

Insanity

Lauren Hammond

(c) Lauren Hammond 2012 Smashwords Edition

Insanity

Copyright (c) Lauren Hammond 2012

No part of this novel may be reproduced, copied, recorded, or used by any means without written permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. They are not to be misconstrued as real. Any resemblances to any persons, either living or dead, or locales and events, are completely coincidental.

S.B. ADDISON BOOKS

eBook Formatting by Studio 22 Productions

ISBN - 97809838681

Acknowledgements

There are so many people that I need to thank.

First to all the readers, I don't think I can thank you all enough. As an author, I am indebted to you all. Seriously. You guys deserve an award or something.

To the people who beta read this: Brenda, Megan, Shelley, and Kelly. Thank you a million times over.

To Kaycee and Greta at PWL Editing Services who did a fabulous job wrangling this into something readable.

To Stephanie Mooney the insanely talented cover designer.

My assistant Jessica, who is fabulously organized and has to be one of the most genuine and kindest type of person I've come to know.

The book bloggers who spread the word about their favorite books.

Finally, to everyone who has ever had that one, great love in your life. I promise you, that kind of love never dies.
PROLOGUE

OakHill Insane Asylum, 1958

If these walls could talk, I wonder what they'd tell me.

I wonder if they'd tell me that I'm certifiably insane. That the pills that are shoved down my throat every day are poison. That there's no need for this room with padded walls, straightjackets, metal restraints, barred windows, and boxed up dreams. That maybe I'm not as crazy as everyone thinks I am.

No...

I don't care what the staff tells me.

I. Am. Not. Crazy.

That's just ludicrous.

Ridiculous.

There's an internal tug of war going on inside of me between what's real and what's not. Perhaps I'm in denial or perhaps the pills that I'm force-fed everyday are making me delusional.

If I wasn't crazy they wouldn't have locked me up. I wouldn't shriek violently in the dead of night. The employees wouldn't stampede down the halls with syringes full of mind-numbing drugs to silence my violent screams and erase my memories.

But I keep telling myself that I am not crazy. That what the employees of the asylum keep telling me is total bull shit.

No, I am not crazy.

I can't be.

But if I wasn't I wouldn't be here, right?

So maybe...

I am.
Chapter One

I remember my first night here.

I remember the flickering lights on the ceiling that reminded me of bug zappers. The disenchanting vibe that was set from the way the dim lights danced along the neutral colored walls. More than anything, I remember the way they dragged me in here. Two orderlies, dressed from head to toe in white, clutching my elbows, escorting me down the darkened hall, barefoot and sobbing. Dirt and blood was caked up and ratted through my midnight colored locks, and smeared around the edges of my lime green dress.

I screamed in hysteria.

Cried with devotion.

And kicked with conviction.

They led me to sanitation area, ripped my clothes from my body, then hosed me down like a pig before it was sent to the slaughterhouse. A bar of soap whacked me on the side of the head after an orderly chucked it at me and told me to wash myself. I was too afraid to do anything. Too afraid to move. So I sat there for five minutes, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, my legs and arms twitching with spasms. Finally, out of impatience and anger the orderly stomped over and washed me instead.

I never felt more hopeless, more pitiful, or violated in a dirty kind of way.

After my seven-minute shower, without letting me dry off, they plastered a hospital gown on my wet body and led me to my room. Freezing I shivered, my teeth chattering while I pumped warmth back into my body with the friction from my hands. Nauseous, I swallowed the vomit inching up the back of my throat. Numb, I stared blankly ahead unable to concentrate. I remember thinking; if they kill people at this place, I hope they kill me soon.

They put me in solitary confinement, a small shoebox of a room with padded walls. They strapped me into a straightjacket. I fought the restraints. I screamed for help. I kicked one of the orderlies in the jaw.

You're a danger to yourself and others, they told me.

This is for your own good, your safety, they told me.

Here's the first thing I've learned since I arrived at the Oak Hill Asylum; when everyone thinks you're crazy, no one is going to listen to you. Either that or they'll make you their own personal pincushion and fill your veins with the kind of tranquilizing medicine they use on horses.

That night, my first night here, I shrieked all night long, tucked into a ball on my small, thin cot sobbing harder than I've ever sobbed before.

The funny thing is...

I haven't stopped since then.

Three weeks.

It has been three weeks.

I still don't know why I'm here.

What did I do to wind up in this place?

I ask myself this question multiple times every day and I can never find the answer.

Sometimes I hear a familiar voice inside of my head. Daddy's voice. "You stay out of her head, you little fucker. You stay out of her bed, you little fucker."

But who is the little fucker he's talking about?

My daddy was a bad man. He was best friends with Jimmy, Jack, and a Mexican named Jose. He liked to drink with his three best friends. Sometimes he'd even get piss ass drunk with them. On rare occasions he was nice, usually when his friends weren't around. Sometimes he even led me to believe he loved me, I think.

When I was little, Daddy used to push me on a tire swing he'd made me. I'd tell him how I wanted to be a bird, a canary, because canaries are pretty and yellow and have beautiful singing voices. Mommy was around then and she always thought it was funny that I'd talk about canaries. "And where would you fly, my little bird?" she'd ask, kissing the top of my head with a chuckle.

Then I'd reply with, "I'd fly to the moon."

Mommy, Daddy, and me laughed. We were a happy family.

Until one day I woke up and Mommy was gone.

And Daddy was never the same.

His friends used to come home with him occasionally and after a while they came home with him every day. I asked myself every day where my old Daddy went and thought about how bad I wanted him back.

But I never saw my old Daddy again. He left me, just like Mommy did.

I didn't like my new Daddy. One time, I just looked at him, giving him a sad look, tears glistening in my eyes. He looked back at me and for a second I thought I might catch a glimpse of my old Daddy. He stood up from his reclining chair, walked to me, and towered over me, squinting down at me. I opened my mouth to tell Daddy how much I loved him and that I missed my old Daddy and he's said, "You look just like that whore mother of yours."

And then he slapped me across the face.

That treatment continued for the next eight years, but I learned to be quiet, to keep to myself. I learned to keep away from Daddy and obey him. Because I knew what would happen if I didn't.

Then one night, Daddy's friends were over and Daddy was getting aggravated. He had a little too much of them for one night. Daddy's friends made him do crazy things sometimes. That night, the night they brought me in here, Daddy pulled out his rifle, aimed it...

BANG!

Then everything goes black and the shrieking begins.

Plodding footsteps drown out the sound of my screams.

I try and tell myself to stop screaming, but it's like my mind and emotions are at war with one another. Before I know it, the door to my cell swings open. Four people. There are four people approaching me, arms outstretched cautiously like I am some wild, ravenous beast in need of capturing.

Four people.

I have nothing to defend myself with except for two arms, two legs, and a sharp mind.

But four to one?

I am severely outnumbered. This is a battle I am going to lose. Still, even though I know I'll be defeated, determination pumps through me. I have never been the type to go down without a fight. Perhaps that's why I spent the last eight years letting my daddy beat me within an inch of my life. I never wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing that every time his fist connected with my jaw he didn't mentally break me.

Darting from my bed, I start for the door. Swinging hands swallow me and capture me in a net of firmness before carrying me back over to my cot. Thrashing my arms, I backhand a nurse, knocking the cap off her head and she grips the rounded collar of my hospital gown, cutting off my air supply for a second.

"Hold her down!" At the doctor's instruction a heavy-set nurse digs her kneecap into the small of my back and presses down.

No! Don't hold me down! Set me free! I don't belong here!

"No!" My voice is raspy and raw and dry, full of pent up fear and anger. "No!" I try to swat at someone behind me, but the two orderlies pin my arms to my cot. Wiggling, I try to free myself from their grasp, but the nurse with her knee in my back puts all of her weight on me shooting shivers of pain down my spine and immobilizing me.

"Calm down," my doctor says. He has a soft, soothing voice, but it's deadly.

I peek through stands of my ebony hair, watching the sweet, sweet mind-erasing fluid spout from the tip of the needle like a fountain. The drug speaks to me.

Forget who you are. Forget where you are. Forget why you were brought here. Forget everything.

I won't let them make me forget. I won't let them neutralize me and turn me into one of their empty robots.

I won't. I won't. I won't.

"Keep still, Adelaide. This won't hurt. You'll only feel a pinch."

But that pinch will dilute everything. I panic, screaming louder, and thrash as hard as I can. The orderlies in front of me grip my wrists harder and I can only see one clearly through my strands of unwashed hair. Thick black hair, blue blue eyes, and toasted almond skin. He doesn't look at me like the chubby one with pale, ashy hair next to him is looking at me. He's not looking at me like I'm crazy. He's looking at me like he feels sorry for me. Like he wants to take me away from this gloomy prison and hide me from the doctors with needles and metronomes.

Please, Blue eyes.

Save me.

Be my prince charming.

My knight in shining armor.

Rescue me from the burning tower of depression, sadness, and misery.

He doesn't. He won't. He can't.

The needle plunges into my skin and I let out a whimper. The drug blasts through my veins and infiltrates my bloodstream, shutting every organ inside of me down for the night. Widening my eyes, I fight off the effects of the drug as it works its way through my body. I clench my fists defiantly, trying to scream again, but I'm too weak, too tired, and too overtaken by the drugs to do anything but moan inaudibly.

I hear the doctor. He's talking to the members of the staff in the room. "Just wait until it takes full effect." His voice is muffled, fading away, and pretty soon I can't hear him at all anymore. I think my door closes.

There's a ringing in my ears that I can't shut out. There's a hand on my wrist that doesn't let go. Before exhaustion takes over I look up. Blue Eyes is at the end of the bed. He releases my wrist and laces his fingers through mine. I squint as the sedative blurs my vision, begins to decapitate my mind, and then I notice the painful look in those blue blue eyes.

On top of the pain in the two blue gems there's familiarity.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

How could I forget him? He, of all people. The one person in the entire world who holds the key to my heart. The one and only person who has ever really loved me.

Then I remind myself that they feed and inject me with so many drugs, that it's a miracle I don't forget who I am. I struggle to sound coherent, "Damien?"

He mouths something.

Six words.

Six words that seem too impossible to be true.

Six words that bleed hope into my soul.

Six words.

"You're not crazy. I love you."
Chapter Two

~BEFORE~

There's a gentle breeze in the moist June air.

The humidity moistens the wisps of hair dangling from my loose ponytail and curls the tendrils at the nape of my neck. My tan slip clings to my damp body and it's a sticky and uncomfortable feeling, but surprisingly I'm okay with it.

I throw my head back, listening to the sound of chirping crickets. It's early morning, around 7:00 and there are a few stragglers who haven't turned in yet. The sound soothes me, filling my ears with a calm that I don't get anywhere else but on my early morning walks.

Daddy leaves for work at 5:30 am. I'm not allowed to leave the house when he's home, so when I hear the front door slam behind him, I watch from my window as his 1953 Rambler flings up dirt and gravel and sails down the driveway. It's not until that moment that I feel at ease. It's not until that moment that the fear he's etched inside of me evaporates. Well, not permanently. But at least I get some peace for about nine hours.

At 6:30, I start walking.

I have no destination. No purpose other than wanting to break out of the prison I've lived in for the last eight years for a few hours. I've heard some people consider walking a leisurely activity or that they even do it for exercise. I'm envious of those people who have the freedom to make choices like that. Shall I take a walk? Go to the market? I roll my head back, allowing the blazing summer sunshine to overheat my pale cheeks. A depressing sigh exits my lips. Simple, mundane choices are gifts that I'll never receive.

I walk come rain or come shine. Whether it's hot or cold out. We live in West Des Moines, Iowa. In Geography, I'd learned that our state was part of what was considered the Midwest. It gets pretty cold here in the winter months. And when most people would rather stay inside and bundle up next to a blazing fire and sip hot chocolate, I still walk.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have the courage to walk away and never come back. I laugh to myself whenever I think about this.

Where will I go? What will I do? What could any woman do in this day and age with no money and no completed education? I don't graduate until next year.

I wish I knew the answer to those questions.

Miles and miles of farmland surround me. Acres of property. Fields full of corn. Bales of hay, rolled up and coiled on wide open plains. The sound of tires crunching against gravel pulsates in my ears and I lift my head as a bright red, convertible sails past me. I don't know much about cars, but I've seen a few people in town driving a car like this one. I'd heard them call it a Cadillac.

I know the boy in the car. Well not know him, know him; I know of him. I've heard his name on the lips of some of the girls I go to school with and I've seen him a few times, being that he's lived next door to me my whole life. Well, not really next door. About a half a mile next door. But that's as close of a neighbor as people get around here.

I used to think his house was a castle when I was a child and Mommy would drive me past it. There's a red brick wall surrounding the matching red brick mansion and I used to ask Mommy if a princess lived there. "Nope," she'd answered with a chuckle. "Two handsome princes."

Damien Allen. Even though he didn't attend school with the rest of the kids in the area—instead his rich parents sent him to some costly boarding school—that never seemed to stop the girls from gossiping about him. He was some kind of celebrity around town. His parents owned several tire factories, came from old money, and had two beautiful, dreamy sons. When Damien's older brother's engagement to some socialite from New York City was announced, I swear half of the girls went into mourning. But that left Damien as the town's most eligible bachelor.

We're the same age. Well, almost the same age. I know he's eighteen. I'm still seventeen, but I'll be eighteen in six months. I was born right before Christmas. A frown spreads across my lips and I try to replace it with a smile, but I come up short with a half-assed gesture. I'm thinking about Mommy. How she used to say, "Adelaide, you're the best Christmas gift I've ever received."

I think about Mommy a lot. It always hurts. Sometimes I'd rather have Daddy hit me because even though the impact of his palm against my cheek is painful, that kind of pain eventually goes away. The pain of remembering my absent mother doesn't. Whenever I think of her, the pain begins as a tiny spot on the edge of my heart and after a while it spreads, hardens my heart, and turns the whole organ black.

I inhale and exhale, tears swelling in my eyes, anguish pooling in my stomach. I keep telling myself to think of something else. I keep willing the tears not to fall from my eyes, but it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself not to do something, my bodily functions never obey the commands I'm screaming at them in my head.

Two tears trickle down my cheeks and I close my eyes, raise my head, and allow the bright, radiant sunshine to dry them. "Hey there."

A deep throaty voice sends a nervous wave throughout my body. Quickly I look to my right and wipe the remaining wetness from my eyes and blink several times. A few dangling tears drop onto the gravel and I swallow the thick layer of emotion that I know will be in my voice when I speak. I clear my throat several times and pinch my cheeks to make them look more sunburned than flushed. "Hello," I croak then swallow again. Turning my head, I'm sure all of the color has drained from my face and I think I'm about to be sick.

Damien Allen's Cadillac rolls slowly in reverse, falling in line with my steps. His bronzed arm hangs out of the side of the car, and there's a cocky smirk on his lips. He's wearing sunglasses and when he removes them, my equilibrium drifts off into the air and I stumble. I've never seen eyes as deep and as blue as his. They're like two sparkling sapphires in a glass case. I remind myself that he's only a person. That it's okay if I act normal, but I'm so blown away by his beauty that I can't act normal.

His blue eyes sweep over me from my feet to my face. I can't do anything but stare at his beautiful face. His jaw is tight and he massages the edges with his thumb and forefinger. Still, he doesn't take his eyes off me. Then he says, "Don't you know it's unladylike to walk around in your undergarments?"

My eyes widen. I'm baffled by the brash tone in his deep and empowering voice. I blush, embarrassed by his observance. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because this is the first time I've seen him up close and realize that the gossiping girls in school couldn't have been more right about him being more beautiful than Adonis, with his chin-length black hair, sun-kissed skin, and piercing blue eyes.

I peek over at him, my eyes centered on his muscular arm. He's probably toned in all the right places too. Stop! I scream at myself. Stop thinking about what the rest of his body looks like. If my attire is unladylike and believe me, I know it is, then my thoughts are beginning to turn into the kinds of thoughts a prostitute might have.

I look down at my nude slip that is worn out in areas. It isn't like I am naked or anything. I have my underwear on underneath the slip too. The tips of my fingertips brush against the long yellowed grass against the side of the road. I refuse to meet his gaze. "Yeah, well its hot out," I bark back. "I can't stand to wear my dresses in this heat."

Plus I didn't exactly plan on seeing anyone during my walk. Sometimes I'll see a vehicle or two speed down the winding country roads while I'm walking, but that's rare. During this time of the morning, the town is abandoned.

Saturated beams of sunlight flit down from the heavens and caress my bare shoulders. The longer I stand outside, the redder I will become. I quickened my pace, knowing I have to make it back to the safety of my house. I also had to get a jump-start on dinner before Daddy arrived home from work. I tried to be prompt on things when it came to Daddy because if I wasn't, he'd take the belt to my backside and after one of his whippings, I couldn't sit right for days.

Damien's eyes are still on me. I stare at him, deadpan, not slowing my pace. I suck in a deep breath at the sight of the way his eyes are burning into mine and try to ignore the butterflies swirling through my stomach. "Why don't you hop in?" He asks as the cocky smirk on his lips breaks out into a full on mega-watt smile. "Have you ever ridden in a convertible before?"

I grin at him then glance at my feet. "No. I haven't." I've actually only ridden in car a handful of times. Daddy won't allow it. He won't allow me to get a driver's license, either. He always says, "A woman's place is at home. Not out gallivanting around in some car." I've rode the bus to school a couple times on top of the times Daddy has taken me places in his car, mostly to town for things he needs—or on the rare occasion that he's feeling generous and allows me to get a new dress for school. Trust me, when I say rare, I mean it. I can't even count on one hand the times Daddy has bought me something since Mommy left. "My father will be home soon," I tell Damien. "I don't think that's a good idea."

I'm lying. Daddy won't be home for hours. But he's had eight years to put the fear of God in me and he's done a damn good job. If he heard through the grapevine that I'd been out riding around in a car with some boy—and believe me this is a small town; people talk—I know I wouldn't be able to sit right for weeks.

A disappointed look blooms on Damien's beautiful face and witnessing that look makes my insides throb and clench before turning into a full blown ache. I wish that I could tell him why I couldn't go for the ride, but I'm ashamed, and on top of that, I don't really know him. He might be the most beautiful man I've ever seen, but my trust is something that's precious and something that has to be earned.

I know beautiful people. I go to school with them, see them from time to time in town, and they always have a way of getting what they want. They always have a way of sneaking inside of you and getting you to agree to things before you even realize what you're doing. Well, I don't care how beautiful Damien Allen is or what his motives may be. He's not getting whatever it is he wants from me.

"Oh." There's sadness in his deep, rich voice. "Maybe some other time then."

"Sure." I smile and block the sun from my eyes with my forearm. "Some other time."

Honestly, I never intended on going on that ride with Damien, but I learned fast just how persistent Damien could be. After my first refusal to go on a car ride with him, he showed up in my driveway a few hours after Daddy went to work every single day for a week straight. "How about that ride?" he'd ask and finally after days of refusing him, I agreed to let him take me for a ten minute cruise.
Chapter Three

~AFTER~

You're not crazy. I love you.

I'm dreaming the words and picturing the face of the person who said them. Black hair. Blue blue eyes deeper than the depths of the Pacific. Clear smooth toasted almond skin. High cheekbones. Chiseled jaw line. A lean muscular body. Strong hands. Long fingers. Low rich voice.

I sit up still groggy and realization goes off like a bomb inside of me. Blue Eyes. I know him—no—not just know him. He's my other half. My heart is a lock and he holds the key. Damien, Blue Eyes, the orderly...

He's the love of my life.

Yesterday was the first time I've ever seen him here. I can't remember the last time I saw him. How did he know I was here? How did he find me? When I was brought here, part of me hoped that he would find me.

Words ring out in my head. Beautiful words once spoken to me by him. "Addy, you are my sun, my moon, and my stars. You are my heaven, my hell, and my earth. I'd go anywhere with you. I'd follow you anywhere."

And he's here.

I'm angry with myself for not recognizing him right away, but then again I've been so bogged down by the asylum's oblivious mind-fuck pills that I haven't noticed much of anything lately.

I snake my fingers through my hair and tug. But it's Damien! Damien! He's not just any guy.

I'd forgotten him.

Now I know I have to find him.

Shoving my feet off the side of the bed, new surroundings burn my eyes. Tan plaster walls instead of thick white padded ones. One oblong barred window. Two dressers. Two closets. Two beds.

They've moved me to a different room.

A gentle squeaking noise bounces off the walls and my eyes avert to my right. Oh shit. They put me in a room with a nut job.

They say I'm a nut job.

But not like this.

Not even close.

She rocks back and forth on her cot, knees to her chest, twisting a piece of her wiry, red hair between her fingertips. Her freckled arms are trembling. She sings with vibrato.

I am slowly going crazy. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Switch.

Crazy going slowly am I. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Switch.

I think about screaming again. Somebody turn her off. She lifts her head slowly, a maddening look in her big, brown eyes and eerie smile crawling across her pale, freckled lips. "Shh," she whispers. "They're coming for us."

"Who's they?"

She shakes her head and lets out a cackle laced with the deepest kind of crazy. I think they put her in here with me on purpose. They're trying to break me. They think if they put me around truly insane people that I'll accept my place here. Well...They are wrong.

I don't know how many times I can say this; I don't belong here.

I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here.

I jump at the sound of the door banging against the wall. I glance at Crazy, who is still rocking back and forth on her cot. A second ago she said, "Shh. They're coming." Maybe Crazy is psychic.

There's a chubby nurse at the door with bright red lipstick and two paper Dixie cups. "Adelaide," she hands me the cup. She keeps a close eye on me, watching, waiting. She slits her beady gray eyes. It's like she's saying; swallow the damn pills already, you lunatic. I watch her watch me.

There's a sneer on those bright red lips. I'd like to wipe it off her face. My eyes flit to her nametag. Marjorie.

She was here during my fit last night. Rammed her knee in to my back. My spine still throbs from the force of her putting all of her weight on me.

