WHITE WALLS (10 page)

With a shake of her head and a grunt, Aurora takes my hand, grips tightly and I help her to her feet. Her balance is unsteady, but she uses her free hand to steady herself against the wall. “Something, Addy. You could have attempted to do something,” she mumbles.

I follow her back over to our table and Aurora hisses, rubbing the back of her head. “Damn that was painful.” She widens her eyes and blinks. “I'm still seeing white spots.”

“What happened, exactly?” I inquire. I don't bother telling her that I couldn't look.

“Marjorie.”

“Oh.” I look down at my hands. I, as well as every other patient at Oakhill knows exactly how forceful Marjorie can be and that she knows exactly how much pain to inflict to get her point across. “I'm sorry.”

Aurora shrugs. “Eh. It's just a bump on the head. I'll go to the infirmary in a little bit and get an ice pack for it.” That still doesn't really explain what happened, but I take it as that's as good of an answer as I'm going to get.

My attention shifts and I stare out into the empty hall. Even though it's deserted now, I swear I can still hear Suzette's high-pitched squeals. I swear I can still smell antiseptic wafting through the air like they were going to rub Suzette down with cotton before stabbing her with a needle. “Where do you think they took her?”

“I don't think anything,” Aurora harrumphs. I turn my head to look at her and notice that she's gone back to coloring. “I know where they took her.”

“So where is it then?”

“The basement.”

I lift an eyebrow. “The basement?”

“Yeah. That's what I just said, the basement.”

“Well, what goes on down there?” That's something I've always wondered about. I've seen unruly patients being taken down there, but I never really knew what they were being taken down there for.

Aurora sticks her tongue out and scribbles with an orange crayon. “Trust me, you don't want to know.”

“I do, though.”

“No you don't.” Aurora chucks the orange crayon at the table and stares at me deadpan. “But, I can tell you this; once they take you down there,” she exhales and looks out the large rectangular window behind her, “well, I haven't known anyone that's come back the same.”

Chapter Thirteen

~After~

I wait.

For an answer.

To find out about my future.

The stunningly handsome Dr. Watson hasn't returned to my room. His muffled voice mixed in with the police officers muffled voices faded out hours ago. A wide range of emotion has been running through me ever since.

There's fear.

Confusion.

Anger.

The uncertainty of my situation gnaws at me. In some moments it feels like a pair of teeth are ripping into my stomach and clamping down before they tear away the lining and I'm left alone. I'm open, exposed, and hemorrhaging from the inside out.

I hate not knowing what's going to happen to me. As I sit here and wait, a dozen possible scenarios flash through my mind.

What if...

What if...

What if they let me remain in the hospital until I'm healed then haul me back to Oakhill? What if they take me now? Or what if there is some sort of protocol they have to follow first?

No matter which way I look at it, there is no happy ending for me. I'll wind up, tortured, lost and empty. The biggest disappointment is that I had hope. I had it, believed in it, and cradled it in my arms like a swaddling newborn. I trusted hope with my future and got let down.

I think of Aurora and what she probably sacrificed for my escape. Then I think of how enraged she would be if she saw me being drug back down the darkened halls of Oakhill by two orderlies dressed in white.

I gave you a chance, she'd tell me.

At chance at freedom, she'd tell me.

I imagine the saddened look in her big brown eyes. I imagine the twist of emotion on her child-like face. You know what else she'd tell me. She'd tell me,
you had it all, Adelaide, and you blew it.

I've spent so many years loathing myself. Believing everything Daddy ever told me. That I was a waste. A whore. A stupid girl. Even Damien couldn't wash away a lot of the self-hatred I'd built up through the years. I blink back tears and drop my gaze to my hands when I think of him. The tubes connected to my arms blur in and out of my vision and I come to the heart-wrenching realization that it took Damien dying to make me realize that I am not all the things Daddy has led me to believe I am.

I am smart.

I am strong.

I am witty.

I have a good heart and fierce determination inside of me.

Pressing the tip of my finger to one of the plastic tubes connected to my arms, I know what thinking about everything from my past means. It means technically I am not a patient of Oakhill. I'm not even a patient at this hospital because they don't even know my name. I'm Jane Doe. Unless the police told the staff my real name. But if they haven't I'm still free.

And I can still get the hell out of here.

Picking up my pillow, I bite into it and rip the IV tubes from each arm. I let out a muffled scream and bite down on the pillow harder as a stinging pain sprints down my forearms, stopping at my wrists. Little droplets of blood pool in the crooks of my elbows and I wipe them away quickly before yanking off the cords that are connected to my chest.

There's a rectangular window on the opposite side of the room. Stumbling out of bed, I make my way toward it, limping and gritting my teeth. My legs ache. My entire body is stiff. I can barely breathe on account of my broken ribs, but I'm not going to let that stop me. I'm not going to let anything stop me now.

I make it to the window and press my good shoulder into it, sliding it open the slightest bit. Then I hook my right hand underneath it and push it open as much as I can for me to climb out.

Then I look down.

I'm on the second floor.

