Beautiful Nightmares (The Asylum Trilogy) (6 page)

Chapter Ten

~After~

Days pass.

Then weeks.

I’ve been everything I said I would be.

The best fucking psycho the staff has ever seen. I’ve adapted the; I mumble and drool persona along with a melancholy nature. I remain lax when they escort me to my appointments and giggle softly like my last shred of sanity has finally snapped. Then I stare at the staff members soullessly, like there is nothing behind my eyes because my brain is Swiss cheese.

They are starting to believe it.

In me.

They are starting to believe that I am the fucked up robot that their pills and methods of treatment have turned me into.

And what angers me to the point where I almost snap on them is that they seem happy about it.

A high five to Adelaide!

Good girl! You’ve finally embraced the Insanity!

Here, would you like a treat?

The only thing that keeps me in check is the thought in my head of uncovering the secrets of my past. The only thing that pushes me forward is knowing that truth lies in one of those manila folders I see the staff members carrying around. So as much as I’d like to rebel against them, I know that I can’t.

And that I won’t.

I haven’t bitten any of the staff’s fingers in a while.

I’ve turned down the suspicion.

I’ve turned up the crazy.

Now, I blend in. Aurora was onto something when she told me I should showcase my nut…nut…nutty side. I should have taken her suggestion into consideration sooner. It’s because I don’t fight them that they give more freedom.

More time to roam the halls.

More bathroom breaks.

More recreational time.

I use this time to my advantage to study the staff member’s schedules. When they come in. When they take their breaks. Which one is on this shift and who replaces them when they’re done. I keep track of the time and pay attention to what time the doctors leave their offices to go home for the day and which orderlies and nurses do the evening strolls through the halls. I’ve even studied the lock to my cell so I’ll know how to pick it when the time comes.

During Daddy’s tyrannical rule, I had to learn to pick a lock or two. Especially if I wanted to see Damien. Yes, there was a window. And yes I climbed out of it. But there were certain days where Daddy didn’t sleep heavily. I feared the creaking and snapping sound of the window opening might be enough to wake him so I’d pick the lock on my door and sneak out the front door instead.

I’ve been watching Vivian Swell lately.

She’s my main concern.

Why?

Because she’s so on point.

There have been times where I’ve been in crazy mode, casually casting a glance in her direction while she’s leaving her office and she always catches me. Her eyes snap to me. They narrow into a suspicious glance and out of panic and fear, I quickly turn my attention toward the wall and begin to trace the shadows with my fingertip. On a few occasions, she brushed by me, offering me a cold greeting, “Adelaide.”

My response….?

I never speak, but I usually peek at her out of the corner of my eyes and nod in her direction. And a few times, I’ve even mumbled. Once, I smiled at her and started chewing on my hair. That time, she gawked at me for seconds that felt like minutes and after she walked away even I had to admit to myself that I was one step closer to the precipice of madness.

I know that I am a little nutty.

That my screws are most definitely loose.

That I’ve been cooped up and caged in for so long that I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever know what it’s like to be free again.

I’m afraid that I’ll start to forget what it feels like for the wind to whip through my hair.

That I won’t remember what it’s like to feel the warmth from the sun on my cheeks.

I tuck those thoughts away for now and remind myself that I need to uncover the mystery of my past before focusing on anything else. I’m hoping that once I do then I can finally focus on the one thing that I’ve been wanting to do since I arrived here a second time.

And that is…

To set myself free.

Chapter Eleven

~Before~

I know Elijah had reservations about becoming a father. I know that most of his reservations stem from the fact that he had an awful, awful relationship with his own father. He never goes into too much detail involving their relationship, but I remember one story in particular when Elijah mentioned his father locking him in his bedroom for twenty-four hours without feeding him or letting him out to use the restroom. After hearing that story, I never inquired about his relationship with his father again.

But, even though Elijah had doubts about becoming a parent, I never did.

I always believed that despite his terrifying childhood that he would make a good father.

And I was right.

I watch him a lot.

When he’s with Willow.

He doesn’t know I’m watching, but I always peek into the nursery when he’s in there.
He’s so careful and soft and I never thought I’d ever be able to say that ‘being soft’ was a part of my husband’s nature, but Willow seemed to change something in him.