Marjorie tries a different approach. She plasters a fake smile on her round face. Her face isn't meant for smiling because she looks even more frightening than she did a second ago. "All right, sweetheart." She's made her voice light instead of its usual dark. Airy instead of weighed down, it's almost... it's almost...maternal. It's terrifying.

She urges me to go on with her steel eyes. "Down the hatch."

I stare into my cup at the large pills. They've been pumping my body full of pharmaceuticals three times a day since my second day here. I hate it. The pills make me a zombie. They make me walk the halls, trailing my fingers along the smooth texture, forgetting who I am and a lot of other things.

Crazy on the cot across from me has started chanting. Down the hatch. Down the hatch. Down the hatch.

I bring the cup to my lips and toss the pills back just to shut her up. I don't swallow them, though. I push them under the left side of my tongue and try to keep a straight face as the chalky, bitter taste coats my taste buds.

"Open wide," Marjorie instructs me.

I do as I'm told. Marjorie seems satisfied. She moves on to Crazy. "Aurora," she hands the cup to her and she takes the cup.

At that point, I look away I stare at the tiny cracks in the plaster wall. That's how I feel inside, cracked—no—shattered. It's like watching a mirror being blown up in front of you. There are so many pieces, but you have no idea how to put them back together again. You have no idea where the pieces go.

"Open wide, Aurora." I peek over my shoulder as Aurora opens her mouth. I wish she'd stop taking her time. If I have to keep these pills under my tongue any longer I might as well have just swallowed them.

The second Marjorie is out the door, I spit the pills into my palm and shove them into one of the wider cracks in the wall. I will not let them drug me anymore. I will not let them make me one of their mindless robots.

Suddenly the overhead light in my rooms flickers before dimming. I turn my attention to Aurora who scrambles to the edge of her cot, wrapping her pillow around her head.

"Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" she cries. Her freckled knees begin shaking. Her wails intensify. "Make them stop! Make them stop! Make them stop!"

"I can't," I say softly. But she's still crying out at the top of her lungs so I don't think she can hear me.

What I want to tell her is I wish I knew how to make them stop. What I don't tell her is they probably never will.

A volt of electricity climbs through the wires behind the plaster walls and the lighting in our room returns to normal. I know what happens when the lights flicker; it means they took someone else to the basement. It means they took someone else to their sadistic torture chamber to try and electrocute the crazy out of them. I've been keeping a close eye on some of the girls in my group who've received electroshock therapy, and I've made up my mind that the doctors around here aren't as smart as they think they are. Sending that many volts of electricity through a person's body doesn't eliminate the crazy. The only thing it does is fry your brain, dilute your mind, and kill you faster.

Footsteps echo outside the door and carry down the hall, pretty soon they cut out altogether. I walk to the door, then take inventory in the hall. It's deserted and the only sound is the buzzing from the flickering lights on the ceiling. Closing the door, I turn on my heel to come face-to-face with Crazy, I mean Aurora. She examines me slowly and I choke on a scream, lodged somewhere in my throat.

Backing away from her, my back thuds against the door. Why would they put me in here with her? Do the doctors think it's normal to put the crazies in with the non-crazies? Aurora tilts her head to the side and takes small, staggering steps toward me. She's inches away now, her cool stale breath unfurls across my cheeks and wafts up my nostrils. Dropping my gaze, I look to her hands to see if she may have a hidden weapon. She doesn't, but I can still feel the terror latching onto my spine as she hovers over me.

"Whhaat... What do you want?" I croak.

A look of confusion crosses over her face. She's got child-like features. Big, wide brown eyes. Soft ivory skin. A dainty, pointed nose. Tiny yet full lips. She continues staring at me and I turn my head and close my eyes. Maybe she'll get the hint if I'm not looking at her. Maybe she'll see how frightened I am of her. Maybe she'll leave me alone.

Somehow I doubt it.

Strands of my midnight hair shield my face and I bravely open an eye and peek through the locks at Aurora. Her fingers are in her mouth and she's fishing around for something. Oh no. Maybe she hid a weapon in her mouth. I'd heard some of the other girls in the rec room talking about patients hiding razor blades under their tongues. I tell myself to close my eyes again, but I can't stop watching her.

Aurora's eyes widen. Her forefinger and thumb appear to be pinched down on something. Shit. "Please!" I beg her. "Don't kill me!"

I face her and she regards me in an odd way. She regards me like I'm the crazy one and she's normal. She pulls whatever she was fishing for and balls it up in her fist. Then she holds her hand out to me. "Give me your hand," her voice quivers.

I remain silent and shake my head.

"I said give me your hand," she says louder and with a growl. I stick my hand out, palm up and Aurora places two pills in my hand. "Do me a favor and put those where you put yours." She plops back down on her cot while I stay in my spot gawking at her, baffled. Her eyes flit across my face and she shrugs. "Well."

I will myself to move and walk over to my cot and shove the two pills in the same crack I hid mine in.

Sitting down on my cot, I tuck my legs underneath my butt and say, "I don't get it."

Aurora faces me. "Don't get what?"

"I thought you were a few cards short of a full deck."

A soft smile spreads across her lips. "Pretty convincing, wasn't I?" I nod and she goes on. "Here's the 411 on mental hospitals. If you act like you're crazy and pretend to take your pills they pretty much leave you alone." She sits back, placing her back against the wall and pulls her knees to her chest. "It's the people like you who try to fight them that they focus on," she makes quotation marks with her fingers, "trying to fix."

"I shouldn't be here," I tell her. "I don't belong here."

"Neither do I," she insists, "but the last place I want to end up is in the basement. And trust me, you keep acting the way you've been acting and you'll earn yourself a first class ticket."

I shudder when I think of what goes on beneath the floorboards of my room. I've never seen the basement, and I don't want to, but I get plenty of reminders of what goes on down there from the wild shrieks in the night,(not mine) flickering lights, and horrific stories from the other patients. I scoot closer to the edge of my cot and play with my fingers. "So, if we're supposed to be acting crazy, how will the doctors be able to tell if we're getting better? How will we ever get out of here?"

The thought of freedom almost seems like a joke. Or a distant memory. Like when I was a child and used to tell my parents I wanted to be a canary and fly to the moon. In here, we're not birds, and people only fly because they're high or have lost their minds.

Aurora raises an eyebrow. "Get out of here?" she asks then laughs again and it reminds me of the cackle she let out earlier. I frown at her while she laughs at my expense then her face gets all serious. "It's simple. You don't."

No, at Oakhill, it's safe to say we'll never be birds. We'll always be caged lab rats.
Chapter Four

~AFTER~

"Patient's name, Adelaide Carmichael. Age—twen—." Dr. Watson sits at his desk, leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen against the leather arm rest, gold hair and stunning profile in perfect view. He spots me in the doorway and his eyes scorch mine.

Dr. Elijah Watson doesn't look old enough to be a doctor. For some reason when I think of what a doctor should look like, I get this image of the pediatrician my mother used to take me to when I was a kid. An overweight man with a kind face, gold-rimmed wire spectacles, and white hair. Dr. Watson presses a button on the tape recorder he was speaking into and sits up straight in his chair, hands folded neatly on the desk in front of him. He smiles at me, but the smile doesn't touch his hazel eyes. "Ah, Adelaide," he motions to an empty folding chair in front of his desk, "please come in and have a seat."

I hear the way the nurses talk about him. Some of the patients too. Standing here, in front of him for the first time, I can see why people here gossip about him and say the things they do. Hesitating, I trace the oak paneling of the doorframe with my finger. As beautiful as he is, with his sharp, angular jaw-line, pale pallor, and stunning eyes that border between hazel and warm honey in color. This man frightens me.

I don't trust him.

"Adelaide." There's a rich texture to his voice. I eye him apprehensively. Yeah, this man is definitely smooth. "I promise you, I won't bite." He motions to the chair in front of his desk again. "Please. Sit." Somehow I get the feeling that this is a command, not a request.

"Addy," I tell him, making my way over to the chair and sitting down in front of him.

He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Addy?"

"I prefer to be called, Addy."

He steeples his hands against his lips. "Very well then, Addy." His eyes do a clean sweep of me and the way they touch the bare skin on my arms and legs makes me feel uneasy. Tense. Nervous. Dr. Watson clears his throat and even that normal, bodily function coming from him puts me on edge.

I think the institution likes to switch up the doctors on the patients. I'm not sure why they do it, but up until now I'd always had a stern, yet informative doctor named, Dr. Matthew Morrow so this is my first visit with Dr. Watson. You see, even though he's beautiful, I know that behind that flawless face lurks something truly capable of evil. It's like a double sided coin. One side is beautiful and perfect, the other rotten and sinister.

Dr. Watson's eyes are still on me, I can feel his gaze shredding through the flimsy fabric of my hospital gown. I do everything I can to avoid looking at him by staring at his plaques of achievement hanging on the white walls in this tuna can of an office, flicking a piece of fuzz off my knee, and then I drop my gaze to my hands and start playing with my fingers.

Finally, Dr. Watson cuts into the silence and says, "So Addy, since this is your first session with me, would you mind starting at the beginning?"

"The beginning?" I look at him, but try not to stare directly into his eyes. I think most women could get lost there. That one look into his beautiful eyes could be their undoing. Their unraveling. Most of the patients here seem unraveled. I wonder if men that looked like Dr. Elijah Watson are the reason why. In this day and age, a lot of women are tricked by beautiful men into thinking they're something they're not.

Pursing my lips, I examine Dr. Watson's features further and decide that he's the Aphrodite of most of the attractive men I've seen in my life.

I don't want to take any chances. Or maybe I do. I know that Damien is here somewhere and I could never be unfaithful to him. So I bravely, stare directly into Dr. Watson's eyes. And while they are stunning, they are also distant—vacant.

My attention averts to a manila folder on his desk. Dr. Watson flips through it for a moment then stares at me again. "Yes, the beginning. I have your file from, Dr. Morrow." He pats the thick folder, but doesn't drop his gaze. "But I'd like to hear why you think you've been brought here from your lips." He stares at my mouth. The obvious shift in his attention causes me to bite my bottom lip and brings blood to my cheeks.

I frown. "I don't know," I say weakly.

Dr. Watson's face is contorted in confusion. "Pardon me?

"I don't know," I say louder and with force.

"You don't know why you're here?" There's a hike of surprise in his voice.

I shake my head. "No."

With that, Dr. Watson reaches into his desk, whips out a notepad and a pencil then hits the record button on the tape recorder. "Then tell me, Addy, what is the last clear recollection you have? What do you remember about your life before you came here?"

"You mean before I was brought here?"

"Excuse me, yes, before you were brought here."

I swallow hard and look away from him. "I don't want to."

He probes me further. "Don't want to what?"

"I don't want to talk about it," I snap. "I don't want to think about that." Then I clamp my mouth shut and regret getting mouthy with him. During this moment, I think about the basement. About the devices that I heard are down there. About patients who visit the basement and never return. Then I think about Damien and how I know he probably gave up a lot to follow me here and how his heart would shatter into a million pieces if I earned a trip downstairs and never returned. "I mean..." I hesitate and work up some fake tears. "It's just really hard to talk about or think about." I dip my thumb into the corners of my eyes and blot away the wetness. "But sometimes I get bits and pieces."

Dr. Watson smiles triumphantly. It's like the arrogant son of a bitch thinks that he's the one who made me crack. Guess what, you pretentious prick? I made myself crack—no—more like the haunting images of this institution and the realization of what might become of me if I don't cooperate is what made me crack. "Bits and pieces," Dr. Watson muses and leans back, steepled hands pressed against his plump lips. "What do you mean by that, Addy?"

"Kind of like flashbacks," I tell him. What I don't tell him is that they are the same flashbacks that make me wake up in the middle of the night shrieking. The same flashbacks that make the doctors, nurses, and orderlies working the night shift come running down the hall with forceful hands and syringes filled with sedatives to quiet my screams.

"Why don't you tell me about them?" Dr. Watson crosses his legs and urges me to go on with his eyes.

I don't like the way he's staring at me because it's almost sensual. Every now and then I'll catch a glimpse of him, his warm colored eyes sweeping over me and the smug look on his face tells me he's wondering what I look like without my hospital gown or my under garments." Daddy is in most of them," I say. "Daddy has a bad temper."

Dr. Watson narrows his eyes. "Does he now?"

I nod and exhale. This is painful. Talking about my daddy is like pouring salt into an infected cut, painful. It's like just when I think the wound is about to scab over, someone brings him up again and suddenly the healed wound is gushing blood. A vision of a saltshaker flits through my mind and I can see the white particles pouring out of the metal holes. I clutch my arm and hold it against my chest. "He does."

"It says here your father was an alcoholic," Dr. Watson remarks as he flips through my file. "Is that true?"

I nod.

"Where was your mother?"

"She left when I was ten."

"Do you know where she went?"

"No. All I know is that I woke up one day and she was gone. Then Daddy said she'd left because she wasn't cut out to be a mother." There were also many times where he called her a whore and I always wondered if she left because she found someone else.

Dr. Watson tilts his head to the side. "Is that something that you believe?"

"No."

"Why do you think she left?"

"Because of Daddy and his drinking."

"Do you know why she didn't take you with her?"

I shake my head, look to my right, and gaze out a small, square window. There isn't much of anything to look at. Winter has taken a toll on the once green courtyard, now all there is, is a bunch of weeds and dead leaves. But that beats staring at the beautiful demon of a man sitting in front of me.

If I based my opinion of Dr. Watson solely on first impressions, I'd say that he was cocky yet complex. Before I thought he was evil. Now, I'm not so sure. I do know there is something sneaky about him and I definitely don't trust him, but I've decided that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't be afraid of him.

At least not until he gives me a reason to be.

~ ~ ~

We get three hours of free time every day.

I spend mine in the corner of the rec room, either reading or watching the boys across the fence.

Oak Hill is split up into two sections. The girls are housed on one side of giant metal fence, the boys on the other. The boys spend a lot of time outside. I don't know why we don't. We meaning, the girls. Maybe we do and I just haven't had the opportunity to yet. The cold weather has just broke over the last two weeks and on top of that I'm still new here. The excitement of actually being able to leave the building squirms inside of me. I love the outdoors. The delicious thought of breathing in the fresh, spring air swells in my lungs just thinking about it. The wind whipping through my hair. The sun on my skin. For a second I truly believe I am outside until soft whispers from a group of girls to my left snare my eardrums.

I don't know all of them, just the blonde with a pixie cut named, Cynthia, who seems to be the ringleader of the group and a trouble-maker as well. The few times I've been in here she's always been gossiping about somebody or making fun of another patient. Aurora seems to be the butt of her jokes.

My eyes wander over to Aurora who is seated in the far left corner of the room, humming to herself and coloring in a coloring book with a green crayon. She's in full crazy mode. She lifts her head slowly, winks at me, then returns to her coloring book. I can see why Cynthia, and all of the others say things about her. I mean she's a really pleasant girl, but I can understand why they gossip. I might have thought the same things they did if she wasn't my roommate and I didn't know otherwise.

Her words from last night surge through me; It's simple. You don't. Get to leave is what she meant. Doesn't anybody here get better? Don't any of these girls have parents who are waiting anxiously for the day they can pull up in their Buick and bring them home? My eyes circle around the group of girls to my left. I know I'll never get close enough to them to ask.

It's not that I don't want to make friends, but I've always been the outcast. I don't try to be, but for some reason girls either like me or they don't. In most circumstances they don't. It also doesn't help that I'm painfully shy and choose not to include myself in their social circles for an obvious reason; I'm not the giggly, girly, gossipy type.

Sometimes the staff lets us listen to the radio. Today is one of those days and I perk up when Patsy Cline croons, "Crazy." I have to laugh at how ironic that is. Until Cynthia's low voice cuts into chorus of the song, "Did you guys hear what happened to Suzette?"

Suzette used to be in the room across from mine when I was in solitary. She, like me had night terrors. I heard stories, mainly from Cynthia and her clan about how the staff used to have to give Suzette double the sedatives a normal patient would receive. Then it dawns on me, and I wonder how Cynthia gets her information.

I keep my head straight forward, my eyes closed, but my ears open. Most of the time the only excitement you get around here is eavesdropping on other people's conversations.

One of the girls, a thick brunette with medium length brown hair and cat-eye glasses gasps, "No, what happened to her?"

"Poor, Suzette." Cynthia's voice is heavy with a sadness that isn't genuine and it makes my stomach churn. I wonder if the bitch talks just to talk. "You know, they took her down to the basement." Whispers and gasps fill the room. "I overheard one of the nurses saying that they were going to try this procedure on her."

I sit up straight. So now I know where Cynthia gets her information. She likes to eavesdrop too.

"What's the procedure called?" asks another girl in the group. She is thin, waifish, with blonde hair that stretches down the length of her back.

"A lobotomy."

The entire room is still. Silent. Everyone knows what a lobotomy is. The procedure had been introduced by some German doctor in an institution like Oakhill decades ago. Some people come out of the procedure unscathed and feeling better. Like the screw in them that was loose had been tightened.

According to the staff, we've had none of those cases here at Oakhill. The patients either enter a vegetative state or die. Again, I've learned this from eavesdropping on Cynthia's conversations.

I assume that in Suzette's case it was the latter.

Just by looking at the girls' faces in the rec room I know they're thinking the same thing. And now we all know that Suzette is never coming back.

Blondie speaks. "Who administered it?" She swallows the quiver in her vocal cords. "I mean which doctor said she needed it?"

"The new one," Cynthia whispers. "The young, dreamy one."

"Dr. Watson?" I find my voice and insert myself into their conversation—for once.

Cynthia's powder blue eyes widen and I notice that even Aurora seems attentive. She's abandoned her coloring book and is gawking at me. She sucks on her thumb, careful to not drop the crazy act completely. "You know him?" Cynthia asks.

"I met him today." My eyes return to the window. "He's treating me."

"I think he brings life to the cliché, if looks could kill," Cynthia adds. "You better hope he doesn't treat you the way he treated, Suzette."

"But I thought you said he ordered it, but didn't actually do it."

Cynthia shrugs. "It's basically the same thing. Potato, pototo."

She's right. I don't know why I said what I said in the first place. It's like a person who holds the gun while his partner cleans out the vault during a bank robbery. That doesn't make the person who isn't cleaning out the vault any less guilty. In fact, in my eyes he's even guiltier than the guy cleaning out the vault.

A nanosecond later, Dr. Watson breezes past the rec room. All of the girls shut up and I stare at his silhouette of a reflection and his cold, beautiful eyes rest on my back through the window. A shiver of panic runs down my spine and now I know...

I should be afraid of Dr. Elijah Watson.

Very, very afraid.
Chapter Five

~BEFORE~

My relationship with Damien progressed quickly.

That surprised me. I never defied, Daddy. My unrelenting obedience came mostly from my fear of him and his actions, but I found out that when it came to Damien, everything I used to be didn't matter anymore. As the weeks passed, I'd fallen so deeply and hopelessly in love with him that I didn't give a damn about Daddy or the punishments I knew I'd receive if I got caught.

Daddy used to tell me when I was little that I wasn't allowed to date unless he met the boy and he approved. "My beautiful little girl deserves an honorable young man who is going to treat her with respect," he'd said a few times with a smile.

Daddy used to be so handsome. I could see why Mommy liked him. I also knew why she left him. She'd told me once. "Daddy's three friends are going to be his undoing," she said.

I know, Mommy. I know.

Now, the only thing I hope for is that they undo him a little faster. I know that's a terrible thought to have, but I don't know how much more of his violent temper my bones can take.

My window creaks open and a soft gust of air creeps in and tousles my pale yellow curtains. Damien smiles at me through the darkness and inside I'm elated to the point where I think my love for him might burst out of me if he doesn't touch me. "Come on," he whispers into the darkness. "What are you waiting for?"

I place a finger against my lips. "Shhh."

Daddy's snores penetrate through the walls and I remain frozen in my spot for another minute. I always like to give myself a few minutes before sneaking out just to make sure Daddy's is in a deep sleep. I've learned how to tell the difference between Daddy's deep sleeping and his dozing through the years.

That also has to do with which friend he had over for the day. He had Jack today and when Jack comes over, Daddy sleeps like a mummy in a sarcophagus. He's wrapped up and dead to the world.

My eyes flit over to Damien's. His blue eyes cut into the darkness, a needy hungry look in them. At the same time I feel like my skin is itching for his touch. After a few more seconds, I'm at the window and Damien has me by the waist, lifting me out of the window and lowering me to the ground. We don't even make it a step before he tugs on my lower lip with his teeth and presses into my body, pinning me against the side of my house. My hands are in his hair and his tongue slips between my lips and I breathe softly into his mouth.

I cherish these secretive trysts. They mean more to me than life. I think about them all day long, all night long, and even dream about them. In the past I had nothing to look forward to. Nothing pleasant to think about. No hope for my future. I simply existed and felt a part of me die a little more every day.

Then Damien came along in his cherry red Cadillac and taught me how to hope and feel and love. Damien is the only person who loves me. Me. Me. Me. Of all people. He could have any girl he wanted and he wants me. He chose me. He loves me. I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet.

I once asked him why he chose to pursue me and he answered me with a radiant smile. "You're not only beautiful, but enigmatic. I find that fascinating." It was one of those situations where I really didn't care why because he had chosen to love me, but out of curiosity, I wanted to know.

Damien pulls away from me and tucks wisps of my hair behind my ears. He smiles and I touch the dimples I love so much on his cheeks. "My beautiful rebellious love," he muses and places his forehead against mine. "Remind me again where I'd be without you?"

I laugh. "Probably dating some gorgeous socialite or maybe one of the other pretty girls in town."

Damien tugs on my hand and pulls me away from the house. "Why would I need one of them when I have the most beautiful girl in the world right here?" There's a teasing tone in his voice, but a deep unwavering sincerity in his eyes.

Why does he always tell me that? I know it's far from the truth.

Don't misunderstand me, I do think I'm attractive in a Plain Jane sort of way. But not like some of the other girls I go to school with. The type of beautiful girls someone like Damien belongs with. I make a joke out of him calling me beautiful. "Apparently, I'm not beautiful at all. Apparently, I look just like a whore." My whore of a mother to be exact.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not even sure that I know what a whore looks like. Daddy doesn't let me watch television. I'm not allowed to buy any of the latest books or magazines. But I assume that most women people call whores dress in scantily clad outfits and have multiple sexual partners.

