Page 3 of Heal Me

Just quiet. And dark. Me and my own breaths.

It’s peaceful. Like when I’m on stage and singing. That’s the only time everything becomes truly quiet. The crowds go silent, and it’s just me and my voice. I can close my eyes and pretend nothing else exists.

But once the hour is up and I’ve sung my full set, the world comes crashing back. People start clapping and whistling, and along with it comes memories of pain and fear. The struggle to get by. The struggle to escape. To find something better. To stay free. To stay alive.

There never is anything better, though. Freedom never feels free, alive never feels like living. It’s always the same decrepit towns I end up in. Desperate people trying to get by, trying to find hope, or just trying to find whatever kick they can. My voice becomes a moment of escape for them, but once it’s over, they go back to their usual ways. Foul words of derision when I ask for the full pay I was promised. Old ladies herding me out like vermin when I can’t pay rent on time. Drunken men assaulting me in the back alleys behind the bars where they just adored me.

I can never stay long enough in one place to see if things will turn around if I get to know people. The risk of Zoltan findingme is too great, so I keep moving. On and on. Restlessly and relentlessly. All I can do is hope the next town will be better—that I’ll somehow find a way out—but it’s all the same. So I chose the only way out that was mine to choose.

Except, I couldn’t find the courage to cut the knife deep enough.

Shame twists within me as I remember my pathetic attempts at cutting my wrists. It makes me feel more useless than anything else ever has.

Or maybe I did succeed after all, I think, as I stare into the black nothingness. Maybe I finally hit that artery and sank into darkness so quickly I can’t remember it. Maybe I’m dead. Life is never this quiet. Never this dark.

I blink my eyes, turning my head a bit to try and catch sight of something. Everything remains pitch black. Unnaturally so.

Hope grows within me, but then I see a crack of light in the distance. It’s small, but it’s there. The darkness hasn’t claimed me after all. But something else has, and despite it being dead still and confined, it brings me hope. Because it’s something new. Something different. It doesn’t look hopeful, but I’ve seen enough to know that looks can easily deceive. The home my mother built for my sister and me wasn’t shiny and pretty, and when I did find something shiny and pretty, it was the den of the devil.

I search my brain to remember how I got here, but my head is blurry, and all I get are half-memories. Being lifted out of the tub. Crying into a strong shoulder. Falling asleep in the back of a car. I can’t quite make sense of it; all I know is that none of it feels ominous. There was no threat, leery eyes, or violent hands. No charming smiles meant to deceive.

So I close my eyes and let the quietness engulf me.

***

Lights flickering on above me make me resurface to consciousness. A door creaks, and I turn on the mattress to see who’s coming, blinking my eyes against the light as a tall, wide shadow appears through a door.

“Where am I?” I ask as the shadow approaches. Noticing I’m naked, I pull the thick blanket over me, and it’s only then that I realize I’m not cold for the first time in forever. Blinking a little more, I see my surroundings and have my answer.

Four walls with white padding surround me. Even the door and the floor have the same cushion-like padding. The only surface left bare is the ceiling, which is bare, gray concrete.

Gulping, I turn my attention back to the gigantic man now towering above me.

“A mental facility,” I whisper.

He doesn’t confirm or refute. He just stands there, watching me for a minute.

It’s the same man who found me in the tub when I tried to take my life last night. He doesn’t look like a doctor. There’s nothing sophisticated, polished, or even composed about him as I’d expect from a doctor. This man looks brutal. Menacing, really. A scar slicing down the left side of his mouth bears witness to violence, and so does the hard stare of his dark eyes. His features are rough, his head bald, and his clothes consist of a simple black T-shirt, jeans, and boots. He’s definitely not a doctor.

He has to be an orderly. It makes sense now that I think about it. His brawny build makes him perfect for handling belligerent patients. I cast another glance around the room and think to myself,and throwing them into padded cells.

What I don’t understand is how he found me.

Pursing my lips, I shake my head as I try to find the right words. “Why… How? How did you know?”

“Know what?” He sinks to the floor beside the mattress, and I notice the bowl in his hand. Food. He’s here to make sure I eat. Something I can barely manage myself these days—neither money-wise or energy-wise.

I gulp down a tight knot as I hold the blanket to my chest and scoot up to sit.

“How did you know I was…” I glance down at my arms and find white bandages instead of the black strips of his T-shirt. I don’t even remember anyone changing those.

“I didn’t,” he says.

“Then why did you come? I mean, to my home.”

“To bring you here.”

“But if you didn’t know, why would you come?”

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