Unhinged (7 page)

I place my hand on the door and push it open
slowly; inch by inch light floods the living room. I make my way
onto the white linoleum floor, but as I look around, I don’t see
anything amiss. Nothing seems out of place but I still don’t see
Mary. I start to close the door but stop when I hear a whimper. I
push the door open and fully enter the kitchen, my eyes scanning
every crevice for the source of the sound. I move around the island
in the center of the kitchen and that’s when I see her.

Disheveled, with one shoe off, huddling in a
corner rocking back and forth, sits Mary. Her brown eyes are glazed
over and she is holding a large kitchen knife.

“Mary?” I ask softly, not wanting to startle
her. “Are you okay?” It's foolish to ask, since it’s evident that
she isn’t.

Dejana stands frozen in the doorway, afraid
to move any closer to the woman clutching a knife as she murmurs
under her breath. I look at Dejana, pleading for some indication of
what I should do. Shell shocked, she simply shrugs. She has no idea
what to do either.

I start to move a bit closer to Mary, hoping
beyond hope that my voice gets through to her. “It’s okay, Mary.
I’m here now. I can help. Just please, tell me what you want me to
do. I can start dinner if you want,” I suggest, hoping something
normal will snap her out of it.

“He’s coming for me,” she mutters. “Soon. So
soon. No time. I have to escape before he comes. This time he’ll
kill me. But I’m ready this time. Let him come. Soon. Too
soon.”

“Who’s coming?” I ask, stunned. “Why does he
want to hurt you?”

“Soon,” she repeats. “Mad I left. So mad. He
has a gun. But this time I’m ready. This time
I
will
win.”

I look at Mary as she cradles her knees,
rocking back and forth nervously, the big knife gripped firmly in
her hand. Her brown pantsuit is wrinkled, her jacket is half on and
half off; her eyes are unfocused as tears stream down her face.
Never would I have thought this could happen to Mary; a sweet soul
whose mind is now at odds with her entire being. Even at her most
paranoid, she was never like this. I know she’s sick, her mind
warped from something I can’t begin to understand, but still I
wonder, who is this guy she is afraid of? But more importantly, how
can I help protect her from him?

This woman in front of me isn’t Mary. No more
than Kyle was Kyle, or the boy in the cafeteria was himself.
Considering there is nothing else I can do to get through to the
knife wielding Mary, I decide to sit down. I turn to Dejana and
mouth silently for her to call 911. As I turn back to focus on
Mary, I hear Dejana back out of the kitchen and carefully close the
door behind her.

For the fifteen minutes it takes for the
paramedics and police to arrive at my house, I don’t move from
Mary’s side. I listen to her murmur about some guy that wants to
murder her, but I doubt he even exists. From time to time, I open
my mouth to speak to her, but no words come out. I am at a complete
loss for any words of comfort. As long as she doesn’t turn that
knife on herself, I think we’re okay. I don’t get the feeling that
she wants to go after anyone like the others did. It seems she
simply wants to protect herself from someone she feels is coming
for her. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to see me as a threat.

Thanks to Dejana’s foresight, the paramedics
were warned about Mary’s state of mind and the fact that she’s
armed. They enter the kitchen slowly, every step purposeful and
designed not to startle her. A young paramedic with a kind face and
brown hair in a ponytail stops just in front of Mary. She sets down
her small grey bag that reads
Gwinnett Medical Center
—the
hospital close by our house—and takes out a needle filled with a
clear liquid. She remains silent as she creeps forward slowly. Once
she reaches Mary, she pricks her as gently as possible in the arm
just above her elbow where her jacket is half off and the skin is
exposed.

Mary doesn’t even pause from her constant
rocking to notice the shot. Within seconds, Mary’s rocking begins
to ebb until she finally drops the knife and falls over.
Anticipating this, I lunge forward and am able to catch her before
her head hits the floor. From that moment on, the kitchen is
flooded with police and other paramedics helping strap Mary to a
gurney to take her to the hospital. I am questioned by the police,
but since I again know nothing of how she became crazy, I am of no
use. This seems to be a recurring theme today.

