernatural presence I’d felt was not.
“You’re no better than me, Jessica. She told us about you. Now make them stop. Help them. She wants you to help them.”
Tears welled as his eyes locked on mine. It was as if he could see deep down my throat, into the belly of who I was. I pictured the nightmare where she’d stood on my porch, her smile beaming as the ribbons danced in the ends of her hair.
“I don’t know how to help you,” I snapped, shoving at him.
He shrank back, as if I’d stabbed him. He held his side, dancing backward like a twisted ballet routine to his bed. He curled up, rocking, as the tears fell.
“Please go away. I need to rest. I need to rest tonight.” He put his hands to his ears, rocking wildly.
I held the drawings in my hands for a moment before setting them carefully on his table. I slowly turned toward the door, but then turned to glance at them once more. Who was the boy? His brother? A soldier he used to know in the war?
On my drive home to my lonely apartment that night, I stopped on the way out of the iron gate of Redwood. In the middle of the road, a flash of yellow, a shriek, the horrible noise.
In my driveway, my head pressed into the steering wheel as exhaustion took over. The film between the real world and the fantasy land that so many of Redwood’s patients lived in was thinning for me. And I began to wonder if perhaps the residents of Redwood were, in fact, the sane ones in this charade of living I’d become privy to.
Chapter Eight
Unnerved, I inhaled before going into room 1A on the second floor. Having spent little time on any other floor, I felt completely out of place. My shoes tapped on the foreign tile as I prepared to distribute medicine to the residents of the floor. Alone.
Spending time there should’ve been a welcome reprieve, as the other floors were “easier.” More relaxed. The residents actually spent time in group therapy, in activities, and had more freedom at certain points of the day. Still, the familiar was always more comfortable, as I’d learned over the years. I didn’t like walking into the situation without an awareness for what was behind the door.
When I walked through the door in 1A, he was sitting at a table staring at the wall. Lost in thought, he startled when I said hello. His murky eye turned to me. Only one eye. I tried not to stare at the patch covering what I imagined to be a gaping hole.
“Hi, I’m just here with your meds,” I said as cheerfully as I could muster. Tension vibrated in the air. I ordered myself to calm down. I’d already survived the worst floor. There was nothing to be afraid of down here. Just as I was reassuring myself, though, he leaped from his seat.
“You’ve got to help me,” he pleaded, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. I took a step back. “Please, please help me. I don’t belong here. I don’t.”
“It’s okay,” I reassured. “Let’s just have a seat and we’ll get you these meds. You’ll feel better,” I reassured. He ignored me, though, continuing.
“Please, I’m telling the truth. I’m not crazy. I’m not. They locked me in here years and years ago. I used to work here.”
I froze at the words, staring at his single, soulful eye. I could see his trembling hands beseeching me to believe him. I shook my head.
It was nonsense. No one at Redwood was sane. But the way he pleaded, the sense of rationality he wore on his face, it sat uncomfortably lodged in my chest, in my head. A single, prowling question wormed its way through.
What if?
What if he was telling the truth? What if this place did swallow him up?
“I’m sorry,” I replied, not quite understanding why the words came to my lips. The tears fell from his gaze and I saw his clasped hands fall to his side in defeat. His eye lost the fire, and he obediently reached for the cup I clasped in my hands. After an obedient gulp, he stepped away from me. I settled him back in, ready to leave, when I stopped at the door. His words were haunting, cold
