White Walls (Asylum 2)

A hint of a smile curls on his full lips. “Yes and no.” He takes my wrist and presses two fingers into it, feeling for a pulse.

I purse my lips wondering for a moment if he might be mocking me. The smile fades from his lips and it instantly changes his whole look. His face has taken on this hard edge and I'm amazed that a simple half-smile could add so much to it. Don't get me wrong; even with the hard edge this man's attractiveness cannot be hidden. In fact, all I can do is stare at his face. His long lashes are dark and thick curling up toward his eyebrows. His hair is the color of golden wheat and is parted on the side, every strand of it held in place perfectly by some kind of salve. And his amber eyes have flecks of gold around his irises.

“I was working the ER when they brought you in. Technically, I’m not really your doctor, but since I was the first one to examine you,” his eyes dead-lock with mine, “let’s just say I’m personally invested in the outcome of your recovery.”

“Oh.” My gaze doesn’t falter. In fact, there’s a voice somewhere telling me, I swear I could stare into those eyes for eternity.

He clears his throat like he feels uncomfortable under my scrutiny of him and walks across the room, picking up another chart. He's got broad shoulders and there's muscle definition in his bicep that I can make out through the thin fabric of his lab coat. “Jane Doe,” he says curtly.

I lift an eyebrow. “Jane Doe,” I repeat. “Who is she?”

He laughs and I notice the dimples in his cheeks and how every part of him is illuminated. He's like the sun shining brightly on a hot day. His teeth are straight, white, and glowing against his light skin. Still, the smile and laughter doesn't touch his radiant eyes and I wonder what it is about this doctor that makes him seem, hidden. Guarded. “She's you,” he informs me.

“But that's not my name,” I tell him.

“Well, when you were brought in, you were unconscious. You had no identification. We had no way of figuring out who you were. Now that you're awake, you can tell me.”

I squint as I make out a name tag on his lab coat. It's silver, shiny and when the lighting hits it, it flashes and I can make out his name. Dr. Elijah Watson. He stares at me for a second and his heavy gaze on me makes me nervous. Heat rises to my cheeks and a flutter bounces in my stomach. I'm nervous because I'm terrified of telling this doctor my real name. I don't know him enough to trust him.

What if...

What if he discovers where I came from? What if he tries to contact them? What if they come for me?

I can't risk it.

I can't.

I don't want to go back there.

Ever.

Oakhill is like a leech, so decrepit with hunger that it fastens to you and bleeds you dry. It slowly sucks the life out of you. Every day another piece of you is bled out until you don't even know who you are anymore. I think of the patients who have been there a while. Aurora. Suzette. Aurora has been there two years and she still seems to be party herself, but Suzette? No. she's been long gone for a while.

“Well?” Dr. Watson's voice cuts into my sordid thoughts. “A name please?”

If I could change my name to anything what or who would I want to be?

Dr. Watson pulls a pen from his pocket and walks around the right side of my bed. He places the ball of the pen against the paper and looks at me with urgency. I open my mouth to give the name on the tip of my tongue—which is Mallory—but I don't get the name out.

I don't get my new name out because my attention shifts the window and I notice two police officers flashing a nurse with red hair my picture. Where did they get that? Or how did they get it? Dread seeps in through my pores and fear drags me down into a pool of terror to drown. Dr. Watson notices the panicked look on my face and follows my gaze to the window. He narrows his eyes for a moment then takes a small step away from me.

In an act of desperation I grab his hand. He tenses at my touch and his eyes drop to our linked fingers. He begins to pull away from me and I tighten my grip, tears welling in my eyes. His lovely eyes return to my face and regard me coolly. Sternly. With a lot of intensity. “Please,” I whisper, struggling to contain the emotion vibrating in my throat. “Please don't let them take me back there.” I realize that I'm begging and that I don't know this man. I don't know this man and I don't know what I expect from him, but the only thing I tell myself is that I have to do something. I have to try something. Anything. I can't just lie here and give up without trying something. If I don't try, I might as well just turn myself over to Dr. Morrow and let him fry my brain until I can't remember my name. “Please, Dr. Watson. Don't.”

His eyes burn into mine and for a second I have hope.

Maybe he'll help me.

He yanks his hand from mine and all of the hope inside of me scurries away, like a terrified child into their parents’ arms. My heart falls from its cavity into the pit of my stomach and I choke on a gasp stuck in my throat.

Dr. Watson walks to my door, lowers the blinds on the window, cutting off my view of the police officers. Then he gives me one, last cold look over his shoulder and exits my room, closing the door behind him.

I sink down into my sheets and sob softly into my pillow. I don't know why I thought he would help me and now, not only am I frightened, but I'm embarrassed as well. Mentally, I curse at myself for being so foolish to think that begging would work on a man like, Dr. Watson. Just from his mannerisms I can tell he has ice in his veins. There's no feeling there.

No warmth.

He must be dark and empty inside.

I think of a saying Mommy used to preach often; Beauty is only skin deep.