Sing Me To Sleep

Chapter 23

As soon as the door shuts behind Ray, I slide out of the bed. The pale tile is cold against the bare skin of my feet and I feel a shiver run through me. I pad my way across the small room into the attached bathroom, closing and locking the door after me. Turning on the cold water, I let it run over my cupped hands, then submerge my face. A chill shoots through me at the icy contact but I need to feel it. It clears my head immediately, pushing aside the nightmares and memories and just focusing on the biting touch.

And then something else shoots through me.

Memories or effects of my self-proclaimed insanity, I'm not sure which, but it's overwhelming.

It feels like I'm drowning in the water I still have cupped in my hand, my face buried in the freezing liquid, but I can't make myself move. My limbs feel numb and my chest paralyzed. It doesn't even feel like I'm breathing anymore, but I'm not sure I want to. Some small part of my brain is telling me that if I breathe in right now, I'm going to inhale a lung-full of water. Another part is beginning to panic, telling me that if I don't breathe, I'll run out of oxygen and pass out.

But mostly, my mind is filled with an image.

His face.

I can't make out the distinct features, covered heavily in white and black face paint to make the mask of a skeleton. The pieces I can see seem blurred and distant and yet so familiar and enticing. Words echo out in my head though his mouth never opens and my eyes never leave the piercing hazel that seem almost void of emotions.

I'll be right beside you.

I'll always be right here. 

I gasp, sucking in a mix of water and air, finally taking control of my body once again. I start choking, coughing up the liquid that I just inhaled and trying to calm my sudden shaking. The water drops from my hands back into the sink, swirling and disappearing down the drain, leaving me staring at the off-white porcelain. My chest aches painfully as I attempt to clear my lungs of the unwanted water and get a full breath instead.

A thundering knock at the bathroom door does not help and I jump in surprise, just barely containing a reflexive shriek. "Frank?" A voice sounds from the other side, a hint of concern lacing the words. "Are you alright?"

I recall the voice as belonging to one of the detectives but I'm not sure which, nor do I actually care. I'm more focused on the memories, the words that race through my mind at an alarming speed. What if I forget? What if, by the time Ray comes back, I forget what I've just remembered?

"Frank?"

I cough again and try as hard as I can to make my voice sound normal. "I'm fine." Oh great, it sounds like I've just swallowed a chainsaw. My throat feels raw and dry, strange after all of the water I just inhaled, and my words come out scratchy. "I'll be out in a second."

The voice doesn't reply and I think I hear footsteps moving in the opposite direction, but it's hard to hear anything over the pounding in my own ears. I repeat in my head what I've just heard from the memory, not willing to lose any detail, and it sounds almost like a mantra.

When I finally get my breathing under control, I unlock the door and move nervously into the main room. I don't look at the detectives I see standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor, just make my way across the floor to the bed. When I'm seated somewhat comfortably in the center, my legs crossed on top of the sheets and my arms resting on jeans, I look up.

No one speaks, the detectives watching me with an uneasy expression. I almost cringe against the scrutiny, feeling small under their intense gaze. But instead I just point to the blonde officer who clutches a thin pad of blank white paper in his hand, probably ready to take notes on every single thing I say. "Can I use your pen?"

The older men share a curious look before the mustached detective nods a go-ahead motion and the younger male steps forward. He holds out the black pen and I force a smile of gratitude. Pulling off the cap, I hear one of them ask, "Do you want paper?" but I'm already scribbling the two words down on the palm of my hand. When I'm finished, I smile, pleased with myself, and hand the pen back. The younger man, Detective Braddock is his name, I think, raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He turns to Francis, the mustached officer that steps forward and takes a seat in the visitors chair on the side of my bed.

"We didn't get much time to talk last time," The detective says and then stops, probably wanting me to say something. I don't acknowledge him really, much beyond the way I stare at him. He shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. "About where you would go once you're released."

"I want to go home." It's a simple enough request, but the older man looks at me with a sad smile, shaking his head slightly.

"You know we can't let you do that, Frank." He absently strokes a hand through his facial hair, concentration and pity creasing his forehead. "You're only sixteen. You're a minor and both of your parents are..." His words cut off immediately and he glances at me like he's said something wrong, something that might make me snap and go crazy.

"Dead," I offer up the word and he looks somewhat surprised by my straightforwardness. "You can say it. It's not a bad word. My parents are dead."

Detective Francis nods, shifting once again and looking like he would rather be anywhere else but here. But this is his job and he knows what he needs to say. "You have no legal guardians, Frank, and we, by law, have no choice than to have you admitted into the system."

"I could stay with someone else." Even as I say it, I know it's not really a possibility. Who would I stay with? It's not like I have any friends. The closest thing I have to a friend is Ray and I can't ask him to take me in. He's doing enough for me as it is. Asking him to become my freaking chaperone is too much.

Francis sees this, too, and sighs softly. "There's a woman who lives on the outskirts of Belleville," He says, choosing to ignore my previous statement rather than arguing with it. "Her name is Beatrice Webb. She runs a home for kids who have nowhere else to go."

"An orphanage?" I wonder aloud. Of course, I was seventeen. Nobody would want to foster someone that old.

Francis shrugs loosely and rolls his head in a yes and no motion. "Kind of. It's called a group home. She'll offer you a place to stay, food, all of the necessities. It's much less strict than an orphanage and smaller. We asked her to keep a close eye on you--"

"In case I try to kill myself again." I interrupt and roll my eyes. Everybody's so damn worried all of a sudden.

This time, Francis' gesture is a definite nod. "Yes. But there will be other kids living there, too. Some your age, some younger." I don't reply and grind my teeth together. I don't want to go. I want to go back to my house, back to my mom, back before everything in my life turned to shit. But I know that's not possible. "This will be good for you, Frank," Francis promises quietly before hefting himself to his feet and turning to his partner. "I'll speak with your doctor and get the arrangements made. If things go as planned, you could get discharged as soon as tomorrow."

My eyes shoot open and I feel that familiar panic swelling in me again. "Tomorrow?" I ask, incredulous. It's too soon. I still have so much to figure out. I can't leave yet. But I also can't tell any of that to the officers, so when Francis nods and offers a small smile, I fight to control my racing heart and, as soon as the door is shut behind them, I'm lurching forward off of the bed. I barely make it to the bathroom, not bothering or having time to close the door behind me, before hunching over in front of the toilet and heaving the contents of my stomach out.

I stay bent over the porcelain bowl for a long time, my chest beginning to ache from where it's pressed to the object as well as the coughing hacks that escape me. My breathing is rugged and my forehead beads with sweat, but I can't seem to make myself move, even when I hear Ray's startled voice from the doorway, feeling him kneel next to me a moment later.

"Frank? What happened?" Concern laces his words and his hand is moving in calming circular patterns on my back. I spit into the bowl once before staggering to my feet, with the help of Ray. I don't reply until I'm hunched over the sink once again, rinsing my mouth out with water. 

"I remembered something else," I say. My voice still feels overused and my throat burns, but I swallow hard and force the words forward. I stick out my hand so Ray can see the scribbled words there, repeating them once again. "Mikey Way."