Beautiful Nightmares (The Asylum Trilogy) (11 page)

Chapter Twenty Two

~Before~

“You bitch!” I scream wildly and launch myself at my nurse. “You’re lying. You’re lying!” I sound like a lunatic. Like my own personal brand of crazy. My voice is high and shrill and is a mixture of rage and fear.

The nurse cowers below me, her hands in the air, blocking me as I try to wrap my fingers around her neck. “I will kill you, you liar!” I’m still shouting and I’m not sure where all of my composure has gone. “Tell me where you put it! Where is my baby?”

They told me I was pregnant.

Then they told me that I lost it. That I lost my baby.

It was at that exact moment that I swear I lost my mind. Because I knew it was his. I knew the child that was growing in my womb had to be Damien’s. He’s the only boy I’ve ever been with in that way. On top of that, he’s the only boy I’ve ever really loved.

Then, there’s the man in my dreams, but still.

A dream is just a dream.

It is not reality.

I can’t see anything but red. I am so so angry. I am so very, very confused. The logical part of my mind is a light-switch that has been turned off and all I can think about is Damien and our baby and the chance of a lifetime for me to finally be happy.

I am screaming, sobbing, and shaking.

I’ve be
en hysterical since the moment they told me I lost
his
baby.

Two burly male nurses in matching periwinkle scrubs burst through the door, tackling me just before I strangle the life out of my nurse. She coughs. Touches her throat. I don’t see anymore because at that point, I’ve already been injected with a sedative and am well on my way to lullaby land.

The two male nurses lift me up as the drug takes effect and lie me down on my bed.

I say his name, “Damien.”

Wrap my arms around my stomach.

I wonder where he is and why he isn’t here.

“My baby.” I cry to myself. “My baby.”

Hours later, a nurse comes into my room to check my vitals and I’m tucked in a ball in my hospital bed. The nurse is tall, thin in a waifish way, with salt and pepper hair and a pixie cut. “Sit up dear,” she says in a soft yet kind voice. Her eyes are kind too. Big and brown. Like a puppy’s.

I do as she says and then she places two long fingers on my wrist, checking my pulse. “Is he out there?” I ask a hint of hopefulness in my tone.

“Is who out there, dear?”

“Damien.”

“Damien?”

“Yes,” I say with force. “Damien Allen. I told the last nurse to phone him. He should be here.” My emotions are twisted. I’m restless. Part of me wants to get out of this bed and go looking for him.

“No dear,” the nurse says. “There’s no one here by that name.”

The nurse backs away from me and I lie back down. “Well can you try to phone him again? I know he’ll want to know that I’m okay.”

She walks to the door and pries it open the slightest bit. “I’ll leave word, dear. You just get some rest, okay.”

I nod, but know that resting is probably the last thing on my mind.

Thoughts and memories keep bouncing around inside of my head. I keep trying to remember the last time I saw Damien.

I can’t remember where.

I can’t remember when.

I keep getting this vision of him throwing back my pale yellow curtains and standing by my bedroom window with a smirk and a gleam in his blue blue eyes, but other than that nothing else.

In my mind I hear a bang and another bang.

I want to turn off my mind so I can focus, but I can’t.

I hear another bang, bang, bang!

Then yelling.

Followed by crying and screaming.

I hear voices outside my door.

They are a blend of male and female voices and I’m struggling to figure out which voice belongs to each person. I know the nurse with salt and pepper hair is speaking. Her voice is the only one I recognize.

We have to send her somewhere
, she says.

Somewhere where she can get the help that she needs
, she says.

This isn’t the right place for her.

I know of a place not too far.

She’ll receive all the help she needs.

I slide down into my bed and my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.

I feel like I am a lost cause and that no one can help me.

I huff in frustration and I decide that the best and only way for me to figure everything out is by resting, clearing my head, and praying to God that my memory returns by the morning.

Chapter Twenty Three

20 Years Later

Sometimes I can feel the quiet.

I mean really feel it.

Sometimes I can feel it expand inside of me and send miniscule tremors throughout my body before they wind up quaking in my bones.

The feeling is an overwhelming mixture of calm and ease and over the last fifteen years, I’ve learned to love it. I’ve learned to adore simplicity because sometimes, the little things in life are all a person has.

The little things…

They’re all I have left.

I’m in the rec room, in a chair seated in front of the long, rectangle window. My reflection stares back at me through the double panes of glass and for the first time in a long time, I take notice in my appearance. Streaks of gray are weaved through my ebony hair. My cheeks are sunken in. There are dark circles under my eyes. And shallow canals of wrinkles imbedded my forehead. I continue gawking at my reflection for a minute and then I’m reminded of why I don’t care to look at myself anymore.

