WHITE WALLS (15 page)

I'm free.

Free as a bird.

I'm a canary again, wings spread, with endless blue sky ahead of me.

I think of Aurora and the anger inside of me twists into rage and I scream, looking up into the cloudless powder blue sky. I have my freedom for the first time in my life and I have no idea what to do with it.

~ ~ ~

At some point I start walking.

I'm not sure where I am.

Or where I'm headed, but I knew I couldn't stand in front of the hospital all day.

The sun shimmers in the sky and the bright rays rain down from the heavens. I marvel at the feel of the warmth on my skin and throw my head back. This is one of the things I've missed while being locked up; the feel of the sun. I've missed the way it kisses my pale pallor and brings a pink hue to my cheeks. I've missed being able to watch it rise in the sky and in its wake the way seems to make the whole earth look like it's coming to life. I smile to myself. I'll have many more sunrises to wake up to and for that I'm elated.

I come up on a small village during my walk. It's quaint, with little shops bunched together so close that they might as well be connected. The rooftops slope at severe angles with lattice edges and all of the buildings are either tan or light yellow in color. I walk in a half-circle, passing a general store, a women’s clothing boutique, a hardware store and at the far end of the circle of shops is a small diner. A loud howl rumbles from my belly and I decide to stop and see if I can afford anything on their menu.

When I walk through the door, I'm instantly greeted by a plump waitress with a round face. Her chestnut hair is cut into a chin length bob and her peach cheeks are slightly red. She has a pleasant smile and wild green eyes and she takes a menu at the same time, saying in a sing-song type of voice, “How many?”

“Oh,” I say. “Just me. One.”

She smiles again, this time brighter and I can see some of her perfectly aligned teeth. “Bar, booth or table?” She has a squeaky high-pitched voice that in a way reminds me of Aurora.

I wonder how she's doing. And when or if she actually managed to escape Oakhill. “The bar is fine,” I tell the waitress and my eyes avert to her name tag. Peg. Hmm seems fitting.

“Right this way then.” Peg weaves through a row of tables and I follow, taking inventory in the décor as I'm led to my seat. The walls are painted a pink color, but it's a muted pink, a cross between mauve and rose. The hardwood floor is a deep stained cherry color and the tables are too. There are rose colored ceramic pitchers about three inches tall on every table that match the walls perfectly. The same with the faux leather coverings on all the booths and bar stools. It's all very dainty. Feminine. It reminds me of a little girl’s bedroom. All that’s missing are some ruffled bed skirts and doilies.

There are a few couples occupying booths, most of them elderly and they smile at me as we pass them. Everyone here seems so friendly and I like that. Peg sets my menu down in front of the last bar stool and I slide onto it, picking up the laminated menu. As I scan my options, Peg remains beside me, pulling a tablet from the front pocket of her crème colored apron. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Her voice has a pleasant ring to it and I notice that a cup of coffee only costs a quarter.

“I'll have a cup of coffee, please.” Daddy never let me have coffee. According to him, caffeine was a drug. You don’t even know how many times I wanted to scream,
hypocrite!
But I refrained and snuck the coffee anyway. Between Daddy’s snoring and my roaming thoughts, I rarely ever slept through the night, so the fresh cup of coffee in the morning was more than a blessing.

Peg scrawls my beverage order across the notepad and shoves it into her pocket. “I'll be right back with that.”

As I examine my options on the menu, I realize that the prices in this place are very inexpensive. Then again, I don't have anything to compare my observation of restaurant prices to. This is the first time I've ever eaten out anywhere. Daddy never took me out. And when Mommy was around she had three hot meals on the table every day. There was no need to indulge in the convenience of eating out. But, I have to say, I'm enjoying my first experience at a restaurant. It's nice to place your order in someone else’s hands. It's nice to just sit back, relax, and sip on my hot cup of coffee, watching the patrons come and go.

When Peg returns I order some scrambled eggs and two slices of toast. After I hand her the menu, I pour some cream into my coffee from one of the small rose colored pitchers on the bar, and bring the cup to my lips.

I'm just about to take a sip of my coffee when the bell on the door jingles. I hear Peg say, “Good Morning, Sir.”

Then I hear him, “Peg, how many times do I have to tell you, don't call me, Sir. Elijah is fine.”

My mouth drops open and my head snaps toward the door. Dr. Watson stands at the entrance, with his familiar intense stare and an unreadable expression on his face. I almost smile. I thought yesterday was goodbye. I thought I'd never see him again. An elated feeling surges through me and my heartbeat picks up and starts racing. I go to stand, ready to make my way toward him when a woman walks in behind him and smacks into his back. My eyes shift from her to him. She's lovely. Tall, slender, and elegant looking with pale skin and bright blue eyes I can see clearly from where I'm standing. Her complexion is clear and her deep chocolate hair is swept back into a low chignon style. Dr. Watson eyes haven't left mine and I know mine are full of hurt and confusion.

Who is this woman? If he was attached why didn't he mention it?

I swallow hard and let out a soft sigh. Because he and I are nothing and what he does in his spare time or who he does in his spare time is none of my business. I sit back down on my stool and put my back to him just in time to hear the woman speak, “Elijah, darling. What's the hold up?” Her voice is sultry and lovely. Just like her.

Dr. Watson clears his throat and even though I'm not making eye contact, I know he's running frustrated fingers through his hair, his gaze darkened and cloudy. “Nothing,” he says. “Uh, let's go somewhere else.”

