A Kiss Of Madness Read online

  I sat down on the bed and gazed around the room that would be mine for the next two months. The dull, pale blue paint was chipping from the cinder block walls in some spots. The white, linoleum floor had a few cracks and some yellowing, but otherwise was in decent shape.

  I lay back and took a deep breath in and out then let out a sigh. As weird as it was, and despite the nerves I felt, I was slightly excited about this. I knew I wasn’t crazy. What had happened at that shop was something I’d never had happen before. Anyone who saw what I had would’ve reacted the same way.

  The calm I felt melted away as I remembered the stench of blood and sweat heavy in the air. The feel of the man’s hands on me, the pain in my head and back from where he’d hurt me. The sound of his grunting as he tried to strip me. The room had been dark and musty, with pipes snaking along the ceiling. The floor was wet beneath my hands, from blood or water, I wasn’t sure. The vision had been so real, so horrifically tangible, that I hadn’t been aware of my real life surroundings. All I knew was, when I came out of it, I’d thrown a chair through the window of the shop and had scratched someone up, pretty badly, when they tried to stop me.

  In my mind, I’d been fighting for my life. In theirs, I was just another mental case having a nervous breakdown.

  I’d had visions for as long as I could remember. Almost all of them eventually came to be, and all pertained to me. I would hear the voices of the people in my visions, and sometimes I’d hear things without even having a vision. I knew it wasn’t all in my head, but no one else believed that. Certainly not my parents. I’d tried to keep it all a secret most of my life. I’d tried to tell Mother once, but she’d instantly silenced me and demanded I never speak a word of it again or risk tarnishing the Bloom family name.

  So, I kept silent. I tried living a normal life, even though I was anything but normal. I looked like a regular nineteen year old with my shoulder length, pale blonde hair and grey-blue eyes. A bit on the small side, perhaps, since I was only five-foot-two-inches and naturally slim, something once described to me as pixie-like. Overall, I was pretty average. But inside, I never belonged. I rarely had friends, and I never committed to any long-term relationships—not since Jared The Jerk in high school—choosing to just have fun with whomever, whenever I wanted.

  Not that people usually gave me much in the way of opportunities to have long, lasting friendships. They tended to stay away. It was like they could smell it on me—my strangeness—and chose to keep a wide radius between themselves and me. Which was fine. I liked my solitude.

  That strange feeling of being watched fluttered over me again like a soft, silent brush of wind, pulling me out of my thoughts. I sat up and glanced at the small, barred window set in the door, but there was no one there.

  I shook off the shiver that danced up my spine and stood to begin dressing in my new institutional wear. I slipped off my yoga pants and shirt, exchanging them for the white t-shirt with the word patient on the upper right side of the chest, light grey sweatpants, and the oversized grey hoodie with Brocker’s Center for the Criminally Insane in big, black letters printed on the back. This place was freezing, so I was happy they at least gave us this, though I could have done without the constant reminders that I was in a madhouse. I folded my clothes and set them on the edge of my bed. The orderly had said someone would collect them while I was visiting with this psychiatrist, Dr. Ferrer.

  I hoped she or he didn’t expect me to divulge all my secrets, because that damn sure wasn’t happening. I’d tell them exactly what they wanted to hear and, hopefully, just get prescribed something mild, like a sleep aid. That’d be the most desirable outcome.

  I’d changed just in time. Seconds after slipping on the laceless shoes, the click of the lock on my door sounded, and an orderly opened it.

  “Time to see the doc,” he proclaimed, his voice a bit too chipper for someone who worked in a place so depressing.

  He looked a lot younger than the other orderlies, with his floppy blonde hair, freckled cheeks, and wide, wandering hazel eyes. His mouth was pulled up into a soft, inviting smile that, for no particular reason I could put my finger on, struck me as creepy. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me—maybe twenty-five or twenty-six at most. Most people would probably call him cute, with a baby face. Yet, something about him felt familiar. And not in a good way.