Damien comes to a stop, faces me and releases my hand, an electric spark of anger present in his pools of blue. I almost slam my body into his chest, but he snakes his fingers around my wrist, gripping tightly before I do. "Where the hell did you hear that? Did he tell you that?" Hate drips from his voice like grease from a frying vat and my body stiffens in response to the harsh edge in his tone.

He meaning, Daddy. "Yes," I say, but I don't go any further than that. I want to tell him that Daddy tells me that at least once a day. Sometimes more. I also want to tell him that sometimes he hits me even when I've done nothing wrong and then tells me it's because I look just like her.

But I don't. He's already so angry. I don't want to add more criteria to fuel his rage further.

It's during those times that I wish I knew where Mommy was, and why she didn't take me with her. Daddy tells me it's because she didn't want to be a mother anymore. I don't know if that's the complete truth. More than anything, I think that's something he tells himself so he doesn't have to live with the guilt of knowing that his inability to control his drinking is what drove her away.

Damien has reached the point where he's breathing so hard, that his throat rasps. He's let go of my wrist and paces in front of me, his lean muscled body tenses. I reach out to him, but he shoos me away. I tell him, "Calm down." But he ignores me.

Now I'm angry. And flustered. And emotional. I fold my arms across my chest, suck back my oncoming tears and stalk back toward the house.

Damien is at my side in a nanosecond. He touches my shoulder and I shrug him off with a harrumph. He reaches for my bicep and clutches it. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Back inside," I snap. "Now let go of me."

Damien doesn't listen and clutches my arm tighter. "You can't go back in there."

"Who says? I live there."

"What if he woke up?"

I peel his fingers off my arm. "Then I'll deal with it."

"Deal with it?" Damien raises his voice. "Deal with it?" He grabs both of my shoulders, gazes deep into my eyes and shakes me. I'm terrified, yet mesmerized by the emotion in his eyes. "No, Addy, no." He lets go of my shoulders and runs a shaky hand through his hair before bringing it down his face. "God, Adelaide. Do you know how beautiful and smart and witty you are?" He sighs and shakes his head. "Of course you don't," he points a finger at my window, "because you let him make you believe otherwise." He closes the gap between us, tangling his fingers in my hair, gazing lovingly into my eyes, his lips a breath away from mine. "You can't go back there. I won't let you. I won't let him hurt you anymore!"

I swat at his hands, untangling them from my hair. "You know I have to," I snap. "I haven't even graduated high school. I have no money. No job. No license. Tell me, Damien, what will I do? Where can I go? Where will I live? How will I support myself?"

Damien takes a step closer. "Me."

I laugh and judging by the howl I let out at the end, I know I sound like a lunatic. "You? How will you do all that? You haven't even graduated. And what about college? Aren't you going to Yale in the fall? I won't let you give up on the things you want in life for me."

He fans the tips of his fingers across my cheek and I look away. This is killing me. He has so much to look forward to and if he stays with me, I'll continue to drag him down. I'm like a whirlpool in the middle of a choppy sea, once you're in my grasp I'll have no choice, I'll snatch you by the leg, and pull you under.

"Don't you see, Addy?" His voice is soft and there's so much warmth in it, that just by listening to it, I feel my body overheating. "I want none of those things. I don't care about Yale. I don't care about the other things you think I want in life. Because the truth is, Addy, the only thing I want and won't give up on is you."

I close my eyes and tears dangle on the edges of my long lashes. My heart thunders like the gray sky before a flash of lightning peeks through the darkened clouds. My stomach feels like it has grown a pair of legs and is sprinting up my esophagus. "Stop, Damien. Please."

"Addy, I—."

"Just go," my voice cracks with a mixture of pain and forcefulness.

"Addy, I don't understand." He moves toward me and I fight off the hysteria that's building up inside of me, trying to hold every part of me together when it really feels like I'm falling apart.

"Just leave!" I scream as tears rain down my cheeks and my shrill high-pitched voice echoes through the humid, night sky.

Damien's eyes widen and he clutches his chest. His eyes flit to the ground and he staggers backward the tiniest bit. By the surprised look and the way he's clutching his chest, to me it looks like my words have punctured his heart and that's what breaks me.

I can't keep a straight face anymore. I can't keep my emotions in check anymore.

I wail out in agony and run from him.

Back to my house.

Back through my window.

Back into my bed.

I wrap my pillow around my head and scream as an agonizing pain pumps through my body. Cocooning myself in my blanket, I continue sobbing softly into my pillow. Daddy's snores bleed through the walls and hearing his garbled breathing causes me to relax a little. I've convinced myself that everything I've just dealt with would feel worse if he was awake. Then again I have a twisted thought and think that maybe just maybe the physical pain from Daddy's, fist might numb the emotional pain and that keeps swelling and swelling and swelling inside of me.

I've come to the heart wrenching realization that Damien is too good for someone like me. He is bright and beautiful and smart and is going to have an amazing life, far far away from here, and far far away from me.

He'll find a lovely girl at college. They'll get married. Have a dozen beautiful babies. And they'll be the envied couple that everyone looks at when they imagine what love and happiness should be like. They'll be the picture of perfection.

Damien deserves that. He deserves all of the blissful and incandescent happiness in the world.

And there's a sick feeling, swirling around in my gut that lets me know he'll never find that kind of happiness with me.
Chapter Six

~AFTER ~

Dr. Watson is listening to music.

His back is to me, but I can see the vinyl spinning on the record player behind him.

Claude, Debussy's, Claire de Lune.

It is one of my all-time favorite songs.

I'm not a music snob. I appreciate every type, whether it's rock and roll, jazz, even Motown, but there's something truly beautiful about classical music. It's almost haunting the way the melody can work its way inside of your soul because there's no one crooning words to distract you from the roots of the song.

Sometimes, when Daddy wasn't around, I'd sneak and listen to the radio. And I always find my fingers twisting the knob to the classical station.

Closing my eyes, I listen attentively, allowing the sound of the piano to fill up every part of me. I'm calm, relaxed, and I breathe in deep, catching a whiff of Dr. Watson's cologne that permeates the air. It smells exotic yet musky. Like the damp earth in the early morning mixed in with a tropical rainforest.

I exhale and open my eyes. Dr. Watson is facing at me, staring, as a soft smile curls on his full lips. "Do you like this song?"

I sit down in the folding chair in front of him. "I do."

This is the seventh time I've seen him for treatments since he's arrived here and I'm starting to grow more comfortable around him. Beneath the gorgeous hard face and cool stares, I think there is good person lying dormant. He's just not the warm type and that's okay. Not every person on the planet is supposed to be the same.

Sometimes I find it difficult to not admire him in an adoring kind of way and I wind up comparing him to Damien. I know that in a way, that is wrong, because Damien has my heart and soul, but for some strange reason I have this attraction to Dr. Watson.

Maybe it's because despite what everyone else says about him, I get the genuine feeling that he really does want to help me. That he really does want to see me get out of here someday. As unrealistic as that sounds.

Dr. Watson cuts into my thoughts when he says, "I thoroughly enjoy classical music."

"As do I."

He smiles brightly and I find myself smiling in return. I love Dr. Watson's smile because every time he flashes me one it's like his face lights up and every feature on his face shines. It also reminds me that he is capable of warmth. It's just a side of him he doesn't show too often.

On the edge of his desk is something new, a silver rimmed picture frame. I trace the back of it with my fingertip, "May I?"

"Go ahead."

Picking up the frame and the flipping it over my mouth falls open at what I see, a child. A beautiful child. A girl who can't be more than two years old. "You have a daughter?" I gasp, still taking in the sight of the little girl in the picture with round rosy cherub cheeks, a flawless ivory complexion, and the most stunning violet eyes. "She's very beautiful," I comment as I place the frame back on his desk. I find it odd that the photo is in color. I've never seen a photo in color. I didn't even know one could be made. I shrug and banish the thought. I decide it must be some new advancement in technology that I haven't heard about.

"Thank you." His eyes center on the photo. "I'm afraid she gets most of her beauty from her mother though."

"You're married?"

"Does that surprise you? Aren't most people who have children married?"

"It's not that," I say. "It's just that you look too young to be a doctor let alone be married with a child."

"I'm not that young," he chuckles. "I'll be thirty in two years." He shifts in his chair, making himself more comfortable. "Now, enough about me. Let's go on to you. After all, this is your treatment session."

"What about me?" I always get nervous before my treatment sessions with him. Mainly because sometimes if there is a topic I don't feel comfortable talking about he'll push me until he can pry the words out of me.

"Why don't you tell me about your mother?" His voice has an adamant ring to it and I know there will be no way I'll be able to change the topic of conversation.

"I already told you about my mother," I retort. "She left when I was ten."

Now begins the prying. "And you remember nothing else about her?"

"Not much."

Dr. Watson hits the button on the tape recorder. "Why don't you think about it for a second?"

I take my time and rack my brain over the memories I have of my mother. I don't remember her ever laughing. I don't remember her ever being happy. But there is one thing that comes to mind. "Lavender."

Dr. Watson lifts an eyebrow. "Lavender?"

"Yes. She used to smell like lavender." I take another second as more of the memory pops into my mind. "She had this roll on lavender perfume that she used to dab on her wrists. When I was little, sometimes I'd sit next to her at her vanity and she'd dab some on mine. Then she'd say, a lady should always smell nice."

"What else?"

"I remember her name. Monique."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Try, Adelaide."

His incessant pushing irritates me. I don't like talking about either one of my parents because one abandoned me and the other used me as a human punching bag. All I want is to forget the past ever existed, but there's a part of me that's afraid and the other part just wants to move on with my life and focus on getting out of this place.

I fold my arms across my chest. "Do you do this with all of your patients?"

"Excuse me?" His deep voice goes up an octave. "Do what with my other patients?"

"Force them to talk about things they don't want to talk about," I huff.

A stern look crosses over Dr. Watson's beautiful face as he gets up from his chair and walks around to the front of his desk. He sits down directly in front of me. His honey eyes harden like dried concrete. "Adelaide," he addresses me formally and I grit my teeth because he knows I prefer to be called, Addy. "My other patients and how I treat them is none of your concern. It is important as far as your treatments go for you to talk about your past because there's a part of your memory that's missing. Sometimes when we think of things from the past it triggers other memories of things we've forgotten." There's authority in his tone and a flush in his cheeks. It appears I've upset him. Well, he's upset me too.

I stand in front of him, anger blossoming inside of me and I clench my fists at my sides. "And what are you going to do if I don't talk about it? Feed me more pills? Inject me with more sedatives?" I lower my voice, fury quivering in my vocal cords. "Electrocute it out of me?"

Dr. Watson's eyes widen then narrow. He stands slowly and I keep my eyes on him as he reaches full height, towering over me at about six foot two to my five foot one. "You watch you're tone and mind my authority, Adelaide, or—"

"Or what?" I scream. "You'll send me down to the basement? Schedule me for a lobotomy just like you did with, Suzette?"

Suddenly, Dr. Watson snaps, lunging for me and grips me by the arm. Even though fear is surging through my bloodstream I'm determined to show no fear and keep a hard look on my face. He backs me up into a corner and my back hits the wall by the door with a thud. He's enraged, his warm beautiful eyes menacing, his chiseled jaw line taut. "Where did you hear that?" he growls.

"What does it matter? It's true isn't it?"

He raises his voice. "Where did you hear it?"

I keep my eyes deadlocked on him and spit out, "Some of the other patients." There, I hope you're happy, you smug bastard.

He releases my arm and begins pacing in front of me. Then after a second he runs his hand through his shimmering locks of gold. He's mumbling, "They said," are the only words I can make out.

"They said, what?" I ask with a bit of boldness. He waves me off and continues pacing. Something is seriously wrong here.

A second later, he stops mid-pace and with a quick pivot he faces me. His lips form a straight line and his eyes won't meet mine. "You're done for today," he dismisses me and walks around the other side of his desk, sitting down in his chair, his back to me. I watch him pick up the phone and dial a number. Unsure of what to do, I remain where I am until he yells, "You're done, Addy! Go!"

Backing away from the wall, I creep toward the door, worried that any sudden movement might set him off. Out of all of the time I've spent with, Dr. Watson, this is the first time I've ever seen him lose his cool. The man is always calm. Always reserved. During that outburst, he almost looked—no—he did look terrified.

~ ~ ~

At dinner, I sit alone at the end of the long, cafeteria table and push the over-cooked spaghetti around on my tray. I stare at my lonely meatball in the right corner and jab it with my fork. The fork doesn't even penetrate the surface, it bounces right off. Eww, the ball of meat is fake. You know, not a homemade meatball, a meatball from a bag. Disgusting. I guess with all the other nasty food they serve around here, I shouldn't have thought otherwise. Giggling interrupts the play-date I'm having with my entree and out of the corner of my eye I see Aurora, licking the sauce from her noodles and flinging them across the cafeteria. I remain focused on the noodle in her hand as she chucks it. The slimy strand of dough sails through the air before landing in one of the girls' hair at the table across from ours. I do my best not laugh. After everything that happens here, at least I can count on Aurora to be somewhat entertaining.

Thinking about what happened with Dr. Watson earlier makes my head hurt. In fact, my temples have been throbbing since I left his office. Dropping my fork and pushing away my tray, I push two fingers into each side of my temples and begin massaging them. The man is complicated yet beautiful. That equals a beautiful, terrifying disaster.

He looked so stunned when I mentioned the word lobotomy. But according to Cynthia he ordered it on Suzette so why did he look so surprised and frightened? Or maybe he didn't actually order it and Cynthia just assumed he did. I wonder if she knows him like I do or if he's treating her as well. Because if she doesn't know him, I could see how she'd come to assume that he might have been the one to order it. My first impression of him was that he had evil tendencies, but I've come to learn that he's just not capable of that kind of cruelty.

Sometimes, when I look into Dr. Watson's eyes, it's like behind their hard surface is years and years of hidden agonizing pain. Of course he never really gets personal. He only wants to talk about me and my issues, then again that is his job, but sometimes I think a good treatment session might benefit him in a good way. There are times during our sessions where I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my chest. Like there is a flat metal beam inside of me pressing harder and harder on my lungs, suffocating me. And when I tell him about something troubling me, I feel the metal bar disappear and I can breathe again.

Once I mentioned Damien to him. Even though he was assertive—as always—and responded to my comment, I swear when I mentioned Damien he flinched. I don't know why, but I decided that maybe it would be best if I didn't bring Damien up again. At least when I was around Dr. Watson anyway.

Aurora is nosy as hell when it comes to Damien. Yesterday he left a note in my room, telling me to meet him in the utility closet again tonight and my private joy was interrupted when Aurora peaked over my shoulder and asked, "Ohhh, who is that from?"

Panicked, I clutched the note to my chest and snapped, "Nobody."

As the weeks passed we've seemed to open up to each other, but part of me still feels like I can't trust her and during our conversations, I've been more forthcoming with information about myself than she has ever been. That makes me wonder things about her. Like exactly how long she's been here? What she was put in here for? And why if she's been here so long, (which I assume has to be long because she knows the ins and outs of this place) has she made no attempt to at least try and figure out a way to get out?

I ask her this question as we're lying in bed and while I wait for her to fall asleep so I can go meet, Damien. "Aurora, have you ever tried to get out of here?"

She's quiet for a moment then the sound of the springs in her mattress squeak as she rolls over onto her right side to face me. "Once." There's pain in her voice.

I know that maybe I shouldn't press her on the subject, but I do anyway. "What happened?"

She lets out a long ragged breath and rolls back over. My head turns toward her and I can see her staring at the ceiling through the darkness. "I got caught."

I choke on a gasp. "You tried to break out. I meant like why haven't you tried in the treatment sessions to get better. Like isn't there a way for you to show them that you're doing better and ready to go home?"

"I told you before." There's a mixture of pain and misery in her voice. "You don't get better. You don't get out. So you just try to make the best of it."

The best of it? In my eyes, there is no the best of it in this situation. Basically, I feel like I'm fucked either way. "I don't think I can," I tell her.

"You'll learn to." Her voice is soft. "I did." Her breathing is heavy. "One girl I know actually escaped."

Her words breathe hope into my lungs. "What, who?" This is the most marvelous news I've heard in the last month.

"It doesn't matter," she mutters. "You wouldn't know her."

I frown into the darkness, focus on the white ceiling, and play with my fingers. "Well, if I don't know her, how do you? Haven't we been here for the same amount of time?"

"No," she scoffs and rolls over to face the wall. "I've been here seven years."

"Seven years!" I almost shout then cover my mouth and lower my voice to a whisper. "Seven years? How old are you?"

"Almost twenty four."

A deep, painful stab of remorse blossoms in my heart and I almost start crying. Part of me feels bad for bringing the subject up in the first place, but there's another part of me who's glad because now I know what I'm up against if I ever want to try and break free of the shackles that bind me to this place. There's a throbbing ache pounding in my side as I look over at Aurora, her back to me. This poor, poor girl. She's spent a good portion of her life locked up in the asylum, too afraid to even hope for a future. "Aurora?"

"Yeah?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"What did you do to end up here?"

She traces a circle on the tiled wall with her finger. "That's not something I like to talk about."

"Okay," I say slowly. "Well then can you tell me what happened to you when you tried to escape?"

She doesn't answer. The silence seems to stretch on for seconds, minutes, possibly even an hour, but I stay in my bed, even though my time with Damien is getting close, I have to know this. Finally, Aurora clears her throat, and she's breathing in and out rapidly like her spilling this piece of information to me might cause her enormous amounts of pain. Then finally she rolls over to face me again, looks at me with hurt dancing around in her big brown eyes, and says, "They took me to the basement."

My lungs clench, refusing to expand. I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing for an entire minute, then I finally croak, "No."

"Yes," she hisses. "You should feel privileged. I've never told anybody that before."

"What did they do to you?"

"No." I hear the thick layer of emotion in her voice then a sniffle. She's crying and my heart breaks for her. I think about getting up from my cot, going over to her and holding, comforting her, but then again, I don't know her well enough to know if she likes that sort of thing. I know I would if I was upset. Then she says, "Just don't bring that up again, okay? It's number one on my list of the things I don't like to talk about. I'm sure, you have one of those lists too."

"I do."

"I'm pretty sure everyone here has one of those lists or we wouldn't be here in the first place."

"I agree." I yawn and roll over to face the wall as a startling revelation sets in; that maybe, Aurora is trustworthy, and that maybe despite the crazy act that she puts on for the staff and the patients that she's actually a lot smarter than she lets on.
Chapter Seven

~BEFORE~

It has been weeks since I've spoken to Damien. And twenty one days without speaking to him has been torture.

He calls me.

He comes to my window.

He's stalked me in the mornings while I take my walks. Just yesterday, I had barely gotten out of my driveway and he showed up behind me, purplish crescents under his eyes, a slouch in his normally perfect posture. "Addy, please," he'd begged. "Just talk to me. Please."

I continued ignoring him. I wished I could have told him that this was the last thing I wanted. I wished I could have told him to cover me with a blanket of his arms and never let go. To smother me with his body heat and melt the ice in my veins. But I didn't. Because I knew what I was doing by trying to push him away. I knew this was going to be better for him. He might have thought that he loved me and can't live without me, but he would change his mind eventually. He would have to.

The only thing is, he's so insistent.

I walk out my front door, closing it behind me and there he is, strutting toward me. I close my eyes and sigh, then start walking. Damien remains a few paces behind me and shouts, "I promise you, Adelaide, you can't shut me out forever! I'll be here every day until you talk to me!"

Until you leave for college, next month, I think.

I can't help but wonder what we'd be like if things were different. What if I came from a normal, respected family? What if my mother would have stayed and raised me the way a young lady should be raised? What if my father wasn't abusive and known to everyone as the town drunk? Would our relationship be accepted then? Would we be able to be that happy and loving couple I'd always dreamed we'd be?

The possibility of that scenario plunges into my heart like Juliet stabbing herself with a dagger at the thought of living her life without her Romeo. A throbbing ache surges through me and I decide that that image is too painful to think about it. This isn't Shakespeare. This is my life. And Damien and I are not a pair of star-crossed lovers.

It's cloudy today. There is no sun in the sky and the wind is heavy. The normal summer humidity is non-existent. A gust of wind sweeps over my skin and sends a chill down my spine. I shiver and pump warmth back into my arms, cursing myself for not checking the weather before I came outside for my walk.

Damien still lingers behind me. I can hear the scrape in his steps as his shoes scuff against the gravel and the concern in his voice when he says, "Are you cold?"

I don't answer him. I pick up my feet and walk faster.

He catches up to me and falls in line with my steps. Looking away, I gaze out into a field of long grass, my eyes on the green and yellow blades as they twirl around and whip back and forth in the wind. Damien lets out a frustrated sigh. "You have to stop this. Just look at me, Addy."

I don't.

"When are you going to stop being so damn stubborn?"

My gaze shifts to the ground and I kick a pebble down the road, thinking; when will you get the picture and leave me alone. I know that the thought is a fantasy. It's been weeks and he hasn't let up yet. Am I that worth it? Is a simple girl with a slum dog family worth all of this effort? His mother doesn't think so.

I've only met Marlena Allen one time and meeting that woman once was plenty. Damien doesn't seem like he could be his mother's child because he's so different and she's so typical. By typical, I mean for a wealthy woman. Since meeting her I've learned that wealthy people have a certain agenda on what they want their children to do with their lives, and according to Marlena Allen I don't fit into Damien's agenda or more like her and his father's agenda for him.

At the beginning of the summer Damien had invited me over their house for dinner. Daddy had managed to pass out really early for the night, so I put on the nicest dress I owned and crawled out my window with an anxious, excited feeling swirling through me. I was actually going to meet Damien's family. And for some reason I thought that they would be just like him.

I was wrong.