I tear my gaze away from my sordid imagine and what’s behind the glass.

Lush green trees.

Wildflowers.

Rolling acres of trimmed grass.

I can’t focus on all the beautiful things that are living when I feel like I belong with the dead.

I tried to die once and when I say “tried” I should say I failed because the staff found me before I could die completely.

They saved me.

They pulled me down from the rafters and removed the homemade hospital gown noose I had made from around my neck and brought me back to life.

And I hate them for it.

At one point, all I ever wanted to be saved and now I find it so strange that I ever hoped that that dream would come true. I also think it’s crazy that I thought that I’d make it out of Oak Hill when in reality that thought was a fantasy. This place is a blood-thirsty leech that feeds and feeds and feeds on you until you’re bled dry.

The funny thing is, I’ve been bled dry for years and I’m still here.

“Adelaide.” I hear a woman call my name, but I don’t answer her call. I stopped giving the staff members any social interaction years ago. Now, I only respond with grunts, sighs, or a nod of the head. The only time they seek me out is to give me my meds or escort me somewhere. I figure what’s the point in talking when there’s nothing left to say. Then my name is called a second time, “Adelaide.”

I glance over my shoulder and see two women walking toward me. One, a nurse, with short spiky black hair and a svelte physique and the other is a young woman who can’t be older than her early twenties. Keeping my eyes locked with the nurse’s, I sit up in my chair and pull my crème, knitted shawl tightly around my shoulders. I don’t respond until they are right next to me and even then, the only thing I say is, “Uh.”

The nurse’s thin lips quirk up into a tight smile and I notice that one of her front teeth is slightly crooked. “Adelaide,” she ushers the woman next to her toward me with her hand, “you have a visitor.” The nurse’s voice is full of joy and hope and I almost want to slap her.

I’ve been at Oakhill over twenty years and I’ve never once had a visitor and the fact that someone is telling me that I have one now almost seems like a cruel prank. I want to open my mouth and say something audible, but for a moment I forget how to speak. The nurse glances from me to the woman beside her then back at me again. “Well,” she says. “I’ll leave you two alone.” She leans in and whispers something into the woman’s ear that I can’t make out, but I watch the woman nod in the nurse’s direction as she turns to walk away.

A nervous feeling bubbles in the pit of my stomach and part of me wants to get up and leave the room. But there is another part of me that is mildly curious and wants to know who this strange woman is. Could she be a police officer? A new doctor?

I study her as she walks across the room and grabs a chair and I continue watching her as she slides the chair across the floor. She has long, willowy limbs. A petite waist. She’s probably around 5’5 in height. Her skin is pale and her face is heart-shaped. Her hair falls in golden ringlets down her back and when she walks, she walks with such grace that it’s like she’s walking on air.

“There,” she says in a soft feminine voice as she puts her chair next to me and sits down. I stare down at her legs and observe the way she crosses one over-top of the other. Then she asks, “How are you, today?”

I don’t make eye contact and my gaze has centered on the floor. Tan speckles on the crème tile blur in my peripheral vision and all I can do is shrug.

“Adelaide, could you look at me, please?” I nod because I know from the assertiveness in this woman’s tone that she isn’t going to buy into my silent treatment kind of behavior.

I make eye contact and suddenly I can’t breathe.

Tears well up in my eyes and I blink several times while they rain down my cheeks.

The nervous feeling in my stomach subsides.

My fingers start trembling.

My nerves are shot.

I realize that I’m looking into my own eyes.

A set of violet eyes.

So beautiful and so rare that I know this woman can only be one person. “Willow?” My voice cracks and rasps because I can’t remember the last time I’ve spoken to a soul. I clear my throat and repeat myself. “Willow?”

A soft smile pulls on her lips. “Yes, Adelaide. I’m your daughter.”

And for the first time in years and years and years, I remember what joy feels like.

I remember what it feels like to be so happy that you’re exploding inside.

I want to grab her.

She’s my daughter.

Pull her into my arms.

My little girl.

I want to hold her, love her, cherish her and never let go. But I can tell by her regal nature and perfect stature that she’s inherited her father’s straight-to-business demeanor. That’s something I do remember about Elijah. He was very stern, curt, and to the point. Besides, this is the first time I’ve seen her since she was a baby and I think it best that in situations like these, that you ease into them and don’t push it early on. So I start with a comment, “I assumed you were dead.” I know that isn’t the best way to start this kind of thing, but it’s the truth. When I found my file in Dr. Swell’s office I assumed that Willow had died in the car accident that caused my amnesia.