Sticking my head out the window, I estimate the drop is about twelve feet. My attention averts to the side of the cement building. There's a ledge that spans from one end to the other. Below me is another ledge. Above me are more. In fact, it seems that there's a ledge about ten inches wide on every floor. I study the distance between the ledge on the first floor and the ledge on the floor I'm on. With my injuries, swinging from one to the other is going to be a challenge, but I tell myself that I'd rather die trying to escape rather than not try at all.

It's not until half of my body is out of the window that I hear the door to my room slam, followed by someone mumbling, “Shit.”

I start shimmying and I'm almost completely out the window when I feel a pair of strong hands on my waist. I start kicking. No! Damn it! No! I wiggle my body and start swatting at the person with my good hand. “Let me go!” My hand connects with the person's face. There's a grunt. “Just let me go!” Now they're using more force. Both of their arms are wrapped around my waist and they pull. They yank. I'm trying to grip onto something, but I can't and I fall back through the window and on top of someone.

My eyes are closed and I open them abruptly. I suck in a deep breath and stare into a set of amber eyes. Amber eyes that are blazing with rage. I try to pick myself up off Dr. Watson, but my arm buckles and I fall back on top of him. A pain so intense surges through me ribs and I gasp for air. Dr. Watson is up in a flash and he pushes me into the wall hands flat against my chest. The pain subsides and I enjoy the glorious air as I suck in a deep breath and take it into my lungs.

The beautiful monster with his hands on my chest is scowling at me. “What in God's name is wrong with you?” he forces out, his jaw clenched. “You could have killed yourself!”

“No,” I gasp and push against him trying to get back to the window. The image of him earlier, leaving my room to go chat with the police officers resurfaces. I see the stern emotionless expression on his face. I hear the strained grunt leave his lips when I squeeze his fingers. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here now.

Maneuvering to my left, I try to slide around him, but he grips my arm. It doesn't hurt, but he's using enough force to keep me next to him. “Don't make me have to move your room. I'll put you in the basement, I swear it. Right next to the morgue.” His voice isn't cruel, but hearing basement and morgue in the same sentence sends all of my composure to a dark part of my mind and I hit my knees.

Then I scream.

The tears fall from my eyes.

I'm shaking, shaking, shaking.

I can't stop.

Finally, I beg, “Please don't send me down there!” My face is on fire and not even my tears can put out the blaze. “You can't send me back there!” I bury my face in my hands and cry harder. “You can't! You can't do this!” I look up at him, my lashes soaked, my cheeks red and stained with wetness. “What kind of a doctor are you?” I thought they'd actually help me here. A sliver of me hoped that maybe I was wrong about him and the he would help me.

Dr. Watson gives me an odd look and takes a knee in front of me. His look is a mix of an awestruck yet confused look. It's like he's never seen someone hysterical before. He reaches out to me, but I cower away. I'm afraid of him. Afraid of he might be capable of. And the fact that he might have had a hand in adding to my misery. He might have had a hand in strapping me to the gurney at Oakhill and had a hand in sending thousands of volts of electricity pumping through my body.

He reaches out to me again and I slap his hand away. Then he lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hand through his strands of gold. “Will you please be reasonable?” he asks curtly. “I'm not going to hurt you, Adelaide.”

My eyes widen, and my mouth gapes. “You know my name,” I whisper.

His stare is adamant. “Yes.”

“They told you.”

“Yes.” He reaches out to me again, but I'm too numb to react. He surprises me when his fingers brush against my cheek, and he tucks my hair behind my ear. My cheek tingles and I can't do anything but stare. It's the first tender gesture I've ever seen from Dr. Watson. Then again I've only seen him twice.

This creature of a man confuses me.

He's complex.

Unreadable.

Not that I have much to base my opinion on, but Damien was like an open book. One look at his face and I knew what he was thinking. Or how he was feeling. Thinking of him takes me to dark places and I turn my head away from Dr. Watson and close my eyes. In a strange way this man reminds me of Damien.

And re-opening that wound is painful.

Now I'd prefer that I be taken back to Oakhill.

They can take me to the basement.

They can fry my brain.

Because I know that's the only way I'll be able to forget everything.

I exhale in defeat and stare at Dr. Watson, deadpan. “When are they coming for me?”

Dr. Watson closes his eyes for a second, and runs a hand along his chiseled jawline. He has a fresh patch of stubble and I have the urge to fan my fingers across it. I clasp my hands together to keep from acting on the urge. When he opens his eyes there's something different about them. It's almost like there's a spark of some kind in them. It flashes brilliantly. And I think it's... it's...regret. “They're not,” he says slowly.

“What?” I almost squeak. “You didn't turn me in to them. Why?”

He stands, pacing in front of me. “I don't know.” He stops mid-pace and extends a hand to me. When I try to stand he leans over and puts both hands on my shoulders, helping me to my feet. “That's not something I normally do.”

“What isn't something you'd normally do?”

“I don't break protocol to lie for a patient.” He helps me over to my bed, puts the cords back on my chest, then pulls the sheet up to my elbows.

“You're a man of rules then?” I try to get a good look at his face, but his chin is down. It's like not looking into my eyes is his suit of armor. He doesn't seem like the type that likes to get too personal.

“In some way yes,” he answers informatively. “Mostly, I'm a man of order and I don't like when that order becomes unbalanced. Do you understand?”