Well, not completely wrong. I instantly liked Damien's father, Lucas. He was kind, had friendly blue eyes just like Damien, and was welcoming. He gripped my hand and shook it, "It's great to finally meet you, Adelaide. Damien speaks very highly of you," he'd said greeting me with a smile.

But not Marlena.

She was frigid, a thick layer of ice in her emerald eyes, a flush on her peach cheeks, a straight line on her full lips. "Hello, Adelaide," she'd said coolly. Timidly I shook her hand while she gave me a stare down that made all the hairs on my arms stand up. Her handshake was firmer than Damien's father's and I knew by the tightness in her grip and the icy glare in her eyes that she hated me.

After dinner she confirmed that theory when she plastered a fake smile on her luscious pink lips and crooked her arm through mine. "Let's go for a walk, dear, shall we?" Her voice oozed plastic kindness and I glanced over my shoulder to Damien for help. I was hoping that he'd notice the panicked look in my eyes and save me from his mother's snakelike grasp and venomous tone. But he didn't see me. He was heavily engaged in a conversation with his father and brother. That gave Marlena just enough time to yank me through the back door and away from any hope I had for Damien being able to come to my rescue.

The moment we stepped outside she pulled her arm away, strolled away from the door—and away from hearing range—heading toward the lake behind their home. Her back was to me and as I approached warily, she beckoned me closer with a flit of her wrist. I knew she must have been the one who came from old money just by that gesture. I might be naïve and sheltered, but I remember seeing people like Marlena in the department stores the few times Daddy took me shopping. They held their noses high in the air, looking down on the employees of the store just because they worked as sales associates. Not only did I find that insulting, but disgusting as well.

I guess I'd never truly understand the differences in social hierarchy. Some people had to work and some people had everything handed to them because of who their parents were, their grandparents were and so on and so forth. Personally, I would have rather worked to get where I needed to be in life.

I stepped up next to Marlena and followed her gaze to a group of swans, gliding across the calm murky waters of the lake. My eyes centered on a swan right in the middle as the beautiful creature stretched its white wings and dipped its head beneath the light brown water. I knew Marlena was studying me. I could feel her cold glare as it broke through my skin and turned all the blood in my veins to frost. "I think you know why I asked you to come out here," she said, a matter of fact tone to her voice.

"Somewhat," I replied, weakly.

"Now, don't play oblivious, darling. I know you're smarter than that."

Her snide remark blasted through my core and sent shock waves of anger plummeting through my body. I'd never been the angry or disrespectful type, but something about Damien's mother, and her arrogant, elitist attitude made me react in ways I'd never reacted before. I clenched my fists at my sides, gritted my teeth, and inhaled deeply. Marlena worked her way around me, stopping in front of me to block my view of the lake. I lifted my gaze to meet hers. "What do you want from me?"

She let out a sigh and shook her head. "I think you know the answer to that."

"No," I said, grinding my teeth. "I honestly don't."

"I want you to stop seeing, Damien."

I opened my mouth to tell her that I can't. I can't stay away. I can't because I love her son like he's the oxygen in my lungs, the plasma in my bloodstream, and the rapid pulsating beat of my heart.

But she doesn't give me the chance to profess any of that. She closed my mouth with a frown and five words. "Stay away from my son."

No was on the tip of my tongue, but again she cut me off. "Damien has a bright future. He's smart, dedicated, loyal, and passionate. He'll take our company to the next level." Her eyes flitted over to mine. "When he graduates from Yale of course." I reached the point where I couldn't even look at her anymore. My eyes had shifted downward, focusing on a few cat-tails surrounding the lake. "He'll make an excellent husband and father someday too. Just not for—."

I cut her off with a whisper, "Someone like me."

"I'm sorry that I had to be so blunt, dear, but it's the truth. No son of mine is going to be involved with a girl of your means."

I scowled and scrunched my eyebrows together. "Means?"

She flicked her wrist at me and shook her head. "You know a girl who comes from a family with a reputation. You don't have a background. And you don't have a future."

I shook my head and let out a soft laugh. "No. You mean because I'm not like you?" A frigid bitch who has more money than God. Forgive me, but that was something I'd never want to be.

She'd pursed her lips and looked like she was thinking, then said, "No. Technically, that's not what I meant." She faced the lake again and folded her arms across her chest. "If you came from a decent family and were raised the way a young woman should be raised, we might be having a different conversation." For some reason, I didn't believe that one bit. "You know," she continued, "my older son went slumming once." I sneered at her when she wasn't looking. Slumming? Did she just say slumming? "Fell for some waitress when he was away at college. But it didn't take long for him to see reason."

I heard my name echoing somewhere in the distance. Marlena peeked over her shoulder and I followed, watching Damien as he approached, a wide smile on his lips. "Adelaide!"

He was getting closer and closer. When he was only a few feet away Marlena leaned down, her lips centimeters away from my earlobes and whispered, "Do the right thing, dear. Don't drag this out any further than you already have and save yourself from suffering a broken heart down the road. The longer you let this continue, the more painful it will be." At Damien's arrival, she straightened her posture and smiled. She brushed my shoulder and walked past me and her son, throwing her shoulders back and pointing her sloped, narrow nose to the sky.

Damien moved closer to me and kissed me gently on the cheek. "What was that about?"

I couldn't move. My whole body felt like it was being stung over and over again by an angry hive of wasps. Stingers imbedded. Welts everywhere. My skin was throbbing. Tears glazed over my eyeballs and I tried to blink them back, but it was no use. I turned away from Damien and swallowed hard. "Can you walk me home?"

"Is something wrong?" There was worry in his tone. "What did she say to you?"

I exhaled and sucked back my tears. "Nothing is wrong," I assured him with a tiny grin. "I'm just tired."

"Oh." He smiled back at me and kissed my temple. "Well, let's go then."

He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, while I kept my eyes on the ground, trying desperately to hold back the sobs that were stuck in my throat.

I never told him what his mother said to me because deep down inside as painful as it was to hear, I knew she was right.

The truth is we could be defiant. We could go against his parents' hopes and wishes. But where will that get us? I know that loving someone as much as I love Damien is worth every bit of fight and struggle we'll have to go through to be happy. But that's what I think. What about him? Someday he might resent me for being the cause of him having to give up everything. And for me to have to live with the fact that someday he might wish he would have listened to his family, went to college, made something of his life and never abandoned his bright future by falling in love with me, well, that thought is too wicked, and too painful to bear.

Scuffing footsteps bring me back to the now.

I peek over my shoulder and Damien is still walking behind me. He kicks a rock and it bounces several times on the dirt road, stopping inches away from my feet. I've reached my breaking point. He needs to let me get over him. He needs to move on with his life so I can move on with mine as miserable as it is. "Just stop it all ready," I snap at him when he kicks another rock.

Damien lifts his head with widened eyes and a smile on his lips. "Did you just talk to me?" Before I can respond he rushes over to me, sweeps me up in his arms, and twirls me around in a circle. "Addy, I've missed you so much. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. Why didn't you call me back? Why have you been ignoring me?"

My eyes sear into his deep blue eyes. I tilt my chin and motion for him to put me down. He releases his grip on me and our eyes lock as he slides me down the length of his body. The friction of my body against his sends rippling streams of want to the tips of my nerve endings. I'm crackling and sparking like a firecracker on a long stretch of sidewalk during a Fourth of July picnic. Desire whips through my gut and I have to use every amount of will power I have to push myself away from him. I start walking and stop after a few steps, meeting his gaze from over my shoulder. There's a vacant expression in my eyes, a buzzing in my ears, and an ache in my heart. "Damien, it's over," my voice quivers. "Just forget me. Just go home and forget me."

Hurt and disbelief swirl together, sparking in his eyes. He stalks toward me, grips my arm, and spins me around to face him. He cups my face with both hands, massaging my cheeks with his thumbs and I keep my eyes on the ground. Heat from his hands burns my cheeks and sets my whole body ablaze. I'm on fire for him and I do the best I can to hide it. But my body betrays me. My cheeks flush and tears swell in my eyes, residing in the corners, I close them and let out a soft breath. "Addy, look at me."

I shake my head. That's the only thing I can do. I've reached the point where the pain of doing this—letting go of him—is spreading like an ingested poison. "Look at me, please," he urges, his voice cracking with emotion. "Please." I don't obey, so Damien takes it upon himself to move my head up. "Open your eyes."

"Why are you making this harder on me than it already is?" I cry as I reach the point where my insides crumble, crashing to the ground like a porcelain vase, pieces of ceramic everywhere.

Slowly, I open my eyes and Damien's gaze hasn't wavered. He's staring deep into my eyes searching. Probing. Penetrating. Maybe he's looking for the truth. Maybe he thinks that if he stares into my eyes long enough and hard enough he'll sway me. He leans in closer. "You don't want to do this," he whispers.

"Of course I don't," I confess. "I love you, but this is for the best."

He slits his eyes and his fingertips glide across my cheek, tucking a lowly tendril of my ebony hair behind my ear. His fingertips, they feel like fire pokers just removed from the hearth. They scorch my flesh and I'm surprised by how much I enjoy the burn. He backs me up into the trunk of an oak a few paces away from the road. As the rough gradient texture from the trunk scrapes against the bare skin on my back and the damp musky scent wafts up my nostrils, Damien presses his body against mine, pinning me. "Who says?"

I'm breathing heavy. Pleasure blasts through me ricocheting off the walls of my stomach. My heart beats so fast that all of my other functioning organs struggle to keep up the pace. "Who says what?" I gasp, trying to control my breathing.

"Who says this is for the best?"

"Me?"

He raises a sculpted eyebrow. "You?"

"Yes," I breathe.

"I don't believe that."

It's amazing how he can see right through me. It's amazing how all it takes for him to know what I'm really thinking is to look into my eyes. Still, I try to lie, "It's the truth." There's a sliver of uncertainty in my voice and I know I don't sound believable.

Damien's lips are resting against my ear. "I beg to differ," he murmurs. "Addy, living one day without you would never be for the best. I want you every minute of every day. Forever. I love you."

I struggle beneath him and try to break free from his captivating gaze, stunning face, and his muscled body and the way it feels to have it pressed against me. I'm losing control of myself, my mind, and what I'd told myself I was going to do when he followed me on my morning walk.

A low raspy chuckle leaves Damien's throat and for a moment I think he may be losing it too. He grabs both of my wrists in one hand and pins them above my head in a death grip. He presses his hips harder against mine. "Stop fighting this." His hot full lips rest against mine. "Stop fighting us." He begins a slow, sensual dance with my mouth, starting with little teasing sweeps of his bottom lip against my top one. I open my mouth in response and he assaults my tongue tangling his with it.

Our kissing intensifies and he slips his free hand up my skirt on an exploration expedition. His palm slides from my pelvis up to my lower abdomen. My skin prickles and there's a field of goose bumps on my arms. Love, lust, and passion melt together inside of me and I can feel the want for him swelling between my legs. "I'm so sorry," I moan against his lips. "I love you so much." I do and sometimes I feel like I love him so much it aches when I'm not near him. It's like tiny pricks from a sewing needle jabbing into me repeatedly.

He releases my hands from his grasp. He leaves a trail of kisses from the crook of my neck to my collarbone before resting his lips against my ear. The warmth from his lips sends a shiver of overwhelming pleasure down my spine. It vibrates within my core and kicks my heartbeat into overdrive. He pulls me tighter against his chest and I can feel his heart beating in sync with mine.

Two hearts beating.

Side by side.

Flesh against flesh.

And an intense unwavering love between two people that will never die.
Chapter Eight

~AFTER~

Someone is hovering over me. The darkness of their shadow is cutting off the spring sunshine that's coming in through the window. I open an eye and Aurora is staring down at me. "What is it?" I groan and roll over, wrapping my pillow around my head.

"You slept in late," she tells me. "Meds are in five."

I wish I could say fuck the meds, but I don't. Instead, I stretch and sit upright on my cot as Aurora prances back over to hers. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

"My God." I did sleep in really late. Usually I'm up by seven.

"You didn't scream last night," Aurora informs me.

"I guess that's a good thing, right?"

She shrugs. "You kept repeating the name Damien." Aurora plops down on her cot. "Who is he?"

I don't elaborate. "Just some guy I used to know."

I don't want to talk about my relationship with Damien with her. For one thing, I barely know her and I don't know enough about her to trust her. And another thing is, well, it's just no one's business who I dream about or talk about in my sleep but my own.

Marjorie is through our door a nanosecond later and after Aurora and I both pretend to take our pills she's on to the next room. It isn't until Marjorie is gone and Aurora is handing me her slobbery meds that I notice what she's wearing. Jeans and a long sleeve black shirt with a boat-neck collar. My eyes sweep over her from the top of her head to the floor. "Where did you get normal clothes?"

A part of me thinks she might have stolen them, but she quickly banishes that thought when she says, "Marjorie."

"That's not fair," I snap. I hate having to walk around in my hospital gown. It makes me feel naked.

"I've been on good behavior lately," Aurora says with a shrug. "You should try it sometime. Good behavior equals rewards."

I'm desperate to get out of my hospital gown. Maybe I should try to be on my best behavior at least for a little while.

A few hours later, I sit in the rec room.

It's quiet today. I'm glad. Cynthia and most of her gang are absent. Only two are here and it's the blonde with the really long hair and the chubby brunette. Without Cynthia, they don't have too much to say to each other, so they've been sitting on the sofa watching television. Aurora is in her usual corner, acting like her crazy/uncrazy self, and I'm sitting in front of the window like I do on most days.

Damien is outside with the boys today, his back resting against the chain link fence. I've been staring at him for the last twenty minutes. Closing my eyes, I envision us together minus our clothing. I kiss his shoulder and trace the dip from his left shoulder to his right with my fingertips. He has one hand positioned flat on the small of my bare back. His fingers move slowly and every time a fingertip glides against my skin I feel like there are rockets going off inside me. The feeling is overwhelming. It feels too real and the realness saddens me so much I open my eyes abruptly only to find him staring back at me through the window.

Cool blue eyes penetrate mine. Placing my palm against the glass I mouth, "I love you."

He mouths the words back then blows me a kiss. The juvenile action hits a nerve and I bite back the tears that spring to my eyes. What's wrong with me? I know he's here, so that should be enough right? At least I'm not left wondering what if? So why every time I see him do I get so emotional?

"Who are you looking at?"

I jump, clutching my chest as my heartbeat kicks into overdrive when blondie with the long hair appears on my left. Her sudden arrival startles me so much that I'm not sure what to say so I reply with, "Huh?"

She looms closer to the window and stares out the glass into the decayed courtyard. "I said who are you looking at?" Her eyes flit over to me. "You've been staring out this window for the last thirty minutes. You're not just staring at the dead grass, are you?"

"No," I say coolly. "I'm not just staring at the dead grass."

"Then who or what were you staring at?"

I'm just about to say, "None of your damn business," when the lights in the room start flickering.

Silence sweeps over the room and Brunette turns off the television. A loud buzzing rings in the air and I swear it makes the walls in the rec room vibrate.

I hear Aurora in the corner whine, "No! Not again!" Then she hugs her knees and proceeds to rock back and forth. Part of me wonders if she's faking this time or that she is really that terrified of knowing they have another patient in the basement.

Tortured howls bleed through the thick plaster walls and Blondie scampers over to the sofa, holding on to Brunette for dear life. Me, I just keep my eyes glued to the flickering overhead light as it flashes. Fear lurks around inside of me, waiting to take hold and it doesn't until the tortured howls turn into muffled screams. My entire body stiffens. The howling and screaming reminds me of an opera and the way the soprano singer begins with a low tone and then her voice builds and builds and builds before it is piercing, high enough to shatter glass. I plug my ears and close my eyes to drown everything out, but just when I bring my fingers to my ears...

Then there is no sound at all.

The lights return to normal.

The walls have stopped vibrating.

Bright light burns in my eyes and I focus on the tan walls for a second, waiting for the tiny white spots in my vision to fade. The screams that disappeared a minute ago still throb in my ears. This place doesn't seem like the type of place where people are sent to get better anymore. I mean it never really did seem that way, but part of me had hope that no matter what negative rumors I'd heard, I'd make up my own mind on Oak Hill, and form my own opinion of it later.

My opinion of the institution now...

This place does not help people.

It is a fabrication that entices people from the outside with its rose bushes, lush landscaping, massive red-brick building, and fake friendly staff.

This place is not a medical institution.

This place is a slaughterhouse.

And just like pigs, people are brought here to die.

My eyes bounce between the girls in the room and theirs do the same. The quiet wraps around me like a blanket and comforts me or at least I'm trying to reason with myself that it should feel that way. Yes, Addy, I tell myself. The quiet equals no torture, no pain. The quiet equals peace.

As eight eyes continue to dart around the room and land on one of four different faces, I come to the conclusion that no one knows what to do or what to say. Mainly I think it's because nobody wants to ask that major question—the question I know that we're all thinking. The one looming in the back of all of our minds...

Just who did they take down to the basement today?
Chapter Nine

~AFTER~

After supper, which consisted of rubbery meatloaf, a wax-like colorful vegetable medley, and a piece of stale bread, I retreat back to the rec room and stand at the window. The sun is setting now and the sky is splashed with darkened oranges, yellows, and browns. There is no one outside anymore and I keep my eyes glued to the ground, watching as the wind tosses up dead leaves and spins them around in tiny cyclones before depositing them back on the ground.

For some reason, focusing on the skyline reminds me of summer.

And Damien.

We both used to sneak away from our houses at sundown. Daddy would be passed out by then and his parents were wealthy and donated a bunch of money to different charities so they always had some elaborate party to go to. In the summers they had one every night. Even on the weekdays.

His deep husky laugh sounds off in my mind and I revel in it. I close my eyes and he's chasing me through the field. You know I'm going to catch you, Addy! His voice carries on the wind and as the wind tousles my hair Damien's voice caresses my earlobe.

I laugh and pump my legs harder, zig-zagging through the long, swaying grass, willing myself to go faster. Ha! You'll never catch me, Damien Allen! I shout back.

His footsteps thunder in my ears and I can feel him coming up on me. Before I know it his hands are wrapped around my waist and we're crashing to the ground, laughing so hard we can't breathe.

A lonely tear escapes from my eye and I wipe it away quickly when I open them. I miss him so much that since yesterday my heart has felt like a towering inferno and there isn't any water or a fire extinguisher around to put it out.

The tips of my fingers graze against the glass window. It feels cold. Distant. Startling. I'm perplexed because Damien knows I know he's here. Why hasn't he come looking for me again? I relax when I think of the consequences. What would they do to him if they saw us together? An orderly and a patient who the staff thinks is insane? He'd probably be fired and God only knows what would happen to me.

I'd probably be given electroshock therapy or worse.

No... Having Damien here is too precious. Too magnificent. Too amazing.

And I'm not willing to risk giving it up.

Taking one last look at the sky, I turn to go to my room when I feel a pair of hands sliding up my back. At first, I tense up because I'm terrified of who might be touching me. Then I see his blue blue eyes in the window. Damien. "You caught me," I whisper musically.

He flashes me a radiant smile that I can see through the window and then he wraps his arms around my waist. This feels like heaven. So beautiful. So blissful. So perfect. I never want this moment to end even though I know deep down inside that it's going to at any second. His lips, his full luscious pouty lips are against my ear sending shock waves of desire through my nerves. I guide his hand down my stomach, feel the warmth of his fingertips through the thin fabric and just before his hand reaches my thigh he yanks it away. "No," he whispers. "Not here. Not now."

"Then where?" I lean into him and his body heat sets me on fire. I'm burning, burning, burning. I want to burn eternally.

He flicks my earlobe with his tongue when he whispers again. "The utility closet. At the end of the corridor in twenty minutes."

I'm biting my lip and I moan, still wrapped up in the moment. God, this man, my love, my everything has always known how to make me break into pieces, in a good way. I open my eyes and turn to face him, but he's already gone. In his place is Marjorie a scowl deeply rooted on her lips. "Adelaide, what do you think you're doing?" The husky and forceful tone of her voice sends every ounce of desire I was feeling out of my body, seeping into a pool on the floor.

"Uh," I struggle to find an answer. "Um."

Marjorie harrumphs and slams her balled up hands into her hips.

"I was just watching the sun go down," I lie and sigh with relief, knowing that what just came out of my mouth actually sounded like a believable one.

"You aren't permitted to be out here, now." Her voice is darker and gruff. She snatches me by the elbow and digs her fingers into my flesh.

"Ow," I swat at her as she drags me down the corridor. "You're hurting me!"

"I swear, you wretched girl, you never listen," she growls ignoring my tortured plea. We're halfway to my room when Marjorie stops abruptly. I fly forward losing my balance, but Marjorie's tight grip on my elbow keeps me upright. I sneer at her and open my mouth to say something when I notice who she's looking at, Dr. Watson. Marjorie's cheeks are flushed and she's giggling. Marjorie? Giggling? Either she's head over heels for this new doctor or she's been hanging out with one of Daddy's old friends. "Elijah," she fumbles, "I mean Dr. Watson, I mean good evening, Dr. Watson," she gushes.

"Good evening, Marjorie." His tone is pleasing and light, but he's not even looking in Marjorie's direction. His eyes are deadlocked on me. "Adelaide," he says curtly with a nod.

"Addy," I correct him. I thought he and I already discussed this.

"Right," he says grinning. "My apologies, Addy." His eyes cut to Marjorie. "What's going on here?" Then his gaze centers on the way Marjorie is gripping my arm. "I thought I heard the patient yelling out in pain. I thought I heard her say you were hurting her."

At his comment Marjorie loosens her grip on my arm then she cocks her head toward me, a wicked leer on her lips. "This one is a troublemaker. Never follows the rules."

"I can hear you," I mutter.

Marjorie ignores me and goes on.

But as soon as she starts talking, I tune her out. There's a clock in my head and I can feel the minutes pulsate in my temples as they tick by. Meet me in the utility closet in twenty minutes. If Marjorie doesn't hurry I'm going to miss my chance to see Damien. And I want him—need him. I need to feel his touch, listen to his voice, see his beautiful face. I need it and if I don't have my chance, not seeing him will kill me.