  I offered a faux smile back and shuffled out of the room, crossing my arms over myself to warm up a bit as we walked. I made sure I could see him in my peripheral vision, but tried not to be obvious about it.

  That feeling of being watched hit me once again. I shivered and held myself tighter, keeping my eyes forward and walking in silence next to the orderly. I locked down my mind even further, blocking out the occasional stab of anger seeping through the walls.

  I didn’t keep track of the halls we took or stairs we climbed before the overly-cheerful orderly stopped at an office door with a name etched into the frosted glass, but I felt the emotions trying to poke at me getting stronger.

  Warden

  Dr. Tracy Ferrer, Psychiatrist

  Glancing away from the door to our surroundings, I spotted huge red letters painted on the wall of a hallway junction not twenty feet from me: East Ward.

  Where the violent patients live.

  Sexual deviants, too, according to the woman who’d led me to my room. No wonder I was having trouble blocking out the feelings coming through the walls. The orderly knocked, drawing my attention back to him, then opened the door when a low, feminine voice said, “Come in.”

  He shot me a wink, hustled me into the room, then shut the door with a soft click behind me. Gazing around at the large office, I took in the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the entire back wall, overflowing with books. There was a large, black wooden desk with a laptop, a lamp throwing off dim light, and some strewn files scattered on top, but no pictures of family. A black, leather couch sat to the left of the desk with a single, matching chair beside it. A thin, middle-aged woman with nearly black hair swept up into a severe bun sat behind the desk, eyes fixed intensely on the file in front of her.

  “Are you going to sit?” she asked, not even looking up from her reading material.

  I frowned at her abrupt tone, but quietly made my way over to the couch and sat, completely unaware of how to do this. I’d never seen a therapist in my life. I didn’t think the whole ‘lie down and tell me how you feel’ stereotype was actually real.

  I watched the woman, waiting. She seemed to be very disinterested in my being there, and didn’t speak again until she was done reading and closed the file. I caught my name written on the tab of the Manila folder as it closed.

  Should’ve known it was my file she’d been reading.

  She grabbed a notepad from a drawer, then stood and walked over, sticking out her hand to me and plastering on a smile that was very clearly forced and insincere.

  “I’m Dr. Ferrer, the warden here at Brocker’s. I oversee all patients, and I’ll be who you’ll meet with during your stay. We’ll start with three times a week and go from there depending on how well-behaved you are,” she said as I shook her hand.

  When she released my hand, she softly smoothed out her black pencil skirt and straightened her white blouse, before sitting in the armchair next to me.

  “So, let’s begin with us just getting to know each other.”

  Right down to business, I guess.

  “Shouldn’t my file tell you everything you need to know?”

  She smiled. “It tells me why you’re here and all your medical history, but it doesn’t tell me who you are as a person. I’d like to learn who that is so I can be of better help to you.”

  Her words were spoken slowly and softly, but there was a coldness in her eyes, a detachment. The way she talked to me was almost condescending and screamed that she thought my mental state was as fragile as a thin pane of glass.

  “Uh… look, Doctor,” I started, scooting forward on the chaise and folding my hands in my lap. “I’m not crazy. You don’t have to watch what you say to me or treat me like I’ll attack you at any given moment. Yes, I had a slight meltdown… ”

  I paused for a second. I was used to lying about my visions and hiding what was really going on, but telling people I’d had a meltdown made me sound weak, like I couldn’t handle the crap life throws at me. Of course, trusting her with the truth wasn’t an option. Then she’d really think I was crazy. So I swallowed my pride and smiled tightly.

  “It was stress and too many days of barely any sleep. I fell asleep at the café and had a nightmare. I reacted. That’s it. I’m only here to find some inner peace and to show the court I can be a normal person,” I finished.

  Dr. Ferrer didn’t so much as blink through my little speech and stayed quiet for a few moments after, assessing me with a blank expression.