Sometimes, I think that the life I’m living now is an illusion.

I have everything I’ve ever wanted.

I am a mother.

I have a child.

I am married to a wonderful, wonderful man.

I never thought I’d be able to say those things to myself.

Willow has been fussing for hours.

I rock her against my chest.

I sing her a song Mommy used to sing me. “Little bird, little bird spread your wings and fly. Little bird, little bird soar through the sky.”

Elijah has been working the midnight shift so I hate to wake him and have him take her for a drive.

We usually take turns. When we first met, he told me he didn’t want kids. I laugh at that now. And I think part of the reason he said he didn’t want to be a father is because he was terrified of turning out like his own.

He’s an amazing fa
ther and Willow, who is only eight months old, has him wrapped around her tiny finger.

Willow cries a lot. The pediatrician says its colic and the only way I can get her to stop fussing is by taking her for a drive in the car. The gentle hum of the engine is like a lullaby for my beautiful baby girl and it amazes me how she can look so different when she’s sleeping.

I’ve been driving now for almost a year and I don’t think I’ll ever get over the liberating feeling that comes with it. I love to drive with the windows down. I love feeling the wind tousle my hair. I love how the car makes me feel like I’m a bird and that I can fly anywhere.

Willows’ cries turn into shrieks and I start bouncing her on my hip. “All right, all right,” I tell her in a sing-song voice. “Mommy is moving as fast as she can.”

After grabbing my purse, the car keys, and buckling Willow into her car seat, I turn the car around and speed down the driveway. And within minutes, I check on Willow through the mirror and she’s already fast asleep.

I admire my beautiful daughter who resembles her father in more ways than she resembles me. She has his hair. His complexion. His lips. The only feature of mine she has are my eyes.

She’s a happy baby for the most part. Except for when she’s crying because of the colic. I continue to watch her sleep through the mirror and remember when she was born. I remember Elijah’s domineering yet excited behavior. And how he insisted on being in the room with me while I was giving birth. I remember the moment they placed Willow on my bare chest and how in that moment I thought that I could never love another person as much as I loved the tiny human I’d just brought into the world.

And when they placed Willow in Elijah’s arms, I saw one of his rare smiles. The one that touches his honey eyes and I knew neither one of us could be happier than we were in that moment.

Willow fidgets in her sleep and witnessing her tiny movements melts my heart. I know I should be paying attention to the road. That was one of Elijah’s favorite things to stress during my driving lessons. “Eyes on the road at all times,” he’s say.

But I can’t help the overwhelmed feeling I get whenever I stare at my child. Mostly because I’m always wondering how I could have brought something so beautiful and perfect into the world. I can’t  but feel the love for her swell inside of me every day  and sometimes I wonder if at some point, I’ll be so full of love that I’ll explode.

Up ahead I hear the faint sound of tires screeching and drop my gaze to the windshield, just in time to prevent myself from hitting a man. The car ahead of me swerved off the road and the man is still standing in front of my car.

I see him.

I mean really see him and my heart stops beating.

My blood runs cold.

Every hair on my arms stands at attention.

No…

It can’t be.

It’s impossible.

The man stands before me, a silver locket laced through his fingers. I watch the locket swing back and forth, back and forth. My eyes travel up the length of his body and I choke on a sob when I look into hateful eyes.

This can’t be happening.

I saw him…

I saw him go away.

Didn’t I?

The man lets out a malicious laugh and I know now more than ever that he’s not a fabrication of my mind.

“No,” I cry and shake my head. “No.”

Willow finally wakes up, realizing the car has stopped and begins wailing. But I tune her out. I’m too focused on the man in front of me, clutching my locket. My locket!

The same man who inflicted years and years and year of pain, heartbreak, and terror on me. The man who was supposed to love me because I’m a part of him.

My daddy.

Chapter Twelve

~Before~

The smell of burnt rubber suffocates me, devours me, and consumes me until I cough out raspy gurgles and my throat is licked by flames. My eyelids flutter open. I squint as my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight beaming down on me. Once my vision is clear, I notice I’m surrounded by fragments of metal and glass particles of various shapes and sizes.