“What?” the woman squawks. “But you love this place. This is your—”

He cuts her off with a huff and a snap of his fingers. “I'm not in the mood, today.”

“Okay. Okay. We'll go somewhere else.”

Shuffling footsteps ring out through the small diner, followed by the bell on the door jingling, and the door slamming shut all-together. Peg brings out my food and places it in front of me. I stare down at the contents on my plate just in time for my tears to fall out of my eyes and onto my toast.

An hour later, I'm still eating. Or trying to. It appears I've lost my appetite. Now I'm upset with myself because I've wasted two of my five dollars and I can't even enjoyed the food I bought with it. I push the plate away and decide to use the restroom before paying for my coffee and barely eaten meal.

The restroom is no bigger than a closet and has the same mauve/rose walls. The sink and toilet are the same color. Plopping down on the toilet I don't have a minute of dryness in my eyes before the flood gates open and I'm sobbing into my palms. I curse everything.

Dr. Watson.

My sanity.

My miserable, depressing existence.

Then I find myself wishing now more than ever that Damien would have stayed where he was when Daddy pulled the trigger on his rifle.

Is this what I was destined for?

To wander through my life getting hurt over and over again until it’s over.

I dig my fists into my eyes, trying my best to dry up all the tears and just when I think my crying spell is over and I can leave the cramped bathroom, my eyes water up and I have to repeat the process all over again.

After twenty minutes of on and off again sobbing, I stand in front of the sink and splash some cold water on my cheeks. My face is on fire and the ice cold water feel like heaven on my skin. I stare up at myself in an oval mirror that's hanging over the sink. I swear it feels like I haven't looked in the mirror in decades. But who would want to if they were me?

I spent a good portion of my adolescence with black eyes and bloody lips. After staring at yourself, looking ragged and beaten you refrain from looking at yourself all-together. But there's something different about the person staring back at me. There's more determination in her violet eyes and less fear. Her cheeks are fuller, rosier. Her ebony hair is thicker, wavier, longer, and less thin and stringy from being yanked on so often. I don't recognize this girl—this woman.

Because this woman is me, minus the pain.

Minus the beatings.

Minus the mind controlling drugs of Oakhill.

I am blown away when reality hits me.

I am not who I used to be.

And it's about time I started embracing the new woman I've become.

I exit the bathroom and stand at the edge of the counter next to the shiny, metal cash register and wait for Peg. Minutes later, she swings through the double doors from the kitchen hip first, two steaming hot plates of food in her hands, and gives me a lopsided smile. “Can I help you, dear?”

I stare at her oddly. Do I have to wait for a bill or something? I shrug because I'm not really sure. “Uh. Um.” I stumble on my words. “I need to pay for my food and coffee.”

She scoots past me and grins. “No worries, dear. It's already been taken care of.”

Wait. “What?”

“Someone already paid for you.” Peg stops at the first booth and sets the plates down in front of a middle aged man and the middle aged woman across from him. “He included a generous tip as well,” she says with a waggle of her eyebrows. I open my mouth to ask her if it was Dr. Watson and she simply waves me off, gives me a smile, and says, “Have a nice day.”

I keep my eyes on the black tar of the parking lot, wondering why or if Dr. Watson was the one who paid my bill. When we locked eyes in the diner he looked more surprised and less thrilled to see me than anything. On top of that he was with another woman. They were going somewhere else to eat. When did he have time to come back and pay my bill?

A car door slams and ring out through the air, but I barely notice. My eyes are still on the ground, flitting across the sea of black. In fact, I don't notice anything until I run into someone and feel their firm grip on my shoulders.

Dr. Watson stares down at me. His eyes are a bit warmer than they were earlier, but still a bit on the chilly side. I frown up at him. “Where is your girlfriend?”

He stares at my mouth and my cheeks flush. “She's not my girlfriend.” He releases my shoulders. “You should be careful and watch where you're going. I don't think you want to end up back in the hospital.”

“Why do you care where I end up?” I snap then brush past him, walking in the opposite direction.

He follows me and is at my side in an instant. “Stop acting like a child,” he scolds me. I see a haughty grin on his lips and it pushes me over the edge. Haven't I been through enough in my life? Haven't I endured the seven stages of hell? Haven't I been blown up into a million bits and pieces only to have to put myself back together again?

For the love of God! All I want is for him to be direct. I want him to stop with the cold, moody behavior, and I want him to stop telling me what to do. I whip my head around, glare at him, open my mouth to reply with a smart remark, and then I close it quickly. There's no point in arguing with him. I know it won't do any good. So I pick up my pace and walk faster. “Where do you think you're going?” he calls after me. I only gain a little distance before he's right up on my side again. I ignore him and break out into a jog. I can't see straight.

My eyes are foggy.

My mind clouded.

The way this man makes me feel is frustrating. There have times where I've had dreams about him. Dreams about his smoldering eyes. His full, enticing lips. Even his cool exterior that I've surprisingly grown fond of. But there have been other times, like now, where he infuriates me to the point where I'd rather jump off a cliff than stand next to him. I can't get away fast enough.

I'm running. I shut my eyes for half of a second, then out of nowhere, I hear a horn honk, tires screeching, and then a hand flies across my stomach like a metal bar and I stumble backwards before another hand grips my upper arm to keep me from falling. I open my eyes and stare up into Dr. Watson's amber eyes and they are hot, blazing full of fury. “You need to watch where you're going.” His voice is hard, but level. “Thank God I was here or you would have been hit by a car twice in your life.”