  “Well, Miss Bloom,” she finally said with a sigh. “I don’t think you’re crazy, but I also don’t believe you were just stressed and lacking in sleep. You don’t have to tell me about your personal life right away, because I know we must establish some trust.” She gave me a look that bordered on threatening and continued, “But, let me be clear, you will not leave at the end of your allotted two-month stay if I’m not convinced you aren’t a danger to yourself and those around you. So, I suggest you start talking about yourself, and soon.”

  She looked away from me and began scribbling something into her notebook. My jaw practically unhinged as I gaped at her. Was it really possible she could keep me here longer, even if I followed all the rules and kept to myself? I could handle two months here, but longer? To be truly trapped here? No. There was no way.

  She finished writing and closed her notebook. “You’re excused now. I’ll be giv
ing instruction to the orderlies of which medications we’ll start you with, then go from there.”

  My brows pinched together. “What kind of medications exactly?” I asked suspiciously, unpleasantly surprised she was already prescribing me drugs.

  “A small sedative dose to help you sleep, a mild antipsychotic, and an anti-anxiety. For now,” she clipped. Standing, and effectively cutting off anything I might have said, she walked back to push a button mounted on her desk. “You may not see it, but I do. You’re wound tighter than you believe and, after that violent outburst at the cafe, we don’t want you to lose control of yourself again. We’ll see how your body reacts to this initial regimen, then I can assess what else needs to be done.”

  I heard what she left unsaid. I didn’t have a choice here and, if I fought her, I’d only succeed in gaining myself more drugs, not less. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I was thinking. The antipsychotic was definitely worrying, but she’d said it was mild and I took anti-anxiety medications all the time at home. It helped the shakes after a vision, if it was more lucid than others.

  That same orderly who brought me here opened the door to the office, took the paper Dr. Ferrer held out for him, then turned to wait for me. I stood, nodded at the doctor, and filed out.

  “See. That wasn’t so bad,” he said cheerfully. “Dr. Ferrer is great and has helped many who’ve come through here. She’ll take good care of you, too.”

  “Awesome,” I replied blandly.

  “If you weren’t on lockdown, you’d get time in the common areas now. There’s the main room that you saw before going to your room, then there’s the courtyard. You can access that through the main room. Everyone who is in the common room has TV privileges until five p.m. There are only a few channels, but it’s not so bad. You get used to it.”

  On and on he went, talking cheerfully about all the games they had there and what kind of food we were given. It seemed like he’d worked there for a while, because he knew the place well. I let him ramble, but I tuned out his voice in favor of just memorizing where I was. I hadn’t been paying attention before, so I wanted to now.

  Something told me I would need to know for future reference.

  Those mandatory forty-eight hours locked in my room were some of the longest hours of my life. What I had thought would be just a bunch of napping, turned out to be more staring at the ceiling and walls or standing on tiptoe at the window, gazing endlessly into the courtyard. The first twelve hours were spent with me falling in and out of sleep, but after that, the boredom quickly set in. I wasn’t even allowed shower time, since that was apparently done en masse with all the non-violent female patients showering at once.

  I counted every ceiling tile—twice—just to be sure I didn’t mess up the first go around. I counted the tiny square patterns on the floor. I sang every song I could remember, which turned into playing the drums on the bed frame and walls to bring in a bit of percussion. I even played with an ant that found its way into my room, setting up little obstacles with tiny bits of food from the trays delivered to me three times each day. I named it George.

  Needless to say, I was ready to leave the confines of my room and start mingling with the natives the moment my forty-eight hour lock-in was lifted. I practically sprinted out the door when the same creepily-happy guy from my first day came to collect me. Even his off-putting presence couldn’t overshadow my cabin fever, and the almost giddy anticipation I felt at being let out of my cage.

  On the way to the common room, he stopped at a little window set in the hallway wall. Inside was a room in which a bored older woman sat, typing away on a computer.

  “Hey Joan,” he greeted. “We’ve got a new one here out of lock up that’s needing her first doses.”