My thoughts are interrupted when Marjorie drops her hand from my elbow and Dr. Watson says, "I can take her from here Marjorie."

Oh no. Marjorie turns and starts down the hall. I want to scream at her. No, Marjorie! I'll take your painful grasp and bite my tongue! Please, Marjorie! Don't leave me with this man! This beautiful, wicked man! This doctor who is capable of cruelty! My spine stiffens, panic infiltrates my nervous system, and a wave of nausea unfurls in the pit of my stomach. I swallow hard, determined to show no fear in front of him.

Dr. Watson, extends his arm to me. "Shall we?"

I can't bring myself to react.

He stands in his spot for a minute before an impatient gleam appears in his eyes. "I thought I told you earlier, I don't bite." Even though his voice is soft and laced with the tiniest bit of kindness, the information I learned from, Cynthia, earlier still haunts me. This man is deadly, responsible for killing one of the other patients, performing a procedure that is dangerous and has never been proven to even work on any of the patients here.

"Fine," he says coolly, "If you're going to be stubborn then we can walk side by side."

"Okay," I croak and then pick up my feet, walking.

We walk for five minutes and somewhere in that length of passing time I find my voice. "Why couldn't you let Marjorie finish walking me to my room?" I'm surprised by the stern tone in my voice.

Dr. Watson looks surprised too. Then that surprised look turns into a look of pain when his eyes touch my arm. I follow his gaze and take in the red welts from Marjorie's manlike fingertips. Dr. Watson reaches out to touch the fresh bruises, but I yank my elbow away, holding it with my other hand. "She was hurting you." His voice is barely above a whisper.

I gaze into his eyes and swear that I see a flash of concern there. This doctor puzzles me. He lets me get away with a lot. Granted, I don't really know what a lot is on his scale, but I've snapped at him several times, disregarded his authority, and still he hasn't done anything to me. Some of the other doctors would take action with one slip up and I've seen it happen. Maybe Cynthia received mixed information. Maybe she is wrong about him.

We stand across from each other for a few more minutes, an unsettling silence built up between us, but neither one of us moves. It's like I can't function because his gaze is totally and completely captivating me. I almost forget about meeting Damien. Oh no! Damien! My love. What am I doing? What am I thinking?

For the briefest sliver of a second I thought about what it might feel like to kiss Dr. Watson, as crazy as it sounds, and I'm hating myself for having those thoughts. "Thank you for walking me back to my room, Dr. Watson. It was kind of you," I tell him.

"You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow then Adelaide." He turns to leave.

"Tomorrow?"

Dr. Watson stops and faces me again. "Yes, I'll be treating you from now on so you'll be meeting with me four times a week."

"But I only met with Dr. Morrow once or twice a week."

"Well." He smiles and this is the first time I've noticed the dimples in his cheeks. "Dr. Morrow and I have very different methods on how we treat our patients."

"Oh." I don't know why, but his words bring the uneasy feeling in my gut back in circulation. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

He nods then walks down the corridor.

I close my door, resting my ear against the oak, waiting patiently for Dr. Watson's footsteps to fade. Once they do, I crack the door and peek down the empty corridor, my eyes on the utility closet door at the end of the hall.

"Where are you going?"

I jump, spin around with my back to the door, and clutch my chest. "Jesus, Aurora." I struggle to catch my breath. "I thought you were sleeping."

Aurora sits up and folds her arms across her chest. "Nope. Not yet. So tell me."

"I have to go to the bathroom," I lie and from the look on her face it doesn't look like she believes it.

Aurora exhales, rolls her eyes, and lies back down on her cot. "Don't get caught."

I stare at her briefly, shrug, then face the door, opening it quietly before slipping out into the abandoned hall. With my back against the tan plaster wall, I slink down, scaling the wall a few steps until I reach the utility closet. The light is on inside it and I can see the glow from underneath the door. Damien, he waited. Anticipation plummets through my body and settles in the pit of my stomach. My heart is hammering against my ribcage. Want sits low in my belly and I have to hold back the hungry moan that is about to escape my lips any second.

"Damien," I murmur, opening the door.

The utility closet is slightly larger than most household closets. It's wider and it has more depth. There are wooden shelves lining each side and the shelves are filled with miscellaneous supplies. Soap, toilet paper, light bulbs, and lots of other cleaning supplies. There's a mop and bucket tucked under the bottom right shelf, a row of plungers under the left shelf. Aside from me and the cleaning supplies the closet is empty. My heart hangs heavy. Tears pool in my eyes. Damien isn't coming. Or maybe he did and when I didn't show up, he left.

Stepping inside, I run the tips of my fingers over the wooden handle of one of the plungers. The rough yet glossy handle tickles my fingertips and distracts me. Distracts me while the door slams shut behind me and the light in the room goes out. Hands. There are hands sliding up the back of my gown, against my skin, and over my hips. Fingertips dig into my upper thigh and a nose nuzzles my hair. Warm breath trails down the nape of my neck. Inside I'm screaming, so built up with aching want, passion, and ravenous desire that my lungs clench and I can barely breathe.

"Damien," I whisper into the darkness.

"Hmm," he moans against my hair and lowers his lips to my ear. "I didn't think you were going to show. I thought I was going to be stood up."

His lips are on my neck and all of the emotions inside of me are building and building and building. I'm seconds away from exploding. Erupting. "No. Never," I moan softly.

He takes my left earlobe between his teeth and gives it a gentle tug. "You don't know how much I've missed you, Addy. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this."

He hugs me, pulling me closer to his body. I reach over my head and run my fingers through his chin length ebony hair. "Oh," I say. "But I do." Because I've been waiting for this day too and I've felt like it was never going to arrive.

Damien's arm is wrapped around my waist and his fingertips graze against the bare skin on my stomach. I can feel the want for him pulsating between my legs. His free hand rests low on my belly and I whisper, "Touch me." His hand slides down a little further. "Please, Damien. Touch me."

His hand goes further down my underwear. "Where do you want me to touch you?" I hear the smile in his husky voice. He's toying with me, but I'm too far gone to be upset about it. I'm too swept up in him to be anything but putty in his grasp. He moves his hand down a little further then traces my jaw line with his tongue before working his way back up to my ear. "Is this where you want me to touch you?" he murmurs against my ear.

"Yes," I say, half-moan, half-hiss. I close my eyes and see his radiant blue eyes in my mind. I see the way they used to burn into mine, so full of love and passion and the vision nearly breaks me. I hunch over as the tips of his fingers skim over my private area. "Damien, please."

A deep throaty chuckle leaves his throat. "You want me don't you?" He jerks me upright. Wraps his strong hand around the back of my neck. Twists me around to face him. "Tell me." His lips brush against mine teasingly and it's crazy how a soft brush from his warm, full, and moist lips can send me over the rails of insanity. My whole body is trembling. My heart is on fire. His name is in my throat and I think about screaming it, but I hold back. "Come on baby," he murmurs against my lips. "Tell me. Tell me how much you want me."

"I want you so bad." I'm almost at the point where I can't handle him teasing me like this anymore. My private area throbs with the heat for him to be inside of me and I think I'm about to lose it. Go wild. Go crazy. Run down the corridor back to my room and beg for the employees to take me to the basement and put me out of my misery.

"That's my girl." His voice is thick with emotion. Twisted with lust. He spins me to face him then backs me into the wall. He hovers over me and grips my chin. "I love you, Adelaide. I always have. I always will."

"I love you too." I know he'll always be the core of my everything. I can't even imagine feeling this way about anybody else. I can't imagine giving myself to anybody else the way I've given myself to him.

Daddy used to say that 'sex' is a dirty, tainted word, only used by whores and sinners. I guess that makes me both a whore and a sinner because I've let Damien taint me over and over and over again for the last year. And I know that I'll continue to let him because I'll never have enough of him.

Damien presses his body against mine. My hands slide up his muscled abdomen and he lifts his shirt over his head. My fingertips trail over his defined six-pack and the jingling of him fiddling with his belt rings out in the small room. His pants hit the floor with a thud. His hands drop from my shoulders, fingers digging into my body as he crouches down. He loops his fingertips through the corners of my underwear, slides them down my legs, and I swear I can see a wicked gleam of desire in his blue blue eyes. Even in the dark.

After Damien removes my hospital gown, he lunges for my mouth. At first our kiss is gentle and sensual. Then as the kiss deepens, he slips his tongue into my mouth and it intertwines with mine. I'm breathless, hungry, and flying. I feel like I'm soaring through the clouds and I don't ever want to come down.

With his tongue still dancing around in my mouth, Damien wraps both of his strong arms around my waist and hoists me up, pinning me between him and the wall. He leaves a trail of kisses from my neck to my collarbone and I bite down softly on his shoulder blade and moan. I've missed this. I've missed being this close to him.

In one swift motion he thrusts into me and a growl escapes from his throat. I gasp and throw my head back as Damien holds me up easily with one arm. He grips my chin and pulls my mouth to his, thrusting gently, and slowly inside of me. The tip of his tongue flicks against mine and at that moment, I feel like I'm almost at the top of Mount Everest. Every time I pick up a foot I'm climbing higher and higher and the altitude sucks the air from my lungs. My voice is hoarse, but I say, "Damien."

He moans in response, thrusting harder and his face is so close to mine I notice his scrunched brows and the way he's biting his lip with determination. He pulls me closer. So close that our damp bodies, thick with sweat are sticking together. My hands work their way up his face and tug at his strands. I throw my head back, so lost, so wrapped up and infected by the way he feels inside of me that I can't even speak.

Suddenly he pulls out of me and lowers me to the ground. He flips me around. My bare feet are planted firmly into the cold, hardwood floor and my palms are flat against the tan plaster walls in front of me. Damien's hands work their way over my hips and I arch my back in response to him thrusting inside of me again. My spine is curved. The back of my head rests against his shoulder blade. He tightens his arms around my waist and moves one up around my collarbone. He moves inside of me, holding me as close to him as he can. His lips are hot against my ear and he moans. "You're mine."

I bite my lip and choke on a strangled grasp. "Oh, God. Damien." I think about how much I love him. How one word from his lips can make every nerve ending in my body tingle. Then I think about society in this day and age and how sex before marriage is severely frowned upon. But how can you frown upon something that is so beautiful, so perfect, and so right?

Damien crushes his mouth to mine and groans against my lips. "Tell me you're mine." He's breathless and his deep voice is thick and raspy. He clutches me tighter and thrusts harder. "Tell me, Addy."

I try not to scream, so the words come out strained. "I'm yours. All yours, Damien."

At that moment, the room collapses around me when I feel myself and Damien completely let go. His name is on the tip of my vocal cords and I swallow hard to keep myself from shouting it. He tenses and he pulls me closer to him when he finds his release and then breathes softly into my hair, his fingers digging into my stomach.

Seconds after, I feel the tears pooling in my eyes. I try to suck them back, determined to not let him see me like this, but I let out a soft whimper and Damien is pulling me to his chest again and kissing my hair. "Why the tears, my love?" he asks.

"I don't want to leave you," I tell him. What I don't tell him is that I'm scared because I don't know when I'll be able to see him again.

Thinking of him is not enough. Watching him from afar is not enough. Surviving on memories of the past is not and will never be enough.

Damien traces my jaw line with his fingertip and brushes my hair away from my face. I find his blue eyes in the dark, gripping onto his biceps, wanting to never let go. He kisses me softly. "Soon you won't have to leave me, baby." His voice is filled with certainty. Does he know something I don't?

"What?"

"I've got a plan, Addy," he says with confidence. "I am going to get you out of here."
Chapter Ten

~BEFORE~

The sky is cloudless with miles of powdered blue as a backdrop. The wind is breezy, not too forceful, but not too soft, and the sunshine is heavy. We're in the field behind my house, hidden amongst the long swaying grass. The humidity is nonexistent, so I'm wearing a floral dress, covered by a blanket of Damien's arms.

Damien reaches beside him and plucks a piece of yellowed, dead grass then trails it along the bare skin on my arms. As the hardened, dead grass connects with my skin, it makes me shiver and tickles me at the same time. I can't decide if I should moan out in pleasure or laugh out gleefully. Damien continues moving the grass down the length of my body and then moves it up my thigh higher and higher until the end disappears underneath the skirt of my dress. He rests it against my underwear and at that point I laugh and snatch the blade of long grass from his fingertips. "Ha!" I wiggle the piece of grass in his face then trail it along his arms. "Now who has the upper hand?"

Damien snorts then his sapphire eyes move in a circle before resting on me. "We're in a field full of grass, you beautiful silly girl." He plucks another long piece of grass and slaps his palm with it. "Now if I were you, I'd start running."

I'm on my feet with my hands on my hips and a smirk of my face. "What are you going to do? Whip me?" A beating by a blade of grass, seriously, what is he on?

"Who knows what I'm capable of?" he says, a devilish glint in his eye. "But if I were you, I'd start running." He picks up a foot and moves closer. He's so close that when he leans over, his cool breath that smells of chocolate and mint leaves washes over my face. "Now."

With that I take off running. I'm pumping my legs as hard as I can, pushing my body to its limit as I put more distance between Damien and I and pick up speed. I glance over my shoulder to see if he's still behind me. He's not. Where the heck is he? I can still hear his feet crunching against the grass. I can still feel the heat of another body close by. He has to be hiding from me or something, but just when I turn my head and think of calling his name, he jumps from an area where the long grass grew in a thick patch. He scares the crap out of me. My heart is racing. My stomach is all jittery. He lunges for me and I try to dodge him, but his long arms ensnare me by the waist and pull me to the ground.

We roll onto our backs and laugh together. I laugh so hard that my mouth is dry and my side aches. I hug myself and try to control myself, but when I look over at Damien, the laughter flies out of my mouth and the smile slips from my face. "Damien, is something wrong?"

He gazes up into the pale blue sky and inches his fingers toward my hand. I lie on my back next to him and he takes my hand, brings it to his lips and kisses it. "Nothing," he says. "I was just thinking about how lost I was until I found you. And I was also thinking about how much I love you."

"And I love you." I enunciate each word then lean over and kiss him on the cheek. "So much." Sometimes I feel like I love him so much that there's no room for me to feel anything else. But I don't mind. I don't mind that my feelings for him smother everything else. No one has ever uttered those three words to me. Well, not since my mother left, but that was years ago.

His thumb grazes over the skin between my thumb and forefinger. "We're having a brunch tomorrow, will you come?" he asks.

I mull over my answer before coming up with, "Maybe." It's not that I don't want to come, I do. Honestly, if he and I could be together every waking minute, I'd relish our time together, and I've convinced myself that we'd live happily ever after. But after my last run in and little talk with his mother, I'm not sure if I want to have another one.

"Just maybe?" He smiles, winks, and crooks his forefinger brushing it over my upper cheek. "Why just maybe? I thought you said you loved me," he teases.

We roll onto our sides and face each other. Damien reaches out and twists a piece of my hair between his fingertips. I shiver in delight when the tip of his finger grazes against my skin. "I do love you," I tell him. "But tomorrow is a Saturday and Daddy will be home all day. I don't think he'll let me go."

Daddy doesn't let me do anything. Plus if it's a Saturday and he's off, I know that he'll be drunk all day long and I'll have double the housework to do. And Daddy doesn't like it when I get behind on the housework. And I don't like to make, Daddy, angry.

Damien is silent for a moment. "Okay then." He smiles. I love his smile. It's perfect. It's beautiful. It brings a smile to my lips. "I'll meet you tomorrow evening then?"

"Of course my love."

He hovers close. "Beneath the willow tree at dusk?"

I nod and smile. The ancient willow tree in my backyard is our haven. We meet there at dusk almost every day. Then we lie together, wrapped up in our love and each others arms for hours and watch as the sun fades and the night sky comes to life.

His lips flutter over top of mine and when he pulls away, I notice the heat in his eyes. "I've never seen eyes like yours," he brushes some of my hair away from my face to get a clearer look, "they're stunning."

"I got them from my mother," I say. "A mixture of navy blue and magenta—violet."

Damien rolls on top of me and presses his body against mine. He plants a trail of soft kisses down my neck. Sucking in a deep breath, I moan quietly. Then I throw my head back as want climbs down my thighs and desire swells low in my stomach. Every time he places a kiss somewhere on my bare skin, I feel the heat inside of me rising. "I want to make love to you," he whispers against my lips.

"Then do it," I tell him as my needy fingers crawl up the back of his shirt and my fingernails dig into his skin.

In one swift motion Damien pulls his shirt over his head, then moves down my body. He lifts up my skirt and kisses my inner thighs and I feel like I'm a hot air balloon that's about to be deflated. He reaches for my underwear and his fingertips graze against my hips, bringing out goose bumps all over my skin. He slowly starts sliding my underwear down my legs and my back is arched on the ground and I'm writhing like a mad woman.

And that's when I hear it.

The car door slamming shut, followed by, "God, damn it, Adelaide! Where the fuck are you? Is my dinner ready?"

"Oh no!" I gasp and yank my underwear back up around my waist. "I have to go!" I hop to my feet and smooth down my dress. "I'm coming, Daddy!" I shout.

I take a step and Damien grips my wrist. "Don't go," he pleads. "You don't have to go."

I yank my arm away. "I do. You don't understand."

Tears pool in my eyes as I run away from Damien and I suck them back because I don't want Daddy to ask me why I've been crying. I also hope that Damien doesn't get to see how Daddy acts when he's been drinking and by the sound of his voice, I can already tell he's had his fair share of Jose today before he came home. I don't make it all the way because at some point during the run to Daddy I'm so out of breath and so emotional that I hit my knees and sob into my hands.

There's too much pressure on me and I've hit my breaking point. My father is a drunk asshole. My boyfriend's mother doesn't like me. My mother abandoned me. The love of my life is leaving me at the end of the summer. It's all too much. Too overwhelming. I hunch over and grip my sides tightly to keep the sobs from vibrating in my chest. I try to breathe. I try to calm myself down, but nothing seems to be working.

Then I hear, "Girl, what the hell is the matter with you?"

My blood runs cold. Fear unfurls in my gut. The tears immediately leave my eyes. Oh no. Daddy has found me. I clear my throat and keep my head down. "Nothing Daddy."

Daddy is a big man. At least six feet four inches tall. Thick bulky arms. A bulging beer gut. Strong manly hands. He looms over me, casting a shadow over my thin petite body. "Nothing my ass."

Before I can react he lunges for me, grips me by the hair at my crown, and starts dragging me through the field to the house. Pain blossoms in my scalp like daggers are stabbing me repeatedly and I shriek out in agony as he drags me up each one of the porch steps. I swat at his hand, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but he tightens it and I cry out harder.

At the front door, he still has me by the hair, but the tension in my scalp has lessened because I'm able to plant my feet firmly on the wooden porch. I open my eyes and turn my head to see Damien face red with fury, jaw clenched, fists balled up at his sides, as he storms toward us.

There's panic in my eyes and worry in my heart. I wooden my eyes and shake my head. Then I mouth, "No don't."

Damien isn't listening, he breaks out into a jog and I scream at the top of my lungs, "DON'T!"

Then he slows, coming to a halt and even from where I'm standing I can see the tears glistening in his eyes. It looks like there's an internal struggle going on inside of him on whether he should listen to me or not. His lip quivers and he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. He starts toward us again. I shake my head and mouth, "I love you." At the same time, Daddy releases his hand from my hair and clumps of it fall out at my feet.

With wobbly knees, I stand, feet planted firmly into the wooden porch then my eyes meet Damien's as Daddy plants his heel into the small of my back and kicks me through the front door.
Chapter Eleven

~AFTER~

I wake up screaming.

Then my screams go up an octave and I start shrieking. "Don't touch me!" I'm out of my cot and on my feet. "Don't touch me!"

I bolt for the door and pry it open, breaking out into the hall, running toward the utility closet. Damien is there, he told me to meet him and I forgot. I'd fallen asleep and forgot. But if he's still there, he'll know exactly what to do to make me feel better. He'll know exactly what to say. He always does. He always will.

More shrieking.

I have this vision of Daddy in my mind. He's removing his belt and I'm cowering in the corner of the kitchen. "No! Daddy! No!" I shut my eyes as tight as I can. "Make him stop! Make him stop!"

Footsteps thunder behind me and muffled voices fill up the quiet hall. Someone shouts, "Where is she?"

Another voice is added to the equation, "Tell us where she is, damn it!"

Aurora replies in a full hysterical, nut job facade, "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Stop yelling at me! Stop yelling at me!"

I'm almost at the utility closet, I can practically feel the cool metal handle in my grasp. I can feel the iciness shooting through my skin and chilling me. I'm so close. So very, very close. My arm juts out, my fingers outstretched. A few more inches. Now centimeters.

I don't make it.

From my left, someone barrels into my side like a defensive end in a football game and tackles me. I swat at them and kick, still screaming and struggle to get away. I make it a few feet before they tackle me again. "Let me go!" Their arms tighten around my shoulders and their legs wrap around mine. "Let me go!"

The thundering stops. "Hand her over." My sobbing is intense so I can barely hear the people surrounding me. But I know the person who said hand her over is Marjorie.

I sob harder, so hard I can't breathe. There's an argument going on in front of me and I already know what's going to happen. It's like I'm waiting for the jab of the needle. Waiting to feel the drugs that I loathe work their way through my nervous system and cloud my judgment. Waiting for them to subdue my subconscious mind and let me drift off into the darkness.

But there is never a jab from the needle.

There are no drugs swimming in my veins.

Instead, everything goes quiet, then the voices fade away and I'm being lifted off the ground by a pair of arms. The person is carrying me. My eyelids flutter and I tuck my head in between the person's neck and shoulder blade. Tears blur my vision, but I can make out the profound jaw line, and a toasted almond patch of skin. Damien. It has to be.

No one else would rescue me.

Take care of me.

Worry about me.

No one else would follow me across the state, just to be near me.

"You saved me," I whisper into the curve of his neck.

"Of course I saved you." His lips press against my forehead. "I will always save you. I love you that much."

My heart has grown wings. They flutter in my chest cavity, sending gusts of air swirling through my lungs. I try to speak, but my tongue is swollen. I think I might have bit down on it during my midnight flight so I mumble, "I love you too," instead. I'm not sure if the words come out coherent, but I'm guessing they're not when I get no response from Damien.