“I’m sure you did.” There is a somber tone to her voice and a confused look on her face. “You know, Adelaide,” she continues, “I’ve searched for you for a long time.”

“How long?” I inquire.

“It’s been years,” she says as she drops her gaze to her hands and plays with her fingers. “I always told myself I’d never give up through. Not until I found you.” Her voice is shaky. And low. Almost a whisper. “I was hoping that you’d have some answers about my childhood that I’ve been searching for, for years.”

I can barely contain the excitement in my voice and I almost blurt out the words. “I’ll answer any question you have to the best of my ability.”

“Good,” she says with a smile.

“But first,” I say. “Can I ask a few questions about you?”

“Of course.”

“Who took you in?” I want to know that she was properly cared for. I want to know if she had a good child-hood. I want to know if she was loved.

“My aunt,” she says. “My father’s sister. Do you remember her at all?”

“No.” Sorrow oozes from my vocal chords. “I never had the chance to meet her.” I straighten up my posture. “Did she raise you well? Was she attentive? Was she—?”

Willow cuts me off before I can go any further. “I had a very good upbringing. And I was loved. I was treated like one of her own children.”

“I’m glad,” I say softly. Even though I’m not glad at all and when I uttered those words a little part of me broke inside.

I would have given anything…

My arm…

My leg…

I would have ripped my heart from my chest and placed in the palm of an organ broker if that’s what it would have taken for me to have been able to raise my daughter. “You know that’s not what I would have wanted,” I tell her, choking back a sob. “If I would have known I—”

“I understand, Adelaide. I know that it isn’t your fault.” The tone in her voice tells me otherwise. There is a hint of animosity in it. Her mannerisms do as well. She’s avoiding eye contact by staring out the window. “I just,” she stammers then catches herself, “I just wanted to find out about where I came from, you know?” She looks at me, but still won’t look me directly in the eye. “I want to know about my grandparents. My father. You. I know a little bit from what my aunt told me, but she didn’t know much about your relationship with my father.”

I can’t give her an accurate answer and that almost sends me into a fit of hysteria. I feel worthless. I haven’t had anything to do with my daughter for her entire life and I can’t even give her the answers she’s looking for. I know that my absence wasn’t by choice, but still. I want to be able to help. I want to be able to contribute. “I’m not entirely sure,” I tell her. “But I imagine I loved him a great deal or you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re not sure.” Her voice trails off and gives off the vibe that I just punched her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her lungs.

“I…I.” I struggle to get the words out. “I was in a car accident. I was in a coma for months. I lost my memory. I remember almost nothing about my relationship with your father except for what I’ve read or been told. The few things that I do remember are insignificant.” I take a deep breath and continue. “I didn’t even remember you.” My voice cracks. My chest vibrates. A sharp pain pumps through my heart and I have to clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking. “But I remembered your eyes when you looked at me.” Tears roll down my cheeks and I sniffle. “I remember them because you have mine and my mother’s eyes.” I’ve always been told that violet eyes are rare.

Her face lights up the slightest bit. “My grandmother?”

“Yes,” I say. “I do remember quite a bit about her.”

“Like what?” Willow scoots closer, wearing an intrigued expression on her face. “Is she alive?”

“No.” A solemn look crosses over my features. I don’t want to get into the depressing details surrounding my mother’s death. “She died when I was very young. But, she loved lavender perfume and lullabies and she was sweet, loving, caring.”

Willow smiles. “And my grandfather?”

That is a topic that I definitely don’t want to dive into. “He’s dead too.” Dead, gone, and buried and my opinion his death was for the greater good of humanity. “He died in prison.” And that’s all I’m going to say about him.

“How did you meet my father, then?”

“I believe he was my doctor at some point.” According to my file that I confiscated that’s what it said. “Here,” I take Willow’s hand. She hesitates at first, but then her hand relaxes beneath my firm grip. “Come with me.”

I stand slowly, with wobbling knees and a shortness of breath. For a second, I feel light-headed and almost fall back into my chair. Willow is up in a flash and with her other hand she grabs my elbow and steadies me. “Are you okay?” she asks with genuine concern.

“I’m sick,” I comment with a soft laugh. “But I’m not dead yet.”

They told me not too long ago that I have cancer. They also told me that it’s a very aggressive kind, but that’s all I made out of my diagnosis. I tuned them out the second they told me I was dying and refused to listen to another word. I’ve also refused treatments. Most of the staff members told me this was a stupid decision, but I disagree with them. When you’ve lived a life full of bleak, destructive misery sometimes death is the only thing you can look forward to. Because at the end of it all, you know that it is the only thing that will bring you peace.