Beautiful Nightmares (Asylum 3)

BANG!

The gunshot echoes through the darkened office. Elijah’s hand with the gun falls at his side and I slide down his body, gripping onto his feet and scream, tears raining all over his brown, leather loafers.

Then I begin my second descent into darkness.

Chapter Fifteen

~After~

I’ve been quiet today.

I’m feeling focused.

I’m in tune with everything.

The incessant chatter of the patients and staff members in the mess hall buzzes in my ears and I do the best I can to absorb tidbits of information that will help me with my mission. So far, I haven’t picked up on anything useful. The only thing I’ve heard is a bunch of gossip from patient to patient.

Sometimes this place is like a soap opera. I can understand why though. When you’re cooped up and quarantined from the world sometimes that’s all that you have. It’s at times like these that I miss Aurora the most. We weren’t like the other patients. We didn’t indulge in their stories about the other patients. We were branched off, set aside in our own little bubble and no one cared to pop it. And we were content with that.

I’m sitting at my usual table in the back left corner, waiting for the right moment to make my move. My eyes shift from the clock hanging at the back of the hall to the kitchen door. Then, I cast a glance in the orderlies’ direction. They’re clustered together in a group in the upper right corner of the room.

My eyes drop to my orange, plastic tray and I push around some macaroni and slop with my plastic Spork, wondering how in the hell I’ve survived on the shit they feed us here for so long. I call it slop because it doesn’t have the usual light orange color of regular macaroni and cheese. It’s darker. Almost a rustic color. Almost like the cook infused it with blood.

Dropping my spork, I put my hand over my breast and feel for the folded up paper Dixie cup concealing my weapon and pray to God that I didn’t smash it when I shoved the cup into my bra. I make sure, I don’t lower my gaze from the staff members. I know all too well that sometimes its like they have eyes in the back of their heads.

They’re trained watch dogs with brain-washed minds.

All it takes is the slightest movement.

The wrong actions or words and they know exactly when to strike.

The kitchen door swings open and the sound it scraping against the hardwood floor pulls me from my thoughts. I glance to my left and watch it swing back and forth for a second before pushing my tray away from me and turning my gaze back on the staff members. I realize that this is my chance so I pretend like I’m scratching my arm pit and remove the Dixie cup from my bra. Hunching over, I peek inside the cup. The spider has a small body, but long legs and I stare at it for a minute until I see one of the legs twitch. Then I breathe a sigh of relief. My plan would still work if the spider was dead, but I happen to think it will be more effective if the spider is living.

I sit up and eye my target. She sits directly in front of me at the end of a rectangular table. Her hair is cropped short and is an ash-blonde color. I’ve been watching her for the last week. Non-chalantly of course.

Grabbing my tray, I get up from my seat and head to the trash cans adjacent to me. Just before I get there, I slide to my left, pretend to the falls and spill the contents of my tray all over the floor. Pixie cut turns around. “Let me help you,” she says.

“Thank you so much,” I say. But really, I’m using this moment to my advantage. I feel bad about it because she’s being so kind in helping me, but sometimes a person has to put themself first. So when she leans down, I do a quick sweep around the mess hall with my eyes. No one is paying attention. Then, I squeeze open the Dixie cup in my palm and dump the spider in her hair. I thank her again for helping me and walk to the trash cans while the two kitchen workers come out with mops and buckets.

Then I wait for it…

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

The scream is loud, piercing and I swear for a second the walls are vibrating. I hear staff members shouting. Footsteps pounding. Pixie is out of her seat and frantically swatting at her head. Chairs scrape against the tile. My eyes drop to the floor and I can make out my little friend, crawling across the floor. I smile to myself then slip through the kitchen doors.

~ ~ ~

I wait.

Three days pass and on the night of the third day, I lie in bed and wait for the lights in the asylum to go out. Lights out at Oakhill used to terrify me, but not so much anymore. I remember a time when screams were lullabies, flickering lights were a warning, and the basement was the ultimate torture chamber.

Now…