The lights in the hall flicker. An eerie silence sets in. The quiet swallows Damien and I whole and pretty soon the only thing I can hear is his heartbeat. I nuzzle closer and rest my ear against his defined peck. His heart thunders. Pounding. Hammering. It reminds me of that one deadly beat of the drum that an executioner plays before someone is beheaded. Perhaps it's a sign that I'm thinking this. That maybe Damien is going to get in trouble for coming to my rescue. Or that maybe my relationship with him has been doomed from the start.

My body goes limp at some point, but I'm still partly lucid. I can feel myself being lowered onto a cot and I can feel Damien as he lies down in bed with me, snuggling up next to me. His hand slips over my waist. His soft breaths sound off rhythmically in my ears as he rests his face into the crook of my neck and breathes into my hair. Finally I completely give myself over to the pull of exhaustion, shutting everything else out.

~ ~ ~

It's dark in my head.

And out of the blackness comes a vision.

There's a man whose face is blurry, but just from his presence I can tell there is a gentleness about him. A gentleness that keeps me calm. Keeps me sane. A gentleness that fills me up with hope and love and happiness. His fingers skim my bare skin as he fiddles with my bra strap. His hands are warm. He kisses my shoulder blade, "I've missed you beautiful," he tells me in a deep, soothing voice, his moist lips against my shoulder blade.

I respond with a smile and, "I've missed you too."

He grazes my skin with his teeth and the titillating feeling sends a thousand sparks surging through my nerve endings. Then his lips are everywhere. In my hair. Against my ear. On my collarbone. Every part of me smolders as a passionate feeling embarks on a journey to my heart.

I look down. My clothes are gone. And I can't remember if I've been naked during this entire fantasy-like dream or if at some point the man in front of me ripped them off because he's naked too. I still can't see his face, but I reach up and trace his taut jaw line before trailing my fingers down his hard, muscled chest. He growls, and I revel in the ravenous and hungry sound that just left his throat. It's not an angry and menacing growl. It's a growl of pleasure. A growl of want.

"Come closer," he beckons and motions with his finger.

I'm on top of something flat. The surface is smooth, slick, and the coolness of it reverberates through my pores and mixes in with the burning desire simmering in my veins and sends jolts of hot and cold plummeting through every nook and cranny of my body. I start to shimmy to the edge of the surface, still unsure of what I'm lying on, but the man at the edge is needy. I'm not moving fast enough for him.

He shoots his arms out with a groan and grips my waist with force. His fingers bite into my flesh as he presses down harder and slides me so close to him that our bodies are almost connected. Then he hovers over me, twirls a strand of my black hair around his finger, pulls my face close to his, and breathes into my ear, "That's better, gorgeous." His lips graze my lower earlobe and his warm breath trails down the nape of my neck. There's a force building up inside of me that I need to let out. My legs tremble. My skin is on fire. I swallow a loud groan stuck in my throat to keeping myself from screaming his name.

But that's impossible.

I can't scream his name because his face is still blurred in my vision so I have no idea who he is.

My heart is telling me it's Damien but my mind is telling me it's not.

He grabs my chin and jerks my face towards his. I wish I could see him. I wish could gaze into his eyes and get lost there because I can feel them on my skin. I can feel the wicked way they're devouring my body. Suddenly he smothers my lips with his and I become so wrapped up with the way his tongue is teasing mine that I forget my name. What I'm doing. The part of me that has been questioning who this man is.

He shoves me back onto the smooth surface and my back hits it, hard. The blunt force almost knocks the wind out of my lungs and I stare up at this strange man who is ravishing me with wide eyes. He's rough. And I'm surprised—mostly at myself—by how much I like it. I struggle to find words. My breathing is shallow. Unsteady. Finally I manage, "What are you doing?"

The man lets out a pleasureful yet hungry sigh and trails his fingers down the length of my body. Goose bumps arise and I arch my back in response to his touch. There's a throaty groan rumbling in my ears and I'm not sure if he is making that sound or if I am. He hooks his arm through the curve of my back as he crawls onto the surface with me. Then he pulls me into his lap, gently licks my lips, and tucks a piece of my loose hair behind my ear.

This man does something crazy to me. Blurred face and all. I'm at the point where I don't care who he is. I don't care where we are or if this might only be a dream. All I want is for him to lie me down on this surface and make sweet, sweet, love to me. I want him to set my heart ablaze. Send me into a passionate oblivion. And turn my world upside down.

He's being gentle now. Touching my face. Brushing his lips against mine. His mouth tastes like honey and I want to swallow it. Guzzle it down by the jarful. I pull away from him and his fingers grip my chin. "Where do you think you're going?" His voice is light-hearted. Amused.

"You never answered my question," I tell him.

"Remind me again," he whispers into my ear before tracing my jaw line with his teeth, "what was it?"

I lie flat and he hovers on top of me, spreading my legs with a gentle push. I run my fingers through his hair and something feels off. He answers my question when he thrusts inside of me and lies down on top of me. Our legs intertwined. Breathing raspy. Bodies sticky with heat and moisture.

He moves inside of me. At first it's slow and I hike my legs up in response when his hips melt into mine. Then he positions his lips over top of mine and breathes into my mouth, "I'm going to fuck you, Adelaide."

I can't respond because the way his hips are grinding against mine send me into a frenzy of a delicious pleasure so intense all I can do is moan.

"Would you like that, Adelaide?" he asks.

My reply is a moan.

His thrusts quicken and I bite my lip, crying out. I'm so twisted, so lost, so racked with passion that it feels like it's about to explode inside of me. My eyes center on this man's chest as he becomes more forceful and my body begins sliding across the surface of the object I'm on. Realization hits me. It doesn't matter what my heart was telling me because no I know this man is not Damien.

Damien has a tiny scar just below his left shoulder blade. This man doesn't. Damien has a small patch of hair along his breast bone. This man's chest is soft and smooth and the only hair he has is a happy trail down the length of his stomach.

He hunches over me, clinging to me, breathing into my ear, pressing his lips to mine. And thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. There's a huge debate sounding off inside of my head. Part of me keeps wondering what the hell I'm doing. A voice keeps hissing at me, How could you do this to Damien? He'd never do this to you. But there's another bigger part of me that's screaming, don't fight it. Let go. If this was wrong it wouldn't feel so right.

The man on top of me grunts out my name with another deep thrust and I gasp out in a high-pitched voice as I dig my nails into his back. Suddenly I feel like I'm hovering over a deep ravine, looking down, trying to locate the bottom. Someone pushes me. I fall. My limbs flail. Waves of fear slosh around in my belly. At the same time a free, liberating feeling whips through me and even though I'm plummeting downward faster and faster I feel like I'm being thrust upward. I feel like I'm flying.

The man I'm screwing in this wet dream of mine gives one final thrust before heaping over on top of me. Our chests rise together as we steady our breathing. Something about everything that just happened makes me feel complete. Like somewhere deep down inside of me I get the gut feeling that I know this man and that maybe I was supposed to be making love to him.

But what about Damien?

I promised myself that I'd love him forever. That I'd let him keep my heart. I promised him no other man would ever make me feel the way he does. And here is this stranger, who has so many familiarities. A man I swear that I feel connected to somehow.

"I love you, Adelaide," he murmurs as he picks himself up off me and smoothes my damp hair away from my forehead.

If he loves me, I must know him. For God's sake I wish that the blurriness on his face would disappear. I involuntarily respond, "I love you too." Then I clamp my hand over my mouth. It's almost like I can't control what I'm saying, feeling or doing around this man. Shock works its way through me as I sit up and watch my lover get dressed.

This man is not Damien, and I know this, but I feel like I have to clarify it with myself several times before the thoughts actually sink in.

So then I have to ask myself one question; If this man is not, Damien, then who the hell is he?

Terror, deep vibrating terror thunders in my chest and rips me from the land of dreams. My legs tremble. My heart pounds so hard, it nearly catapults out of its cavity. My breaths are clogged in my throat, bogged down from a raw feeling, and the thick, mucus-like saliva that coats the walls of my esophagus.

I go to clutch my chest, but I can't. I twist my shoulders, but it's like the whole upper portion of my body has been mummified. My eyes drift down my abdomen. Oh no. Panic begins to set in when I try to move, but really can't, the white material from the straight jacket fades in and out of focus in my eyes and the jingling noise from the metal restraints echoes in my ears. My panic is replaced with fear because I can't imagine what I might have done. Who I might have hurt. Or when and if the staff is having a meeting at this very moment, trying to decide what they're going to do with me.

For a second I swear the light dangling above my head flickers. I swear tortured shrieks vibrate through the walls. I can already hear the electricity humming in my head. I can taste the cotton as it's shoved into my mouth. I can feel the electricity as it zips through my cranium and fries my mind.

No.

Not the basement. I won't let them take me there. I'll never let them take me there.

I have to get out of here.

Standing, my eyes dart around the room. No two beds. Two dressers. No Aurora. Padded walls for days. I've been put back in solitary. One cot. One person. One barred window with a man standing next to it.

A man?

With chin-length black hair, blue blue eyes, and toasted almond skin. Damien.

"Damien?" I swallow hard. My voice is hoarse. "What are you doing here?" I wiggle beneath the restraints of my straightjacket. "Damien, can you help me get out of this thing?" He ignores me. I keep my eyes on him, watching as he lowers his hands to his sides, clenching them into fists. "Damien, please."

He answers me, but doesn't face me. "Where were you last night?" His voice is low, chilling, even menacing. He doesn't sound like my, Damien. My Damien's voice is always warm, loving, and kind. "Answer me, Addy." He's adamant and his voice goes up an octave. "Do you know I waited for hours?" His blue eyes stare back at me through the thick panes of glass. They're cold. Lifeless. "You abandoned me. You never showed."

My face pinches and I have to bite my lip to keep it from quivering. Doesn't he remember carrying me away from the staff when they came for me with their precious needles? Doesn't he remember riding in like a white knight on a stallion and coming to my rescue? "But... but you were there with me?" I stammer. "You held me." I shake my head and struggle beneath the straightjacket. "Don't you remember?"

I see Damien's eyes narrow through the window, a scowl form on his lips, and his thick black eyebrows scrunch together. "Where?"

I cast my eyes downward at my hidden hands. "I don't know where, but I could have sworn you were there, carrying me down the hall."

Damien lets out a frustrated sigh, runs a shaky hand through his ebony locks and purses his lips. "No. I was in the utility closet, waiting for you."

"Then who was the man carrying me down hall?

"Man?" Damien growls and slams his fist into the white padding on the wall. "What fucking man?"

"I don't know. Damien, I thought he was you!"

Damien spins around facing me, blue eyes wild with fury, a flush on his toasted almond cheeks. "Do you have any idea what I had to do to come back to you?" There's a rasp in his voice and it's deadly. He lurches closer. I cower away from him, backing into a corner. "Do you know what I've given up for you?" He's shouting now. "I love you so much it makes me crazy!" There's a crazy, panicked look in his blue blue eyes. "I love you so much sometimes I feel like it's suffocating me!" My back hits the padded wall with a thud and Damien looms over me and punches the wall next to my head. Tears free fall from my eyes and I close my eyelids for a second, trying to push some of them back, but it's no use, there's a river on my flushed cheeks. "And you...you... you do this," Damien stutters. "I sacrificed everything for you," he's shouting again, "and you're out parading around with another man!"

I suck back my tears and shake my head. "No, Damien! You don't understand! It was only—!"

He cuts me off. "Save the bullshit for someone else, Addy!"

My mouth gapes. My lips quiver. Tears come out in torrents. I try to reach for him desperately with trembling fingers, but I forget I'm in a straightjacket. I struggle beneath it. I need to touch him. I need to feel that he's real because somehow it feels like I'm having another nightmare.

Damien backs away from me, his hands in the air, eyes closed. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

I sink to the floor, hunched over screaming and sobbing hysterically. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. His words puncture a hole in my heart. Lifting my head slowly, my eyes instantly focus on Damien's beautiful face. His eyes are closed, his lips in a straight line. When he opens his eyes wetness glistens in the corners. He blinks back the emotion, pinches the bridge of his nose, and starts for the door.

I'm on my feet, dashing after him. "Damien, please!" I beg. "It's not what you think!"

"I said save it, Addy!" He pulls my door back. "Save it for someone who cares," he mutters, pain in his voice, "because I'm done caring. I'm done being the one who comes to your rescue."

"No!" I shriek and sink down to my knees, the air knocked out of my lungs. The room is spinning and spinning and spinning. "No!" I fall forward and my cheek rests against the cold tile floor. My whole body shakes and I can't control the sobs and how they sound leaving my throat. For a moment, I think I sound like a crazy person. Like I belong here among the nut jobs.

Pain stabs at my side and runs its course through my insides. It's not a sharp pain that's only present for a minute or two then goes away. It's a dull, throbbing pain that intensifies, deepening as the seconds dwindle by. Damien is still at my door. I gawk at the back of him, eyes drifting up his long lean body stopping at his sleek black locks. His hair is matted by his crown like someone stuck a piece of chewing gum there. I squint, thinking I notice something oozing from his scalp, but banish the thought. It's nothing, just my mind playing tricks on me.

My gaze drops to his feet. I want to reach out and grab him, but forget that I can't. The loudest shriek I've ever let out leaves my throat and I curl up into a fetal position on the floor. For the first time ever, I'm thankful for the straightjacket because I'm convinced it's the only thing holding me together.

My door slams and I struggle to sit up. I rock back and forth on my tailbone, mumbling to myself. I stare at the closed door, waiting for Damien to come back. Hope floats through my bloodstream like a virus before it becomes full blown. He'll come back, right? We just had a silly little fight. We've had them before and we always made up shortly after. This time will be like all the others. Damien will show up at any moment, we'll apologize to each other and go back to being the loving, doting couple that we've been for the last year.

But Damien doesn't come back.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here, could be seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even a full day. At one point, I swear I'm imagining hearing the sound of his glorious voice. I stumble to my feet, tripping, my body slamming against the metal door to my room. On my tiptoes, I press my shoulder into the door to keep myself steady. I look out the tiny square window at the top of the door out into the dimly lit hallway. Shadows dance along the tan plaster walls and the row of hanging lights flicker, but there's no one there. Shaking my head I place my back flat against the door and crouch down, sitting.

Lowering my head, I stretch my legs out. What is happening to me? I let out a long ragged breath and bang my head lightly against my door. More tears pool in my eyes and as I close my eyes they roll down my cheeks. I'll never forget that look on Damien's face. He looked like I stabbed him in the chest, carved out his heart, and put it in a blender. The thought that I hurt him so deeply is killing me.

Softly.

Slowly.

Hunching over, I fall onto my side. White tiles fill up my distant gaze and burn my eyes. White and small droplets of red. Scooting closer, the white vanishes from the tile and all I can see is red.

Four tiny red droplets that seem much bigger than they really are.

Four tiny red droplets that burn my eyes and make my stomach clench.

Four tiny red droplets...

Of blood.
Chapter Twelve

~AFTER~

Someone is trying to kill me.

There's a pillow over my face. Hands pressing down on it with force. I open my mouth, but can't scream. I'm using up all of the precious oxygen in my lungs by trying to inhale. My arms flail and claw at the air. They connect with an arm and I dig my nails into their flesh and scratch, hard. I hear a muffled cry, "Fuck!"

The pillow is lifted off my face and I suck in lungfuls of air, bolting upright in my bed. Aurora clutches my pillow, fingers curled tightly around the edges.

I catch my breath and rise to my feet. "What the hell were you doing?" I stalk toward her and point my finger. "You could have killed me!"

She chucks my pillow into the corner of the room and folds her arms across her chest. "You could have killed yourself!" she snaps. "You were screaming again and I didn't think a trip to the basement was on your agenda today." An eye roll. "I tried to wake you up normally, but you sleep like a damn corpse." We plop down on our cots at the same time. Aurora casts her eyes downward, glimpsing at the bloody scratch marks on her pale, freckled arm. She winces and her eyes meet mine. "Jesus, haven't you ever heard of a file?"

"I'm sorry, okay," I huff. "I thought you were trying to kill me."

Aurora shakes her head and lets out a soft laugh. A genuine laugh. Not an ounce of crazy in it at all. "Nah. I'll leave that to the staff."

I laugh with her, not because it's funny, but because sometimes when you're in a harrowing situation like Aurora and I are, sometimes all you can do to make yourself feel better is laugh about something. Our laughter dies down and Aurora clears her throat. "So," she raises an arched eyebrow, "who is that boy you're always talking about in your sleep?"

"Boy?" I question her even though I know she's referring to Damien.

"Or man." Aurora shrugs. "His name begins with a D."

"Damien," I say and turn my head, looking out the barred window.

"Was he your beau or something?" She tucks her legs under her butt, getting more comfortable. "I know you told me before he was only a friend, but I find it odd that you'd call out for him the way you do if he was only a friend." She pauses a beat. "I only ask because I worry about you. The way you scream every night and try to escape. You know it's only a matter of time before they send you to the basement when you act like that."

Her sincere words bring a smile to my lips and an overwhelming calm to my heart. I study her face for a moment. Her eyebrows are furrowed. There's a frown on her lips. Not an angry frown or even a disappointed one. It's a truly and utterly sad one. I don't want to talk about what could happen to me because of my night terrors or midnight escape routes. It's not something I want to think about either. So I tell myself that pretending my actions will never lead to the terrifying consequences adapted by this asylum is much better. Easier. It helps me wake up every morning. It helps me get through my day.

"He is my beau," I tell Aurora, changing the subject. Hopefully this will keep her from talking about my wild shrieks in the night, and the possibility of subliminal torture because of the wild shrieks and rapid runs down the hall at midnight.

It does.

Aurora's face lights up. She looks intrigued. And there's a slight hue of pink in her cheeks. The involuntary bodily function tells me that boyfriends are not a topic of conversation she has too often. After a minute of silence, she fidgets, playing with her fingers, her eyes cast downward in a bashful way. "I had a beau once." The tone in her voice is soft yet distant.

This surprises me. Not because Aurora isn't lovely with her thick, curly red locks, flawless freckled complexion and petite yet curvaceous physique, but because she acts so childish most of the time. Then I have to remind myself that most of the time I'm around her, she's an actress playing the biggest role of her career as a nut job. I scoot closer to the edge of the bed and she peers up at me through her long lashes, her cheeks now a deep shade of red. "Why don't you tell me about him?" I mention. Then I reverse the question. "I have an idea. Why don't you tell me about yours and I'll tell you about mine?"

Aurora purses her lips and thinks over the question. Finally she says, "Okay." Seconds pass by and she says nothing. I keep my eyes on her and by the way she's chewing her lip and rolling her thumbs, I can tell this is going to be difficult for her. "His name was Edward." Her voice is filled with emotion and even from where I'm sitting I can see the tears glistening in her eyes.

"Aurora, if this is too difficult—."

"No," she snaps, cutting me off. "It's just that I haven't seen or thought about him in years. I can't even remember how old I was the last time I saw him. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. I could have possibly been fourteen, so who knows. But one thing I do remember more vividly than anything was the sound of his laugh. It was a deep, booming rumbling laugh. Even if I was having the worst day ever, just hearing it would brighten my day." She sighs. "He had beautiful sea green eyes too. Not too light. Not too dark. They were enchanting."

"Sounds like he was a real dreamboat," I comment with a smile.

"Yeah." A hint of a smile forms on her lips. "He was." Aurora does her best to hide her face from me, but she's not fooling me at all. Tears dribble down her cheeks, her features are twisted in pain and it's during this moment that I know she loved this boy. And it saddens me more than anything that her coming here was probably what ripped her away from him. Aurora clears her throat and does the best she can to wipe all of the emotion off her face. "So," she says. "Tell me about yours."

I go into detail and tell her about Damien. About how we met. How in love we are. Some of the things I love about him. Some of the things that drive me mad. I describe his physical features and talk about his mother and how much I loathe her. By the end of my rant I'm surprised that Aurora still seems generally interested in knowing more about him. She stares off out the window in a melancholy state. "Do you know where he is?"

"Damien?"

A nod.

"Of course I know where he is," I huff. "He's here."

Aurora's gaze deadlocks on me and she raises both eyebrows. "Here? As in, in the asylum here?"

"Yes, but not as a patient," I chuckle. "He's an orderly."

Both of her eyebrows shoot up. "Really? How come I've never seen him?"

"I don't know. He works over at the men's wing of the asylum a lot." I eye her oddly. "Maybe you just haven't noticed him before."

"Addy, I've been here seven years I know every staff member's name, what they look like, I've even dipped into some staff members files and know some of their more personal information," she informs me. "There isn't a Damien Allen that works here."

"He's new," I tell her. "He arrived shortly after I did. You probably just haven't gotten a chance to do any investigating."

"Addy, there—."

Our conversation is interrupted by a knock on the door.

It's Marjorie.

I was smiling and enjoying myself until I get a good look at her smug, round face. "Adelaide," she says curtly. "Dr. Watson, instructed me to fetch you for your session with him."

Right.

I glance at Aurora who has started cackling then I peek over my shoulder at Marjorie and she's looking at Aurora with pity and shaking her head. I wave at the crazy version of Aurora and follow Marjorie out the door and down the hall. She leaves me just outside of Dr. Watson's office. His back is to me and he's on the phone with someone. I lift my hand to knock, but decide against it. Sliding to the side, I place my back flat against the wall and eavesdrop.

"It's out of the question!" he snaps. "You know I don't condone that kind of treatment." He pauses. "I will repeat myself, it's out of the question!" His tone is more authoritative. More final. "That kind of treatment is inhumane." A sigh of frustration. "I don't care how effective you think it is. How about this? You treat your patients the way you want to and I'll treat mine how I want to, but understand this; you will not use any of those methods on my patients Matthew are we clear?"

