Page 1 of Inside the Maelstrom: Part One
Prologue
Aviva
Iturned up the music, ignoring the harsh way my breaths were falling from my lips. I ignored the clank of empty bottles from the passenger footwell. Ignored the check engine light on my dash that had been on for the last twelve months. Ignored the flashing of my phone, with my mother’s face glaring at me from the screen.
Instead, I drove down the quiet back streets of my middle class neighborhood. I chewed my lip incessantly, but enjoyed the way it stung and the slight metallic taste of blood. I’d told my parents that I was going to my friend Alison’s house, but we hadn’t been friends in two years. They didn’t know that—how could they?
I was an adult. I went to college. The need to police my friends had ended after my brief goth stage during middle school. So they didn’t know Alison had gotten a boyfriend in freshman year. She had a life now, and we’d drifted apart. Or maybe I’d just stopped talking to her. I couldn’t really remember. Everything blurred together now.
I watched the people stroll down the sidewalk, their dogs on long leads, frowning as they glared at their phones. Were they happy? Was that what happy looked like? Did they wake up in the morning and want to shower, want to go to school or work, want to talk to other people and eat breakfast and make plans?
I dragged my eyes back to the road. The Petersons lived right at the end of this block. I knew it was their house because I’d dated their son in senior year. Lost my virginity to him in a truly uninspiring way. Later on, he got accepted into Harvard. He was a good guy. Beige. Safe.
The Petersons as a whole were unremarkable. The only exceptional thing about them was the magnolia tree in their front yard. It was huge, bigger than it should have been in this climate. It must have been thirty feet high. It was in full bloom right now, and it was something bright and magnificent in a world where it didn’t have any fucking right to be so extraordinary.
It was in the front of a freaking box house, architecturally designed to be devoid of personality. I could relate to the house, but that fucking tree taunted me. It sometimes caused accidents, because it was just so beautiful, and that was wrong.
Suddenly, my chest felt tight, and my blood turned hot. Scalding, even. It chased away the deep chill that had permeated my bones for years. No, a chill would insinuate that I felt something underneath this cloak of numbness.
I had felt nothing for so long. But now, I felt rage—and it was glorious.
I pressed my foot further to the floor, my shitty, mid-priced car revving with a high, tinny sound. I unclipped my belt, letting it whip back up to where it belonged, safe and secure.
I pointed my car at that magnolia tree, and I grinned. It felt wrong on my face, but it didn’t matter as I reached down to turn the music up as loud as it would go, then slammed my foot onto the gas pedal until it hit the floorboards.
I mounted the curb, my car flying high as it hit the outer branches of the magnolia tree before slamming into the trunk.
My head collided with the steering wheel, bouncing off to hit the side window, as the front of my car crumpled in slow motion.
The last thing I saw before everything went black was a downpour of perfectly waxy magnolia blooms.
Good. Now we were both ugly and dead.
The neck brace ruined the lines of my responsible white blouse, and my head wound ached. The judge’s eyes saw too much. My mother sobbed softly into her linen handkerchief behind me.
“Aviva. It’s the opinion of the doctors who admitted you that you require treatment in an inpatient setting. That you pose a significant danger, not only to yourself, but to the wider community.” He looked down at the paperwork in front of him. “Looking at the police reports, I have to agree. Your blood alcohol level was twice what it should have been. If anyone else had been involved, if you’d hit a pedestrian, you’d be going to jail right now. But it is your apathy regarding the seriousness of this situation that concerns me.”
I’d never wanted to hurt anyone else.
The judge gave me a look that was part jaded, part desperately sad. I knew the look. “The Petersons are generously not seeking any remuneration or pressing any charges for the property damage you caused. But I don’t believe you’ll be so lucky next time. And Aviva, there will be a next time. Until you get the help you need, there willalwaysbe a next time. I am committing you to a mental health facility for ninety days. At your parents’ request, I am happy for you to undertake this involuntary treatment at a private facility.”
The judge took a deep breath, her eyes filled to the brim with compassion. I couldn't comprehend how she still felt compassion after sitting in this courtroom day after day, seeing the worst of humanity up close. I zoned back in and realized she was still speaking.
“I know this feels all-encompassing. That you feel like you’re drowning every time you take a breath. But believe me, you just have to wake up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. Then one day, you’ll look back at this moment right now and realize it was exactly what you needed. I’m throwing you a life preserver, Aviva, and I need you to grab it with both hands.”
The rest was a blur as the case wrapped up, and my parents stood beside me, my father’s hand on my shoulder and my mother gripping my fingers tightly, like she could feel me slipping away already. It wasn’t their fault, but I knew they wouldn’t believe me if I told them that; they’d still blame themselves. That's just what parents did.
But something was broken inside me, and it wasn’t anything they could have fixed with more family dinners and quality time.
People buzzed around me like flies in the wide halls of the Court building, and a nice-looking police officer with a soft face was murmuring promises to my parents about how I would be fine. That was audacious of him, if not an outright lie. But I was glad he could give them something that I couldn’t right now—assurances that I was going to be okay.
I was put in the back of a police car, and I let my eyes drift to my parents as they cried on the sidewalk. I watched them get smaller and smaller, and saw the moment my mom collapsed into my father’s arms when she thought I was out of sight.
Guilt washed over me. I was a failure, really. I couldn’t even die right. It was all cry for help bullshit—at least, that's what they told me. They were wrong, but I’d fucked it up.
The policeman thankfully didn’t try to talk to me, didn’t give me any of the reassuring words he’d laid on my parents. He just drove quietly out of the city as I stared blankly out the window. The houses became more sparse, the trees thicker, hours passing until we rolled through a set of heavy wrought iron gates.
The sign on the gate said ‘Heath Buckley Center.’ It had manicured gardens, with artificially planted palms along the edges that carefully obscured the fences. The illusion of freedom. The policeman drove down the long, graveled driveaway, and I was kind of glad that this was an unmarked police car. And the cop was in plain clothes. Made it feel less like the first time I was being delivered to a mental health ward.
