Deadly Little Voices (27 page)

“What are you going to do
now
?” a male voice asks, clearly making fun of me; I can hear the sarcasm in his voice.

I let out a muted cry, wondering where the voice is coming from—if maybe it’s coming from downstairs, from one of the heat vents in the floor.

“You should’ve done what you were told,” he says.

“Spencer?” I try again, harder this time, choking on his name. A trickle of wetness runs down my face—whether it’s sweat or tears, I’m not quite sure. I look to the right and left, but the sofa is all I can see—all that’s illuminated. I do my best to wriggle forward as best I can. My cheek scrapes against something sharp, and I feel my skin tear open—a burning, stinging sensation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a door that’s slightly ajar. It’s not the main entrance to the studio, but a different one, mahogany with brass fixtures.

On the ground, using my elbows and knees, I struggle toward the door, unable to hear the voice now. Maybe it’s finally leaving me alone.

My cheek feels seared. Blood drips onto my lip—I can tell it’s blood by the metallic taste—and my body is steeped in sweat.

But still I can see the door; it’s just inches away now. I scrunch my knees up under me to sit up, and make an effort to raise my arms, but my fingers can’t quite reach the handle.

Using all the strength in my legs, I try to stand without losing my balance.

At the same moment, someone yanks my hair from behind, grabs my ear, and pulls me across the room. “You should’ve done what you were told,” he says, over and over again. “You should’ve listened, but you’re just so ungrateful.”

He starts humming a familiar tune: “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” But instead of singing the words that go along with it, he uses the words to the “Jack and Jill” nursery rhyme, even adding in a few lines he’s made up himself—lines that include the words
love
,
intervene
, and
die
.

He brings me to where it’s dark, drags me down so I’m on the floor again, and then closes the door.

I pretend to be unconscious, as I have no idea on which side of the door he stands—if we’re in the same room, or if he’s locked me up on my own.

And I’m terrified to find out.

HE ROLLS ME OVER, slaps my face, checks my pulse.

All the while, I hold my breath, still pretending to have passed out.

When it seems he’s given up, I still remain there, hoping to hear him leave through the main door.

Instead, his breath is at my ear again. “Just relax,” he says, as if trying to soothe me, hoping maybe that I’ll cooperate more. He dislodges whatever’s wedged inside my mouth.

And I hear myself scream. A ripping, searing, gouging wail. One that I don’t even recognize.

I scream for him to leave me alone, to unchain my wrists, to unbind my feet. I scream until my throat burns and I let out a gasp.

“Take it easy,” he insists. “Breathe.”

Finally, he frees my legs. I know, because I can move them again. My eyes still closed, I thrust my hips from side to side, trying to gain leverage with my feet.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says. “Please, just try to relax.”

He unchains my wrists next and can finally move my hands again. I strike out, pounding the air with my fists, suddenly realizing that I’m still screaming, still writhing around, still trying to get up, to get out.

“Camelia, open your eyes!” he shouts.

I don’t. Because I don’t want to see him. Because I don’t want to be here. Because I don’t want to acknowledge this. Because salty droplets of sweat sting my eyes.

“No other choice,” the voice says. At least I think that’s what he says. I’m screaming too hard to hear.

The next thing I know, something sharp jabs into my thigh. And everything gets heavier.

And everything gets lighter. And I’m able to open my eyes.

And see.

That the lights are all on.

And a couple of uniformed men are squatting on either side of me. Spencer’s there, too.

He paces back and forth in the background, chewing his fingernails, explaining to the men that he tried to rouse me—even though he could tell I wasn’t really asleep—but that I refused to

respond.

“It was like she couldn’t even hear me,” he says.

I’m still in the studio.

A sea sponge sits beside my head. It’s wet and stained with clay. Is that what was wedged inside my mouth? Did I cram it in there myself?

“Camelia?” one of the uniformed men asks. An EMT guy. “Can you tell me where you are?”

My lips move to form words, but everything feels foggy now. Foggy and clear at the same time. The fog moves in behind my eyes, and I allow myself to melt into it.

“IT LOOKS LIKE SHE’S DREAMING,” I hear Mom whisper. “Her eyes…They’re moving beneath the lids.”

Is this a dream? Should I wake up?

My mother’s voice rises over other voices: pieces of the past swirl together forming a giant mosaic that I’m unable to interpret:

You have choices
, Dr. Tylyn says.
Even in the face of tragedy, you can choose to
overcome, to gain wisdom, to practice compassion. Don’t become a victim of someone
else’s

choices.

“What happened here?” the EMT asks.

Your aunt wasn’t able to handle all this psychometric stuff
, Kimmie snaps at me.
What
makes you think that you can?

“She was just doing her sculpture,” Spencer tries to explain. “I was out back, working on my own stuff, when I heard something hard hit the floor.”

Soft, then hard, then soft again.

