(18+)
For the past six years, 22-year-old Benedict Ash has barely existed inside the walls of Shady Oaks Psychiatric facility, wasting away beneath the fluorescent lights and relishing in the destruction she deserves.
But when she's presented with a...
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Surprisingly enough, I find myself waiting just behind the red line at the front desk the next morning, watching Darcy walk through the metal detectors and be buzzed in by the nurse at the door. She watches us with suspicious eyes, takes note of who he is and who he's visiting; she's one of Norma's flock, so she's no doubt looking for a new way to ruin my life because I broke Norma's totally untrue rule about visitors.
He looks different than before, his dark hair longer and his blue eyes more tired. He offers me a smile, nonetheless, and I try my best to force an imitation on my own face. My cheeks tighten from the weight of it and I drop it, knowing he'll see right through the faux gesture.
"Benny," He says, his tone full of warmth, reminding me of those days we'd spend out on the Harper River at Uncle Leo's second home in New Saintsear—the sun beaming down on us as we swam, played card games, sun-bathed.
It brings back good feelings, for once, and I almost succumb to them. Almost—until he touches me. The hug wracks my nervous system, sending off alarm bells and tendrils of panic when it takes me back to that night. When he hugged me the same way, my bloody hands clutching his white dress shirt in a plea for stability.
But instead of stability, all he offered was sinking sand, tossing me into the mire and watching me go under while he continued his hoity-toity, perfect life as an Ash family lawyer. Bitterness zaps! me into action and I pull away, eyes averted to the space where the wall and the floor meet. Obviously, he can tell something is off, but I prompt him toward the rec room before he can say anything else.
"Do you want to go sit?"
"Yeah, of course."
He follows me into the mainly empty room, except for two women sitting in front of the TV, watching reruns of some old western drama. The accents barely break through the speakers and over to our corner of the room, seated at a tiny square table on metal fold-out chairs. We sit in silence for a long moment, his fingers jittery as he laces and unlaces them together, trying to figure out what to do with his hands.
Finally, I withdraw the form from my pocket and unfold it, sliding it across the table until the edges crease against his fists.
"Here's the thing for you to sign... Sorry, I don't have a pen. I'm not supposed to—"
"Yeah," He nods, cutting me off as he reaches inside his jacket pocket. Producing a pen, he quickly reads over the blurb about liability and permission and whatnot, before scrawling his signature and the date at the bottom. "There you go." He slides it back, capping his pen and returning it to its pocket.
"Thanks," My gratitude isn't very enthusiastic as I watch the black ink slowly dry across the dotted line.