Once Mary is safely stowed into the ambulance
and on her way, the house clears quickly. Before long, it’s just me
and Dejana standing on the front porch, looking down an empty
street, uncomfortable in the ensuing silence.

“I’m so sorry, Aim,” states Dejana, her eyes
red and puffy from crying.

Strange, it never even occurred to me to cry.
I merely stand with my arms crossed to ward off the chill that has
overtaken me, despite the warm weather. I want to respond to her,
offer comforting words, but I stay silent because let’s be real,
there is nothing I can offer that’s comforting about this
situation. Should I tell her that everything will be okay? That
this madness has to end sometime? Or perhaps encourage her to stay
strong and have faith that things will get better? I want to, but
it just isn’t in me. I’ve seen too many memories to have any kind
of faith. Besides, faith is fickle. On one hand, it can be your
greatest source of bravery. The next second, it is the key to your
destruction. I had faith the craziness was behind me before I found
Mary out of her mind in the kitchen. I had faith that things were
looking up and away from the chaos that has seemed to dominate my
life. But faith has a way of kicking you in the butt, and I’ve had
enough butt-whoopings to last me a lifetime.

“Whoa!” says Dejana beside me as she grabs
the porch banister for support. “Dizzy,” she states doing her best
to calm herself from the ensuing vertigo.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice dripping with
concern. I move behind her, ready to catch her if she falls.
Today’s events must have been too much for her. And I know she
didn’t eat lunch. Neither of us did actually; I was planning to eat
as soon as I got home. Now, I have no appetite whatsoever. I put my
gloved hand lightly on Dejana’s shoulder.

“Go on home and rest, girl. It’s been one
hell of a day. I’ll take Mary’s car to the hospital and just see
you tomorrow.”

Looking as defeated as I felt, Dejana nods in
acknowledgement of my plan and heads to her car to go home. I run
back inside to grab the keys and make my way to Mary’s car on the
front lawn. As I get behind the wheel, I chide myself for thinking
before that things couldn’t get any worse. I must have forgotten
that in the life of someone who is cursed, worse is just the
starting point.

Chapter
Eight

~ The Forgotten ~

The smell of stale air mixed with weeks old
body odor and bleach stings my nostrils the moment I walk into the
door of Anchor Hospital in downtown Atlanta. I outwardly cringe,
unable to hold it in even if I wanted to. All along the corridor of
the front of the hospital are barred windows at least two inches
thick. The fading light barely visible beneath the layers of dust
and filth. The walls are blue, painted intentionally that color to
appear happy. But from the worn down edges of the walls and the old
stained seats, it’s evident that happiness does not visit this
place often, if ever.

I make my way to the huge oval shaped front
desk that bars entrance into the main area of the mental facility.
The woman sitting behind it is gray haired, covered in wrinkles,
and looks meaner than hell. She must be the first line in defense
for keeping people out. But why bother? No way in hell anyone sane
would ever actually want to break into this place. Or perhaps she
isn’t there for us at all. I’d bet the farm that this woman isn’t
meant to keep us out, but rather keep
them
in. My best guess
is that she’s the final barricade in this fortress for those
sentenced to a stint in purgatory, desperate to break out.

I finally complete the long walk from the
front doors to the visitors’ desk, and come face to face with the
keeper of hell.

“Um, hi there,” I stammer nervously. “I’m
here to see a woman that came here by ambulance about half an hour
ago. Her name is Mary Richardson.”

The older lady looks at me skeptically. My
skin feels hot under her piercing stare.

“Your name and relationship to patient,” she
states in a husky voice, probably made hoarse from years of yelling
at visitors and patients.

“My name is Aimee Richardson and I am Mary’s
adopted daughter. I found her…not quite right in our kitchen today
and was told she would be taken to Gwinnett Medical Hospital in
town. But when I got there and waited for two hours, they told me
that after the initial examination, she was being transported here.
So here I am.”

“Ah, yes,” says the older lady, her voice
clipped. “The crazy one,” she adds with a short cackle.