My aunt is crouching down against the wall of her room, clutching Miss Dream Baby.

My aunt rocks back and forth in the art therapy studio, telling me that I deserve to die.

My aunt places her bloodstained palm against mine and tells me how alike we are.
Like
sisters
, she whispers. Her wide green eyes stare back at me through a camera lens. Her star-shaped scar presses against my wrist.

What will you choose?
Dr. Tylyn asks.

My mind tells my body to roll over, but my body isn’t listening. Ben reminds me how

much he cares about me. Meanwhile, Adam tells me not to shut him out.
I want to help you solve
this thing
, he reminds me.

Men hold me down against my will, jab my thigh with a needle, and then carry me away.

Exactly like what happened to my aunt. When I visited her at that mental hospital in Detroit.

“Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened with Camelia,”

Spencer tells them. “I wasn’t around that first time, but one of my employees was, and she saw the whole episode.”

“I think she’s coming around,” Mom says. “See, there…her eyes. They’re moving again.”

Only I don’t want to come around.

I want to remain asleep.

For how long, I’ve yet to decide.

I WAKE UP. My head still feels fuzzy—fuzzy and thick, heavy and slow—as if someone had extracted all the blood from my veins and replaced it with cold maple syrup.

“Hey, there, Pumpkin,” Dad says, just like he used to when I was five. “How are you feeling?”

It takes me a moment to realize that I’m in a hospital, that Dad’s sitting beside me on the bed, that Mom’s standing in a faraway corner. And that this definitely isn’t normal.

“Are you hungry?” Dad asks.

I look down at myself, noticing that my clothes have been replaced with a hospital gown.

“What’s happening?”

“Just relax,” he says.

“Who brought me here?” I sit up. “How long have I been sleeping?”

Mom stares at the wall, her back toward me, apparently unwilling to answer. Meanwhile, Dad takes my hand and looks deeply into my eyes, perhaps hoping that I’ll put the pieces together.

And I do.

They come back to me like a bolt of lightning. I touch my cheek where it’s bandaged up, feeling a rush of heat charge across my face. “We’ve got to help her,” I say. “Someone’s taken her captive. They’ve put a chain around her wrists. Her feet are all bound up, and she can barely breathe.”

“Relax,” Dad says again, as if my words have no relevance.

“You don’t understand,” I insist. “If we don’t help her, she’ll be gone for good. He won’t let her get away.”

“Who’ll be gone for good?” he asks. “Who are we talking about here?”

“Danica.”

“And how do you know her?”

“She goes to my school,” I blurt out. “She used to be a skater, and I’ve been sensing stuff about her…whenever I do my pottery.”

Mom remains with her back toward me. Her shoulders are shaking from crying, as if I’d suddenly died.

“Mom?” I ask, wishing she’d look at me.

But she shakes her head, blocking me out, all but covering her ears. “There’s going to be an evaluation,” she says; the words are muddled by tears.

I have no idea if she’s talking to me, or trying to reassure herself, or if she’s just saying the words out of fear. “What kind of evaluation?” I ask.

“Nothing to worry about.” Dad’s voice is like snow: soft and powdery. “One of the psychiatrists is going to ask you some questions. They have a really great mental health ward here. That’s where Aunt Alexia is.”

“You think I’m just like her, don’t you?” I ask Mom.

Still refusing to look at me, she moves to sit in the corner chair, curling up into a ball, her head resting on her knees.

I try to edge myself off the side of the bed, but Dad forces me back on. “Your mother doesn’t think that at all,” he whispers purposely, so she can’t hear. I know he’s lying, that for Mom this is a fate far worse than death. “I’m not like Aunt Alexia!” I shout.

“No one ever said you were,” he says, still trying to restrain me—to hold me in place on the bed.

“I sense things,” I blurt out. “I hear voices. I have this gift that I never asked for, and I can’t return it, or exchange it, or throw it in the trash, or pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“No!” Mom wails, covering her ears for real now.

“But it’s not going to make me crazy.” Tears course down the sides of my face, but Mom’s crying even harder. She looks so fragile, tucked up on the chair, like a little girl who needs her doll. I almost don’t even recognize her.

At first, her behavior surprises me, but then I remind myself that I shouldn’t be surprised—that Mom’s behavior, ever since my aunt’s most recent suicide attempt, has foreshadowed this very moment.

“Mom?” I ask. My throat is sore from screaming.

A second later, a nurse comes in. Her badge reads EMERGENCY, so I know I haven’t been transferred anywhere yet. “Is everything okay in here?” she asks.

No one speaks.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re awake,” she says, breaking the tension as she focuses on me. “You’ll be here for a little while longer, until we can secure you a bed in the other ward.”

“What other ward?” I ask, assuming she’s talking about the psych unit.

“It’s only for questioning,” Dad tells me. “Right?” he asks the nurse.

She peeks inside the folder she’s carrying, but then closes it up just as soon as she has her