He's talking to Dr. Morrow. A sharp intake of breath trails down my throat and my mouth forms an o. They have to be talking about what goes on in the basement. My spine stiffens and panic spins around inside of my stomach just thinking the word basement. I stare off in a trance-like state, the neutral colored walls blurring in my eyes. Calm replaces the panic I'd previously felt when I realize that Dr. Watson is not the bad guy. He's not the one who sends people to the basement. According to him, he doesn't believe in that kind of treatment and for the first time since I've been receiving treatments from him, I'm thankful that he's my doctor and not Dr. Morrow.

"Adelaide." I jump at the sound of my name, turn my head, and clutch my chest, hoping to steady my racing heart. Dr. Watson stands next to me, regarding me with cool yet wary eyes. His eyes are more of an amber color today and there's intensity in them as he continues to examine my face. "How long have you been standing there?"

I open my mouth to answer him, but words seem to have escaped me. Either that or my voice box isn't working. It's strange how this man captivates me. I shake off the thought as a guilty feeling surges through my gut, straight up to my heart. Damien. I replay the painful look on his face from my drug-induced slumber. No, I tell myself. You should not be captivated by this man. There is only one man for you. Damien.

Dr. Watson folds his arms across his chest and lifts an eyebrow. "Well?"

I continue to gawk at him for another minute. I like when he makes that face. It's a puzzled look and when he widens his eyes I can see the depth in them, the beauty. Point blank it's a striking look. I finally find my voice and focus on the crème tile squares. "I just got here." I keep my voice low and make certain I don't stare directly into his eyes.

I've heard from several sources that you can tell a lot about a person by looking into their eyes, and I know if Dr. Watson were looking into mine right now he'd be able to tell that I'm lying to him.

"Very well, then," he says and gestures to the open door. "Come, have a seat."

My eyes follow the length of his arm and I push away from the wall. He leads the way into his office, retreating to his desk and I sit down in the folding chair. Bending over, he reaches into a cabinet, rummaging around, making a lot of noise and I know what he's doing. At this point nausea slaps against the walls of my stomach, my whole body tenses, and my heart hammers against my ribcage. "No," I gasp, fidgeting in my spot, scooting my chair back. "I don't want to."

Dr. Watson spins around and places the metronome in front of me. "You know that you have to, Adelaide. This is a very effective form of treatment." His voice is warm, but his eyes are cold and have appeared to harden a little bit.

I shake my head and my voice quivers, "Please don't make me."

Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I hold them back and look away from Dr. Watson. I hate the metronome. The way it ticks, cutting into quiet until all you hear is tick tick tick. The annoying sound echoes in your ears and throbs in your temples. I hate the way the level lures you into a false sense of reality as it moves back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Dr. Watson has used it on me twice before and after I'd left his office those two times, I'd felt seduced and naked. Seduced because it was like that tiny lever on the metronome had a mind of its own and knew exactly how to yank my deepest darkest secrets out of my head. Like a forbidden lover who knows exactly how to speak to you, and touch you, and kiss you to get you to spread your legs for them. I felt naked because somehow that tick...tick...ticking had the ability to make me produce word vomit and at the end of the session I was ashamed of some of the things I'd said out loud. Whether he's helping me or not, there are some secrets; things that have happened in my past that I don't even want to tell Dr. Watson. And I know that when he uses the metronome on me he'll bring most of them out.

Dr. Watson shakes his head and huffs, "Adelaide." Then he walks out from behind his desk, takes a seat on the front left corner, and outstretches his arm, his finger aimed at the tiny lever on the metronome.

At that moment I jump from my seat and push his hand away. "No!" Dr. Watson stands, towering in front of me. "You can't make me!"

He leans over, placing both hands on my cheeks, his thumbs brushing against my cheekbones. This man has a magical touch. One caress of his fingers has me at ease, but there's also something vaguely familiar about Dr. Watson putting his hands on me. But I haven't figured out what that familiarity is, yet.

He's touched me before. Not in a sick perverted kind of way, but in a concerned and sometimes I even think loving kind of way. "It's okay, Addy," he soothes me. "Nothing bad is going to happen. Trust me. I only want to help you. I only want to see you get better so you can get out of here." His voice vibrates in my mind. That suave, beautiful, and deep voice plummets into the darkest corners of my brain and I swear I've heard it before outside of our sessions. We gaze into each other's eyes and his eyes soften subtly. He studies me hard, eyes flitting over every facial feature I have and then I swear a see a flash of pain in his eyes. This man is hiding something, I can tell.

His hands fall from my face and rest on my shoulder blades, but neither one of us tears our eyes away from each other. That is until we hear the screaming.

"No!" Thundering footsteps crash into the tile and there's shouting from the staff on top of the screaming. "No! Stay away from me!" Dr. Watson tears his eyes away from mine and glances out into the hall. Several nurses stampede past the door. "Please! Please! Don't take me down there!"

Dr. Watson steps away from me and jogs to the door. I follow, standing beside him and his eyes widen. I remain at the door, watching as he breaks out into a full sprint, running to the opposite end of the hall. His body is tense, his fists clenched. I get the sense that some kind of argument is about to go down.

Peering out the door, the crowded hall is pure chaos. Dr. Morrow is surrounded by two orderlies, three nurses, and Cynthia, the asylum gossip queen, is writhing on the floor. She's thrashing beneath the grasp of the orderlies and nurses. She tries to fight them, kicking and swatting at them, but eventually they manage to restrain her.

My eyes widen in shock and I slip into the hall, stopping at the halfway mark. Remorse sweeps through my entire body and I can't help but wish that I could help her somehow. I can't help but wonder if there is a way I could somehow set her free. Help her escape. Send her on her way to wherever her real home is.

Cynthia still thrashes and screams, "I'll do anything! Anything! Just don't take me down there again!"

Dr. Morrow prepares a sedative. My eyes drift over all of the faces in the crowd and I spot Damien as he rushes to the scene. His eyes flit toward Dr. Watson and a scornful and hateful scowl spreads across his lips. What's that about? Damien's eyes meet mine for a second and hurt pierces those blue blue eyes. He blanches then looks away. I want to run to him. I want to apologize. I want to beg him for his forgiveness and explain everything. That the strange man I saw in my dreams was only a strange man and that he means nothing to me. I want to tell Damien that he is the only man who will ever mean anything to me. He's the only man who'll ever fully have my heart.

But I don't.

Dr. Watson interrupts my thoughts when he shouts, "What the hell is going on here?"

Dr. Morrow presses his thumb against the bottom of the syringe and squirts a tiny amount of liquid through the tip of the needle. "We caught this one trying to escape." His voice is calm, frozen, and completely terrifying.

My attention averts to Cynthia who is still thrashing, but is become weaker and weaker by the second. She whimpers softly and the sight of her red cheeks and the frightened look on her face brings tears to my eyes. I want to scream don't hurt her, please. Then I catch Damien out of the corner of my eye, holding her down as Dr. Morrow stabs her with the needle. Cynthia's body goes limp in the two orderlies' and two nurses' arms and her head lulls back and forth as the three nurses strap her into a gurney.

Dr. Watson is outraged and he points a finger in Dr. Morrow's face. "This isn't right Matthew, and you know it! These aren't animals! These are people!"

A wicked smile curls on Dr. Morrow's lips. He cups his hand around Dr. Watson's bicep and says, "I'm doing what you said, Elijah. I'm letting you treat your patient the way you want to. And well, this is how I treat mine."

Veins pop out of Dr. Watson's neck and his face is a deep shade of crimson. He breathes in deeply and clenches his fists at his sides. "Don't do this Matthew," he says through gritted teeth.

Dr. Morrow looks away from Dr. Watson and instructs the nurses, "Take her downstairs." Then he faces Dr. Watson. "Mind your own business Elijah. Worry about your own patient."

Patient?

Patient?

Am I his only patient?

The word bounces around in my head as squeaks from the gurney echo and fill up the entire hall. Damien lingers in the hall and props himself up against one of the walls staring back at me and Dr. Watson drops his gaze to the floor.

Me, I'm glancing between both of them more confused than I've ever been in my entire life. Dr. Watson slouches his shoulders and pivots on his heel, walking back toward the office. Damien is scowling at his back. But, why?

During this moment, I can't help but wonder two things; one, why Damien hates a man he doesn't even know? And two, why I am Dr. Watson's only patient?
Chapter Thirteen

~BEFORE~

Daddy was in a really bad mood today.

The blossoming bruise on my cheek and the ache in my ribs serve as a reminder. After a sharp intake of breath an intense pain punctures me so deeply, that I wind up hunched over on the bathroom floor, unable to breathe. The pain spreads across my chest cavity, then plummets to the walls of my stomach before breaking out into a full on throb. With shaking fingers and lost wits, I remove a bandage from a cabinet underneath the bathroom sink and wrap it as tight as I can below my breasts. The tight makeshift tourniquet I've made doesn't take the pain away completely, but it helps. I can now take small shallow breaths without feeling like a knife is skewering me over and over again.

I linger in my room, pacing the length of the 12x12 perimeter, waiting for Daddy's rumbling snores to blast through the walls. The sky outside my window is two-toned, half rustic orange, the other half deep blue. It's past dusk. Panic unfurls in my lungs and I breathe in deep, wincing in pain when I forget about the damage Daddy inflicted on my ribcage.

Damien will be waiting for me. I hope he doesn't think I've stood him up. I hope he doesn't get worried and come looking for me. If Daddy doesn't pass out soon, I know he will.

Seconds pass by. Then minutes. It feels like I've been waiting forever for him to succumb to his drunken stupor. Finally, I stop mid-pace when I hear it, the nasally high-pitched sign of being lost to an alcohol induced oblivion. I wait. I'm careful not to move an inch. Finally the snores escalate into a concoction, somewhere between a grumble and a roar then I know for certain that Daddy has gone away for the night and won't be coming back until the sun rises.

Thank God.

There's a part of me wishes that Daddy would sleep his life away. A part of me that hopes that after all these years his drinking will finally catch up to him. That one day he'll just go to bed and never wake up. But who am I kidding with that dream? It's the people like Daddy, the wicked ones who go on living forever.

It's like God puts people like Daddy on earth on purpose. Making them a test for the good people in the world. If you can withstand what the good Lord throws at you, by staying true to your goodhearted self, and persevering through all of the obstacles thrust before you, then you've earned a spot by his side in Heaven.

I look forward to that day.

I look forward to the day where I'll be smiling down from Heaven, wondering what made my daddy become so sick, twisted, and rotten. I look forward to the day when I can forgive him for everything he's done and watch him from a cloud up in Heaven, praying for his damned soul, while he's doused in flames, and burning in hell.

Climbing out my window without Damien's hands guiding me proves to be a challenge. Especially with bruised ribs. When I'm halfway through the square opening, my chest hits the windowsill hard as pain plunges through every part of my body. I release my grip on the window and fall backwards, my back slamming into the ground with a thud. The wind gets knocked out of my lungs and I cough out, but that only worsens the pain.

Sitting up, I hug myself as tight as I can, sliding on my butt against the dew-covered grass and rest my back flat against the white aluminum siding of my house. My lips quiver. Tears burn my eyes and threaten to fall. I hold my breath until I can't anymore. The intense pain in my ribs dies down slightly and I let out the breath I've been holding in, slowly. Easily. Softly.

There. That's better. I can kind of breathe again.

Using the house as a crutch, and taking my time, I manage to get on my feet. Then I heave myself away from the safety of hard sturdy surfaces and aluminum siding. During the first shaky step I stumble, but catch my balance by holding an arm out, keeping the other one wrapped around my chest. Then I stroll off, covered by an afghan of moonlight and stars to the giant, looming weeping willow where I know Damien will be waiting.
Chapter Fourteen

~AFTER~

After the Cynthia incident, Dr. Watson cancels my session and puts the metronome away. I am relieved and elated. He dismisses me so I can go and join some of the other female patients in the rec room.

Damien waits for me at the end of the hall and when I start to pass him, he falls in line with my steps. I shoot him an annoyed glance. "What's with you?" I ask in a firm voice. "What's with the hateful glares and scowls toward Dr. Watson?"

He scowls at me just mentioning Dr. Watson. "I don't like the way that man looks at you. And I know he touches you. I've seen it." His voice spits venom and I don't think I've ever heard such a vile tone leave his lips. He wraps his finger around my arm and halts me mid-step. "You belong to me." His voice is territorial. "You're mine. Nobody will love you the way I do."

Frowning, I yank my arm away and stalk down the hall. Damien is jealous and I don't like it one bit. "You'd better quit with the nasty looks and scowls, Damien Allen," I spout off. "I don't know how many times I've told you, that you're my one and only. That I love you with every depth of my soul. Dr. Watson is my doctor. He's only trying to help me and that's all it is."

Damien is silent for a moment. "If that's true, then run away with me." I stop walking and Damien grips my shoulders and I gaze into his radiant blue eyes. "Come away with me, Addy," he repeats. "I told you once I'd help you get out of here. Now let's do it. You know I'll protect you. You know I won't let them hurt you. We can break free." He brushes his lips against mine and sends a shiver of pleasure throughout my nervous system. He pulls away and his moist luscious lips rest gently against mine. "We can be together. Love each other freely. Just you and me for the rest of our lives."

When I saw him for the first time after I'd been brought here that's all I ever wanted. All I ever wanted was for us to spend every waking minute together, worshiping each other, loving each other. His hands are on my face. His lips press against mine again, softly, sensually. Waves of desire rush through my body and I swallow hard to get a hold of myself. I rest my forehead against his and whisper, "I don't know Damien. It's too dangerous."

After witnessing what just happened with Cynthia I'm not sure if I'll ever try escaping again. The fear has been instilled in me. The worry. The doubt. Even if Dr. Watson is against the inhumane and vile torture Dr. Morrow inflicts on his patients, who's to say Dr. Morrow won't go against Dr. Watson's words and punish me if I tried what Cynthia did. I replay the image of Dr. Morrow's face. I saw the chilling gleam in his blue-green eyes. I saw the evil smile curl on his thin lips.

Damien pushes my hair away from my face and tangles his fingers up in my raven colored locks. "It's not," he murmurs. "I already told you, I won't let them hurt you. You need to trust me, Addy." His voice is full of love and warmth and true undying devotion. "I love you more than anything and I'd never ask you to risk your life like this if I didn't think we'd make it through."

I know he's right. And I do trust him. But something is holding me back. I don't know exactly what that something is, but it's enough for me to question Damien, and that's something I never thought I'd do. In the past, I'd always just go along with him. I'd always listen to him and just trust that he knew what he was doing. Then I remind myself that this is not the past. This is not me and him sneaking off in the dead of the night while Daddy was asleep to make love under the willow tree in my backyard. This is different. This is a life or death situation. My life or death situation. "Damien I—."

He curls his fingers around the nape of my neck, positions his face inches away from mine and presses a finger to my lips. "Shhh." His eyes dart around the hall, warily as the hanging light above our head flickers and the buzzing noise fills the walls.

My limbs tremble and fear sparks in my violet eyes. I shake my head as my lips begin to quiver and a sick feeling dances around in my gut. "No," I cry softly. "No." It always terrifies me when they take someone to the basement, but it's worse now because I know who they took. Hearing about someone being taken down there is one thing, but actually witnessing it is something completely mind-altering.

Cynthia, so young, so innocent, with her wide powder blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and short blonde hair. All she wanted was a new life. All she wanted was a fresh start. A chance at normalcy. I don't think it's a crime for her or any of the patients here—myself included—to want to escape. I don't think it's wrong for us to have hopes and dreams for a future life outside of this place.

Before I came here, Damien and I had that plan, a plan for the future. We were going to pack our bags and run away together. Be together forever. Love one another without his mother and her elite blueblood qualms, and my father, his three best friends, and his deadly fist. And we were on our way until, out of nowhere, I wound up here.

Another flicker of the overhead light and my entire body stiffens. Cynthia's muffled shrieks seep through the walls and I do everything I can to keep from shrieking myself. Failing to keep quiet, I let out a squeak then cover my mouth as Damien kisses my temple. "Come here." He holds his arms out and envelopes me in them, wrapping them around me so tightly that I feel bound to him in more ways than one. He rests his chin on the top of my head for a second then says, "I'll keep you safe. Follow me."

With my head to his chest, he guides me a few steps to my left then we duck into the staff restroom. The vibrations of electricity don't touch the pewter tiled walls and the overhead light is a long beam of fluorescent bulbs that don't flicker. Damien locks the door with his free hand and I duck underneath his shoulder, walking straight toward the only white porcelain toilet in here. I plop down on the throne and bury my head in my hands, running my fingers through my tangled hair before pulling it taut against my scalp.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to burn this place to the ground. I want to save every patient and give them a chance at life. Because this...this...how we live every single God damn day, this isn't a life at all.

Damien is at my side, removing my fingers from my hair, curling his fingers around my wrists and pulling me off the toilet and into his lap. Covering me with a blanket of his arms, he embraces me tightly and I rest my head in the crook of his neck. "Don't worry my love, I'll take you away from this madhouse," he breathes into my hair. "I don't care what it costs me." He cradles me, rocking me back and forth then he smoothes my hair away from my forehead and places a soft, tender kiss on it. "You'll never have to live in fear again."

His words rush through me. Fill me up with hope. Send the fear that reared its ugly head just minutes earlier into a darkened corner of my brain. Damien has a way with words. He has a way with touching, kissing...come to think of it he has a way with everything.

The top two buttons of his white shirt are undone and I trail my finger along the hemline before sliding my palm inside. I wait to feel his heartbeat and gaze up into his sapphire eyes hidden beneath his thick, dark lashes. Strands of his shiny, black hair fall down into his face and I push them back and tuck them behind his right ear. "I worry about you, you know," I mention. "You helping me escape could be dangerous for you." He silences me with his lips. The kiss only lasts for a nanosecond and when he pulls away I feel like I'm going to spontaneously combust if he doesn't kiss me again. "Don't stop," I plead needfully, clutching the open lapels of his button-up shirt. "Kiss me again."

He traces my lips with his long finger, a teasing smile on his beautiful face. "I love you, you know that right?" I position myself in a different way so that our faces are inches apart and I'm straddling him. With a quick sweep of his hand he brushes my long flowing hair off my shoulder, fingers skimming a patch of skin next to my collarbone, and my body goes up in flames. The want inside of me explodes. Fire, sparks, and raining ash everywhere. I feel the want in him too as it presses between my thighs.

I run my fingers up his shirt, and through the small patch of dark chest hair. My lips move in closer to his. My nose is against his cheek. I inhale his scent, basking in it, a toss up of his essence and laundry detergent. My lips are on his now. His mouth opens, welcoming my tongue with a sensual growl. My tongue rolls around the tip of his in a teasing way and I breathe into his mouth, "Then show me."

In one swift motion, he grips my shoulders and shoves me back on the floor. His adventurous hands climbing up my gown, across my stomach before stopping at my breasts. There's a moan in my throat that I can't cry out. A heat between my thighs that I won't let fade. When Damien presses his body into mine I am so far gone, contorted in a haze of love, lust, and desire that my legs are trembling.

The sound of his zipper echoes through the small room. The feel of his hand between my legs, sliding my underwear to the side sets off a chorus of screams inside my head. Please. Please. Please. I want to beg. I want to cry. I want him to make sweet, sweet love to me until my legs can't function anymore. He thrusts into me and I bite my lip hard to hold back the groan of pleasure that's stuck in my throat. My hips grind into his with each thrust and my breathing escalates with each kiss he places on my lips. "Addy, I'd steal the stars for you and serve them to you on a gold plate," he murmurs against my lips. "I'd rip the sun from the heavens just so it would brighten your day." Another soft brush of the lips. "I'd die for you."

His words are so beautiful, so timeless, so completely and utterly perfect. And it's not just his words, the moment is a perfect, flawless, one of a kind moment that can never ever be recreated. I close my eyes and let out a whisper of a moan. Even though I don't have much experience with men, I've convinced myself that Damien is a rarity when it comes to his gender. He spouts harmonious sonnets, is a devoted lover and boyfriend and claims he loves me more than his own life. And I love him more than anything too, so I can't understand for the life of me why, when I turn my head and open my eyes to gaze into his deep seas of blue, that I see Dr. Watson's face and his ocher eyes staring back at me.

My mind is in a blunder.

My heart is in an uproar.

I blink several times rapidly and wait. I widen my eyes. Damien locks my legs around his elbows and begins thrusting with more force. He grunts, the tip of his tongue hanging out of the right corner of his mouth and I'm still stunned by that brief flash of an image of Dr. Watson that I can't concentrate on what we're doing anymore.

Damien leans down and takes my earlobe between his teeth. He hums into my ear and I exhale as the warmth from his lips sends volts of heat down my thigh and in between my legs. The way he moves, grinds, and pounds his hips into mine feels so amazing, so heavenly, so transcendent, that it distracts me for a moment, but when I turn my head and close my eyes all I can think about is Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson and the intensity in his beautiful ocher eyes when I saw his face.

This isn't fair to Damien. It's not fair for me to be making love to him and be thinking about another man. And I can't tell him what I just saw because that would be wrong on so many levels. Not to mention just plain mean. I love Damien, and I'd never want to hurt him. On top of that his behavior toward Dr. Watson earlier tells me that as mean spirited as it would be to tell him what I just thought also means Damien might do something drastic and crazy. So I pretend to find my release when, Damien does and breathe heavily with him when he collapses on top of me.

Afterward we walk hand in hand down the abandoned hall and we stop outside my door. Damien turns up my hand with a smile and kisses my wrist. "I'll be in touch, my love." He lets go of my hand and turns away from me. "I'll have everything mapped out the next time we see each other.

I nod.

Keeping my eyes on Damien, I watch his back until he turns a corner and disappears from my view. It's not until that point that I start to panic, breathing in and out deeply, coughing out emotional gasps, pacing back and forth in front of my door. What the fuck is wrong with me? Maybe I really am crazy. Maybe I should be here. Mid-pace I come to halt when the door to my room swings open and Aurora peeks out, her profile resting against the metal. "For God's sake, Addy, would you get in here!" I follow her inside and she closes the door. "What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to flag Marjorie down for a midnight shot?"

"No," I mumble and curl up on my cot. "I didn't think I was being that loud." I dip my feet underneath the thin white sheet and secure it around my chest.