There’s a fierce throbbing in my temples when I try to lift my head. A warm, sticky substance drips down the left side of my face. Fanning my fingers across my cheek, I then bring them down in front of my eyes and as the
blurriness in my vision begins to fade I notice the crimson on my fingertips.

I’m bleeding.

I’m oblivious.

Confused.

What happened?

To my left there’s a Lincoln Sedan with shiny, patent leather black paint, the front end smashed, and lodged into a giant Oak tree. The windshield has been shattered and there are shard of glass on the hood of the car.

Smoke unfurls from the underneath of the hood.

Was I in that car?

I had to have been. Why else would I be lying next to it? But if I was in that car why can’t I remember riding in it?

I sit up and examine an assortment of cuts and bruises lining my arms then I brush a few loose pieces of glass from my lime green dress.

With wobbling legs I stand, using the side of the car for support. Looking around, the road I’m on is empty and pieces of the car bumper shimmer as the sunlight trickles down washing over them.

I stare at the car, perplexed, disorientated, and curious.

Could I have been driving?

I massage my temples trying, willing any recollection that I might have about this accident to come back to me, but I get nothing.

Seconds breeze by.

Next minutes.

Then I hear it, the crying.

It begins as a soft whimper then works its way into a full on wail.

Frantically, I feel my way down the side of the car and peer through the back passenger door. My eyes go wide and I yank on the shiny door handle. There’s an infant strapped into her car seat, her cheeks bright red, eyes filled with tears, mouth open wide as long screams leave her throat.

I untangle her from the straps of her car seat. I stare at her wide eyed for a moment as her wails intensify. I’m still so confused. There’s still so much I wish I could remember.

How did I end up in the middle of nowhere bruised and bleeding, next to a wrecked car with an infant I don’t even know inside of it?

After I pick up the baby, she nuzzles her small head into the crook of my neck. Her cries soften to whimpers and I whisper soothingly into her ear, “Hush now. Hush now little one. We’ll find your mama.” When the
infant’s cries cease all together and she’s sleeping, curled up against my chest.

It’s at that moment I start walking. It’s that moment that I start hoping, praying even.

Hoping that a car might happen down the abandoned road and find us. And praying that by the time someone does find us that I might remember what happened.

~ ~ ~

I feel like I’ve been walking for decades.

With every passing minute another ten years slips by.

There’s an intense, pulsating, cramping sensation in my lower abdomen, but I fight through it and push myself to keep walking. I keep telling myself that I can’t stop until I find some sign of life.

A house.

Maybe a gas station.

Someone or anyone who can help me and the child I’m carrying.

I cast my eyes downward to the infant still curled up into the crook of my neck. She’s been sleeping soundly for a while. This is good. I haven’t spent that much time around children and when I have in the past, I tend to panic when they’re fussy. I think of the child’s mother in that moment and wonder where she could be or why she’d flee the scene of the accident. Then I recall moments I had with my own mother.

She left me once.

She never came back.

Perhaps mother’s abandoning their children isn’t as uncommon as I thought it was.

Suddenly a sharp, crippling pain rips through my pelvic area and snatches the air from my lungs. I let out a restrained scream and hunch over, hoping the agonizing pain will subside. It doesn’t though. The pain gets worse.

Now I’m hobbling down the road, taking deep breaths and I know with certainty that there is something wrong. Maybe they’re
menstrual cramps. I shake my head. No. I’ve never had menstrual cramps that intense. Then I think I might have internal bleeding. While I’m trying to self-diagnose myself the infant wakes up and starts crying again. “Hush, please,” I force out with a grunt. The wailing on top of the cramping is making my temples throb and I now have a pounding headache.

I want to shriek.

I want curl over and plant my knees into the road.

I want to cry and tuck myself into a ball.

I want someone to comfort me and take the pain away.

All of a sudden it becomes too much.

I feel like I’m being stabbed in the gut over and over and over again. I can’t breathe. Now there’s warm fluid trickling down my inner thighs. My whole body convulses. I’m starting to lose my grip on the baby.

And before I realize what’s happening, I hit the ground, the child rolls out of my arms, and I pass out in the middle of the road in a pool of my own blood.