  “Mmm,” she responded indifferently, barely glancing up from the monitor as she took the paper he slid through the small hole in the window.

  Glancing at it, she pushed up from her chair and walked through the doorway behind her. She returned moments later holding a small paper cup in each hand, both of which she passed back through the opening in the glass.

  “Take these now. You’ll get your sedative during evening rounds.”

  Peering into the cups, I saw that one held two colorful pills, and the other a minuscule amount of water.

  “What are they?” I questioned, reluctantly picking up the one holding the pills.

  “What Dr. Ferrer thinks you need,” she shot back, looking at me for the first time, her cloudy blue eyes narrowed with impatience.

  “But… ”

  She cut me off. “You’ll take them or Brad will make you take them,” she warned, cutting her gaze to the man standing next to me.

  Glancing up at Brad with wide eyes, I saw that he seemed just as happy about that as he had been about everything else. He was staring down at me with an unmistakably eager look in his eyes, as if encouraging me to refuse.

  That look was enough to squash any resistance I may have felt. I didn’t want to take drugs I knew nothing about, but I wanted his hands on me even less. Even the thought of him touching me was enough to have goosebumps rising on my arms.

  Looking back at the cup in my hand, I grimaced before bringing it to my lips and tipping it so the contents fell into my mouth. I could feel both of them watching me as I reached for the water and used it to swallow the pills, coughing slightly when they got stuck in my throat.

  I crushed the paper in my hands and passed them back to the woman, trying to keep my expression blank.

  “Good girl,” Brad praised, grinning down at me. “Now, open up.”

  He pulled a pen light from the pocket on his white scrub shirt, clicked it on, and shined it at my lips. Sighing, I hesitantly opened my mouth and tilted my head back, showing him I’d swallowed the medicine. Apparently, that wasn’t good enough because he gripped my chin in his clammy hand and pushed my head back farther while prying my mouth open wider.

  “Show me your tongue,” he coaxed softly, squeezing my cheeks a little harder when I didn’t immediately follow his demand.

  Wincing, I lifted my tongue then moved it side to side, showing him every damn corner of my mouth. He smirked and let go, but not before brushing his thumb over my lower lip, thoroughly unnerving me.

  Spinning away from him once he fully released me, I hurried down the hallway, following the sound of voices until I was back in the common room. I didn’t wait for instruction, but kept going until I was amongst the other patients, preferring their company to that of the disturbing orderly.

  I found an empty, hard plastic chair to perch in, situated a little apart from everyone else present, but still within the false safety of the crowd. I sat there, watching the people around me, for the next hour at least.

  The guy with the chess pieces had progressed from licking the rook to kissing it and whispering sweet nothings to it. The man who’d been laughing at the wall was now perched on the couch like a gargoyle, voicing bird sounds to anyone who came near. There were at least a dozen other people there, sitting quietly as I was or zoned out on the television, but the few outwardly crazy people made me feel like I was surrounded and that any sudden moves would draw their attention to me.

  The longer I sat there, the more I could feel some of the medication kicking in, felt it erasing the tension keeping me ramrod straight. A kind of lethargy slowly settled over me, a sense of detachment. I felt like my thoughts were clear, but my emotions seemed to be muffled, as if suppressed under a heavy blanket. This was not like the mild anti-anxiety medication I occasionally took at home. This was meant to calm potentially violent patients, not just take the edge off of stressed people.

  Longer than an hour must have passed because when I looked out the barred window some time later, it was evening. The same dour woman who’d led me to my room the first day appeared at the entrance to the common room and announced that it was dinner time.

  Standing, I shuffled along with everyone else behind her as she led us down one hallway and another until we arrived at a cafeteria in West Ward, set up just like the one from my old high school. It was a huge room, done in scuffed white linoleum and the same dull blue paint everywhere else in this place. Two notable differences from my school were the ever-present bars on the big windows and the orderlies dressed in white, stationed around the space like sentinels… or guards.