A mental hospital joke, huh? Well, color me
surprised. But it’s not funny. Since I can’t think of a suitable
response, I wait silently as I watch the nurse rummage through a
stack of papers.

“Ah, here it is. She’s being examined as we
speak by Dr. Morrison. He’s been taking all the ones from your area
that have turned crazy. His session could be a while, so I’m afraid
you are just going to have to wait young lady.”

Miffed after being told yet again that I have
to wait to see Mary, I make my way in a huff to the old tattered
seats that smell of mildew and sit down. I take out my phone and
click to activate the screen to play mindless games to pass the
time. I clear three levels of my favorite game when I hear the
chime signaling the front doors are being opened. I look up and
instantaneously smile. Sanity has officially arrived at Anchor.

Logan saunters in through the double doors,
dressed in dark blue jeans and a red t-shirt. His hair is a bit
disheveled, like he was in a rush. I can tell from the expression
on his face that the stale stench of the air affects him just as it
did me when I first walked in. His eyes find me and his face
instantly forms a relieved smile. I return his smile and breathe a
sigh of relief at no longer being alone in my worry for Mary.

I get up from my century old seat and meet
him half way down the long front corridor. The second we are within
reach, he takes me into his arms and cradles me within his strong
embrace. He puts his head atop mine, careful not to touch any part
of my exposed skin, which as usual, isn’t much. His hug is
desperate as he squeezes me, his toned, athletic muscles bulging as
he brings me in closer, trying to absorb my pain as his body melts
into mine.

“I’m so sorry,” he begins. “How could this
happen to Mary? What in the hell is going on?” he asks desperately
as he pulls away and looks me in the face, hoping for an answer.
When I say nothing, he sees I don’t have one, so he pulls me back
into his embrace and continues. “Why did you leave at lunch? I had
a meeting with coach, so I couldn’t get there right away. By the
time I did make it, you and Dejana were both gone. I got your text
saying you were going home, but then my phone died and I didn’t get
your message about what happened to Mary until an hour ago. I went
straight to the hospital you said, and then followed you here.
How’s Mary?” he asks finally taking a breath.

I remain in his embrace, desperate for his
strength, his touch, and his love to help calm the storm of
emotions churning within me. I can’t seem to catch one for very
long. So many different emotions swirl within me that I feel like I
could drown in them. Before I become a puddle of nothingness, I
break from Logan’s embrace and take a deep breath to center myself.
I can tell he’s disappointed that I pulled away, but he says
nothing. A chill overcomes me suddenly and I rub my hands up and
down my arms to combat it. This place is totally giving me the
creeps.

“I wish I knew. No one seems to know for sure
what’s wrong with her. The creepy old lady at the desk said that
Mary is being examined right now by some doctor named Morrison. She
said he gets all the crazies from our town. What the hell did she
mean by that?”

Logan scratches his head and ponders for a
bit before answering, “I think the sickness that’s making people go
nuts at school is confined to just our town. From what coach said,
there have been a couple others who have just lost it all of the
sudden, but only from Mountain Creek High. Weird don’t you
think?”

Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. “I wish
I knew what in the world was causing it.”

“Yeah, me too, Aim, me too,” he states in a
soft voice.

We both head to the rickety old seats to sit
down and there we stay for a bit in silence. My mind is so occupied
with worry for Mary that I have nothing left for idle chitchat. The
best part about Logan is that he understands this and doesn’t even
try to make conversation. He just sits with me and holds my gloved
hand as we wait for any news about Mary.

Almost an hour later, we hear a loud buzzing
sound seconds before the set of double doors that lead to the
asylum, swing open. An older man, about fifty years old, dressed in
a nice navy blue suit with a blue and white striped tie, and a lab
coat, saunters through the set of doors. He is holding a clipboard
and his bifocals in his hands. His face is serious as walks over to
us, a clear indication that the news is not good. The doors swing
closed automatically behind him. Logan and I stand up as he nears
us and I can see from his nametag that he’s the infamous Dr.
Morrison. Once he reaches us, he holds out his hand and introduces
himself.