Grayson's Body

Time

There it is again.

There's the distinct sound of thunder somewhere. I wonder if the same storm we are experiencing here is the one he is experiencing wherever he is.

I am screaming.

I don't realize it until an orderly unlocks the large, white metal door. It hits the wall with a distinct thump.

"Stop it," he whispers to me as he calls for backup on his phone. He is grabbing at my arms, but I hold up.

"Don't touch me!" I screech and grab the sheets for dear life as he yanks back. He has his big, brawny arms around my midsection.

I tear at the sheets and scream profanity to his disgruntled face.

-

55.

That's how many letters I have received from Grayson since that call in May. I have only sent two in those same five months.

They seem to be from everywhere: Bismarck, Davenport, Waterloo, Maple Grove, Bloomington.

The first one went like this:

It's getting warm here.

They are in New York.

I'm waiting.

-G

They come in blue envelopes, and I read each one.

It's pretty pointless.

Everything's pointless now.

Ethan I'm sorry okay. But you have to understand I love you. Please reply okay.

-G

I sent back two weeks later:

Grayson, stop writing.

You aren't good at it.

One week later:

Wow that's rude.

I sent one in July, my busted-up knuckle still crusted with blood:

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou. IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou.

When I asked Dr. SinClair if she heard his voice on that phone call, she told me she had.

That's his voice, I had told her in the hall. She had looked at me, a deep concerned expression etched itself into her eyes.

But she wouldn't know, would she? She had never heard his voice before.

The number couldn't be tracked. It was from a throw-away cell phone. She'd later tell me in her 65-degree office.

I wasn't allowed to speak with him anymore. She told me that it wasn't good to listen to someone like that.

But she let me write back and forth with him.

Yeah, that makes a whole hell of a lot of sense.

I'd receive them, and she'd read them, and I'd put them under my bed. They have gone longer since time has gone on.

I watch out the window now. The morning sun is just beginning to rise its pretty head against the skyline.

My hands are sprayed against the pealing paint, my eyes focused on the hard crisscross pattern of the bars.