Aurora climbs into her cot and says, "Loud is an understatement. You were stomping and muttering and it was beyond loud. I was asleep and you woke me up."

"I'm sorry," I say sincerely.

She senses the sadness and confusion in my tone. "Are you all right?"

The question flits through the darkness over to me and throbs in my ears. "I think so," I tell her. But the truth is, I don't really know.
Chapter Fifteen

~BEFORE~

I can see Damien's silhouette in the darkness. His long lean body, roped with muscle. His back, which is facing me, and his broad masculine shoulders. He's propped against the tree trunk, arms folded, elbows jutted out, back muscles tensed. He pushes away from the tree, and lets out a frustrated sigh, before raking his fingers through his thick black waves.

"Damien," I call out. But my voice is too soft. He doesn't hear me. "Damien," I try again, raising my voice the slightest bit.

This time I get something. He freezes and cocks his head over his shoulder. Then he takes a few steps toward me. "Addy?"

"Yes. It's me. Who else would it be?"

Damien closes the gap between us and sweeps me up into a tight embrace. "I don't know. I thought you weren't going to show." I wince and groan at the tightness of his arms and the small stabs of pain that accompany them. Then I let out a soft cry. Damien pulls away and I lift my eyes to meet his intense gaze and the worried look on his face. "What's wrong?"

I lower my head and look away. "Nothing." I try to play it off like I'm fine even though I know he'll figure out what's going on with me anyway. He always does. It's like a gift mutant people in science fiction novels are born with. Or maybe it's just because Damien knows how to read me that well.

"Don't lie to me." His voice is stern. "You know I can always tell."

What does he want me to say? I should tell him the truth and when I realize it, he's already got me by the chin and tilts my head upward. His eyes stop at the bruise on my cheek which is probably yellow and purple in color by now. Then he narrows his eyes, clenches his jaw, and I swear I can hear his teeth grinding. He let's go of my chin and backs away, storming off in the direction of my house, "That's it!" he shouts. "He's fucking dead!"

"Damien, no!" I catch up to him and pull on his arm. "Just stop, please!" Damien yanks his arm away and something pulls in my chest, causing my knees to buckle from the pain. A garbled shriek leaves my throat and my knees hit the ground. I can't breathe. There's too much pain. I try to gasp, "Daaamm." I'm trying to say his name, but the words won't come out right. "Daaamm."

I grunt and use my arms as bandages.

Damien realizes I'm not behind him and spins around. When he sees me on the ground, he's next to me in a second, scooping me up into his arms and carrying me over to the trunk of the willow tree. "No," I wheeze softly and gently slap his shoulder. "Put me down." He lies me flat on the ground, brushes the hair away from my face, and I notice the hurt flashing in his eyes. I point to the right side of my ribcage. "Press here." Palms flat he presses down just below my breasts and even though the pain doesn't completely subside, the pressure makes it more bearable. And being able to breathe has never felt more magnificent.

I've had bruised ribs a couple of times before this, but the pain has never been this excruciating. That leads me to believe that maybe I've cracked one or even worse, broke a few. Breaking, bruising, or cracking your ribs is the worst kind of injury to have if you ask me. The first time one of Daddy's fits left me with a bruised rib he actually took me to the hospital. And do you know what they did? Absolutely nothing. Part of me thinks that maybe that's why Daddy kicks me in the ribs so often, because he knows I'll have to suffer through the pain of recovery. "Does that feel better?" There's a pleading look in Damien's eyes combined with a layer of wetness. I've never seen him cry before. Daddy never cries. He didn't even cry when Mommy left. He always says, "Real men never cry and those who do are pussies." Daddy is an idiot.

I admire Damien for his ability to show his emotion. That combined with all of his other amazing qualities makes him damn near perfect in my eyes. Reaching up, I swipe a finger along his cheek and wipe away his tears. "Don't cry for me, my love. I'll live. Everything will be fine." But that does the opposite of what I expected it to.

Damien pushes himself out of his crouching position to his feet. There's a darkness in his eyes that I've never seen before. A scowl on his lips that I can't bring myself to look at. His chest rises up and down in sync with his breaths and a loud rasp crawls out his throat. Suddenly, he slams his clenched fists at his sides, throws his head back and screams. His scream is so loud, so boisterous, and so piercing it's like a werewolf's tortured howl during its midnight run under a full moon.

"Damien," I reach for him, fingers needy, voice desperate, but it's like he doesn't even know I'm there. Now I've seen Damien's temper flare up on plenty of occasions. Most of those occasions usually occurred after Daddy and I had a fight, but this is different. I've never seen him like this before. Like he's so...so...so out of control.

After a few more screams, some stomping, and a few back and forths of pacing, Damien lies down next to me and kisses my temple. I face him, and watch him as he pinches the bridge of his nose, lets out a long winded sigh, and then my attention shifts to the corners of his eyes and I focus on the tiny streams that rain down his cheeks. "I'm going to take you away from here, away from him. I promise, Addy." His voice cracks with emotion. "I don't need my parents' money, I've got my own. We can survive on that." He looks at me, deadpan. "I'm serious, let's do it. Let's run away."

"Your mother won't stand for that." I picture the deeply rooted scowl on Marlena's lovely face upon discovering that her son went slumming and decided to stay in the slums permanently. It brings a smile to my lips. "She'll have every cop in the state out looking for you."

He laces his fingers through mine and brings my hand to his lips, kissing it. "I'm eighteen years old. I'm a legal adult. She can't do anything."

I look down at our entwined fingers. "But what about me?"

"What do you mean, what about you?"

"I'm not eighteen yet. I'm a minor."

And that means if Daddy decides to play hardball and come looking for me, the only way I'll be leaving West Des Moines, Iowa is in a body bag.
Chapter Sixteen

~AFTER~

The next morning I sit in the rec room, in my usual spot by the window. Soft chatter from the group of girls who sit on the couches flits over to me, but I tune it out.

I've been staring at the empty spot where Cynthia usually sits for the last twenty minutes. Occasionally I break away from the couch and stare at the wide entrance with the open arched doorway, waiting for her to walk through the door.

But she doesn't.

Martine LaVelle, a resident nut job, and someone who is actually not faking it like Aurora paces back and forth across the back of the room muttering, "Numbers. So many numbers. If you can count you know them. Then you can add them together. One plus one equals two. And two plus two equals four." She carries on with her sequence for about fifteen minutes, twirling a strand of her mahogany hair between her bony fingers. Then she starts the sequence all over again repeating herself.

I don't see Martine in the rec too often. She's usually kept in solitary because she doesn't like contact with the other patients. Plus she has the tendency to get violent. Once, she bit into another patient's arm, gnawing on it like a chicken leg. After being restrained, and taken down to the basement, I heard someone say that Martine mentioned that voices in her head told her to bite the girl's arm. Then, Aurora informed me that she was schizophrenic.

She's staying away from everyone else in the room. I guess today must be a good day.

My eyes flit over to Aurora's usual spot. The place where she colors. She does this every day. "Isn't that a bit juvenile?" I'd asked her once. "I mean I haven't colored since I was in grade school."

Aurora had frowned and replied with, "No." She had a green crayon in her hand and she was coloring in the grass surrounding the house she had just drawn. "Coloring is the one thing that gives me peace." She rolled her eyes. "If something as juvenile as coloring is the one thing that keeps me from letting this place get the best of me then I'm going to fucking do it." There was a snappy tone to her voice so I backed off and decided never to ask her about her coloring again.

My eyes centered on Aurora's empty chair. I wonder where she is today. She's never absent from rec time. Maybe she had a therapy session that ran over or maybe she had to use the ladies room. I shrug and decide that she's probably fine and that I shouldn't be too worried. I know Aurora is as terrified of the basement as I am, so she wouldn't do anything to get sent there. If she's not here now, she'll be here soon enough. After all, where is she going to go?

Facing the window, I see Damien through the chain link fence on the men's side of the ward. He bends over and picks up a plastic ball off the ground. Patches of green are starting to show through the dead, yellowed grass. I sit up anxiously, palms flat against the cool glass when I think Damien is going to turn around and look up at me. Inside I'm chanting; Yes. Please. Turn around. I can't wait to see your beautiful face. But my inner chanting ceases when Aurora comes up behind me and says, "What are you looking at?"

I jump, clutch my chest and spin around. "My God!" I gasp, feeling my racing heart beneath my fingertips. "You could have given me some kind of warning that you were going to be behind me."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"I don't know," I tsk, facing the window again. "Like maybe a tap on the shoulder or something."

"Sorry," she mumbles and I can see her shrug through the window. "So what are you looking at?"

"It's not what I'm looking at," I tell her. "It's who I'm looking at." As if it were perfect timing and Damien could sense I'm looking at him, he lifts his head and catches my eyes in the window. He flashes me his perfect, beautiful, gleaming white-toothed smile, and I curl my fingers against the glass, melting inside. "Damien."

There's a chorus of words inside of my head singing his praises. A warm sensation tingling on my lips at thought of kissing him. Shivers trail down my spine and I can practically feel his fingers on my skin. Crawling. Exploring. A riveting rush of adrenaline plunges through the depths of my core and there's a part of me that wants to hurl myself through the window and plummet to the ground just so I can be at his feet.

Aurora's voice cuts into my thoughts. "Damien? Where?"

I point out the window to Damien who is gripping onto the chain link fence like a caged animal. He mouths, "I love you," and blows me a kiss.

I giggle girlishly, mouth it back, then toss him a kiss of my very own.

Aurora is glancing between me and the window with an odd look on her face. She slants her eyes and gazes out into the courtyard of the asylum again. "So that's him, huh?"

"Yes."

"Nice," she says shortly then quickly changes the subject. "So no word on, Cynthia?"

Hearing Cynthia's causes me to lower my gaze and drop my hand from the window. "No."

"Do you think they gave her one?"

I turn my head and peek up at, Aurora. "One of what?"

Aurora clears her throat. "You know?"

I know that she's referring to a lobotomy. She knows I know that she's referring to a lobotomy. And I also know that lobotomies are a subject neither one of us is comfortable talking about. Mainly because I think we both know that any one of us could be next. Any one of us could be strapped into the chair, our eye pried open, the glint of gleaming metal clear in our vision.

They have a small bookshelf in the rec. On top of the gossip we hear from patients and the staff, there are medical books for us to read and one shows pictures of the procedure in detail.

To me it's sad—no—more than sad, more like heartwrenching. But it's not just heartwrenching because after that gleaming needle plunges through your eyeball, you become a vegetable or die. It's heartwrenching because that is the last thing you'll ever see. I mean I'm sure you see, but it's not really like seeing. For one, I'd never be able to notice the hint of aqua in Damien's irises, right around his pupils. I'd never be able to notice the vibrant shimmer of gold in Aurora's red hair underneath the fluorescent lights in the rec room. The beauty in certain things would fade. People would fade. All that remains would be a hollowed shell. A body without substance. A person that used to be.

I face the window again, but Damien is gone. I reach up and place my fingertips against the glass, letting them slide down the cool and smooth surface. The window is almost slippery. Icy. Wet. The slickness of it makes me nervous. It also reminds me of Oakhill Asylum. You have to tread carefully in a place like this, a place like Oakhill. Move slowly. Cautiously. Because you never know when you might slip and fall.

A terrifying shriek pierces the air and Aurora and I turn, facing the group of girls sitting on the couch. The chubby brunette who usually palled around with Cynthia sits with her knees to her chest, head buried, her limbs shaking. The blonde with the butt-length hair is comforting her and the rest of the eight eyes belonging to the group members are centered on the open arched doorway.

I almost don't look. My eyes wash over the girl's in the group's faces and every single one looks like they've seen a ghost. Aurora nudges me in the side, prompting me to turn my attention to the door. I grit my teeth and force out, "No."

"Just look," Aurora states. As my eyes wash over the room again I realize I'm the only one not looking. Obviously whatever is in the doorway has left an impact. A few girls like the chubby brunette are shaking and sobbing. A few more have their mouth's hanging open, eyes wide in shock. Another nudge from Aurora. "Seriously. You need to see this."

Bravely, I turn my head in the direction of the door. I choke on a gasp and swallow it down when I see Suzette standing in the doorway, a vacant expression in her toffee colored eyes. She stares off, not focused on anything in particular. Her once tan skin has lost all of its color and has a grayish hue to it.

She takes a hobbled step forward and the entire room gasps, a few girls even cry out, frightened of the girl we used to know. This girl is not the girl we used to know though. This girl is a zombie, a product of the asylum and what happens to a person if they defy the rules.

Suzette tilts her head to the side, and her reddish brown hair falls away from her face, revealing a gauze-like white patch, taped over her right eye. Another hobbled step forward from Suzette and my back hits the window. The girls on the couch are huddled together, holding each other. Aurora backs into the window too.

First off, I thought I was seeing a ghost because I assumed Suzette was dead. But then I realize that if everyone else can see her that theory is probably just a fabrication I made up in my mind. Then I wonder if maybe one of the staff members brought her up here. Maybe they are using Suzette to give us a message and that message is: Any of you could be next.
Chapter Seventeen

~AFTER~

No one moves.

Suzette has been standing in the same spot, staring. A ghost-like, lopsided smile twitches on Suzette's lips and my stomach does a back flip. I blanch and have to look away. This could be Cynthia. This could be Aurora.

This could be me.

It's not until Marjorie walks in and opens her mouth that I look in Suzette's direction again. "Ladies time—." The burly nurse with red lipstick on her two front teeth takes one look at Suzette, her big eyes go wide and she runs from the room screaming, "Damn it!"

Seconds later two orderlies, another nurse, Marjorie, and Dr. Morrow run into the rec room. Dr. Morrow is shouting instructions at the orderlies and each one of them clutches Suzette by the elbow. Dr. Morrow shouts at Marjorie and the other nurse, "What the hell happened? How did she get out?"

But I thought she was dead?

My gaze breaks away from the argument and I stare at the floor as Marjorie and the other nurse explain that they locked the door to Suzette's cell and aren't sure how she was able to break free. A few more scolding comments from Dr. Morrow and the argument is over. He storms out of the room and Marjorie shouts commands at the orderlies, and they try to pull Suzette from the room. They start by gently tugging on her elbows and when she doesn't budge they use more force and begin dragging her from the room by her heels.

I've worked up the courage to look at Suzette again and it's like she knows my eyes are on her. She twists her head in my direction, her toffee eyes burn through my skin, and then she lets out an insane cackle. She doesn't bother thrashing, trying to free herself. I'm not even sure if she can. The sound of her cackling fills my ears and infects my mind as the orderlies yank her from the room and drag her down the hall.

Obviously, her appearance wasn't planned by the staff. That was evident by the look on Marjorie's face when she first saw her. And it was evident by Dr. Morrow's accusing questions.

The look on Suzette's face before she was dragged out of the room flashes through my mind and I shudder. It's like with that final look she was giving me a warning. It's like she was saying; Get out while you can.
Chapter Eighteen

~AFTER~

At dinner I can't find my appetite.

Today, they served macaroni and cheese which just so happens to be my favorite and the most appetizing thing they serve here. And even though my stomach is howling with hunger and my mouth is salivating just thinking about a mouthful of cheesy delight, I can't seem to bring myself to eat. I even try a few times, bringing a few spoonfuls of elbow macaroni smothered in cheese to my lips. Then I see Suzette, unwashed hair, white eye patch, haunted look, and crazy cackle. I tilt my spoon to the side and all the macaroni falls onto my orange dinner tray.

I push around the noodles on my tray with my fork as Aurora sits down next to me. She's toned it down on the crazy act for today, but occasionally when someone looks in our direction, she'll dig her fingers into the cheesy slop on her tray and then writes on the table in macaroni and cheese ink. She keeps her head low, writing the word escape over and over and over again. Then she'll wipe the words away with her napkin, repeating the process. She scoots closer to me, lowers her voice and says, "How fucked up was that?"

I can't even find words. I continue pushing my food around on my tray.

Aurora goes on. "I thought she was dead."

At that comment I find my voice. "Me too."

"I've seen a lot of crazy people come into this place, but I've never seen anything like that." Aurora picks up a piece of macaroni with her thumb and forefinger, pops it into her mouth, sucks all the cheese off, then spits it out with force and I watch as it sails through the air before landing in someone's hair.

"Where do you think they were keeping her?" I ask.

Aurora shrugs. "Maybe the basement."

I peek up at her through my hair. "You think?"

"Like I said a second ago, maybe."

I tsk, "Well you've been down there before. Don't you remember seeing anything? Didn't you see other people?"

Aurora stiffens in her spot and pushes her tray away. "I already told you, "she snaps. "I don't like talking about it!"

I know she's already mentioned that she doesn't like talking about her trip to the basement, but what I want her to understand is that even the tiniest sliver of information she'd be willing to give could be useful. Helpful. "I know and I'm sorry for bringing it up," I mention. "It's just that..."

She cuts me off with a fierce look and a growl, "Leave it alone."

"Aurora I—I'm—"

Her temper flares and she screams, "Drop it!"

My mouth hangs open. I was dropping it. I was trying to apologize for bringing up such a painful subject to her in the first place. The entire cafeteria is silent and all eyes are on us. Pink flushes my cheeks and I turn my head away, embarrassed. Peeking over at Aurora, I open my mouth to try and apologize a second time, but the words get stuck in my voice box. I mumble incoherently and Aurora pushes her tray onto the floor, gets up from the table, and stomps off before I can verbalize anything.

I know it's my own damn fault for pissing her off. God knows I have a list just as long as she does about the subjects I never want to talk about. But the thing is, if any of my painful past held a piece of information that could be of help to someone else, I'd talk. Or at least I like to think so.

A hand grips my shoulder and I tense up. There are lips by my ear. Hot breath trails down the nape of my neck. A deep voice. Damien's voice. And one word. "Tonight." His hand leaves my shoulder and I spin around to notice he's gone. An ache throbs in my heart, but that ache fades fast when I come to the conclusion that he wants to plot our escape. A smile curls on my lips. See, I'm not like the girls here when it comes to living in fear. Yes, certain things or circumstances frighten me, but I'd rather go down fighting than sit around and do nothing.

~ ~ ~

Aurora hasn't spoken to me since dinner.

At lights out, we both lie on our cots the sound of our breathing swells and cuts into the silence in our small, square room. Footsteps and muffled voices bleed through the walls and I wait until thirty minutes after they fade to make a move. Creeping out of bed, I hover over Aurora, my eyes darting over her face. I poke her with my finger. She groans, still in a deep sleep then rolls over, her body facing the tan plaster wall.

I wait another ten minutes. Then I crack my door. My eyes sweep over the corridor. The eerie quiet fills my ears and the flickering lights burn my eyes. With one last look at Aurora I slip out into the hall, close the door softly, and sneak off to meet Damien.

He's already in the utility closet when I arrive and he blankets me with his arms the minute I step through the door. His hands touch my cheeks and send warmth throughout my body. "I've missed you," he whispers, his lips against my forehead. He kisses me softly.

I let out a soft giggle. "You just saw me."

He smiles and his bright white teeth gleam in the light, practically blinding me. "Seeing you for a few seconds or minutes isn't enough. It will never be enough."

I give a slight nod in agreement. Even when I see him, I feel like my heart is splitting in half, knowing that our encounter will be brief. "Have you come up with some kind of plan?"

He peers down at me and raises an eyebrow. "Plan?"

"You know," I say. "For us to escape."

"Oh," he sighs. "I'm still coming up with one."

I pull away from him, staring up at him, baffled. "But I thought that's why you wanted me to meet you?"

He wraps his arms around me tighter. "Is it a crime that I just wanted to see you?" There's a smile in his voice. "After all, you are the love of my life."

"No," I say, my voice filled with slight disappointment.

Damien catches on, noticing the quiver in my voice. He grabs my chin with his thumb and forefinger, jerking it in the direction of his face. "Don't be sad, beautiful." He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his nose along my cheek. "These plans take time to develop."

"I know. It's just I feel like this place is eating away at little pieces of me every day. Your mention of a plan gave me hope, you know?"

His blue blue eyes flit across my face. There's a tortured look in his eyes and it's like my pain is his pain. "I promise you, love," he begins, "I'll come up with something first thing tomorrow."

"You swear?" He's never broken a promise to me, but something about this encounter seems off.

He makes an X on his chest. "On my life."

I rest my head on his chest. I wait for his heartbeat to blast through my eardrums. The gentle steady beat. Pounding. Thumping. But it never does.

I don't realize I'm being pulled away from him until I hear Marjorie's voice, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Her manly hands are on my biceps. Damien is reaching for me and screaming at Marjorie, a scowl on his lips. "Let her go!" He starts for me, but Marjorie drags me out into the hall and slams the door to the utility closet in Damien's face.

"No!" I try to stretch my arms, but Marjorie digs her fingertips in deep. I move forward with force, taking Marjorie with me for a few steps before she regains control and yanks me backward. I stumble, almost falling. My shrieks coat the walls of the corridor and I notice that a few patients have opened their doors. In a panic my head whips back toward the utility room door. Damien is opening it and running toward us. I straighten my fingers. "Damien!"

Marjorie drags me past my door and I glare at Aurora. She stares off blankly, a frown on her lips. "Did you do this?" I shout accusingly. "Did you tell? Aurora how could you?"

She doesn't confirm my accusation, but she doesn't deny it either. All she does is exhale before slamming the door to our room. Dr. Morrow comes stampeding down the hall with another nurse. In his hand is a mind erasing drug. I'm about to be sick. The hall spins around me in circles and if Marjorie wasn't holding my arms so tight, I know I'd hit my knees. For once I'm actually thankful that she's holding me so tight.

I dig my heels into the floor several times, trying to stomp on her toes, but she's quick, and on top of that, she knows that I'd try something like that to break free. I sneer up at the scowl on her lips. She's gloating. It's like she's saying; Yes, you little psycho bitch. I've outsmarted you.

I whip my hair back and forth, trying to get it in Marjorie's face, but she keeps her grip on me and leans away from my wild hair. After Dr. Morrow shouts a command, the two nurses pin me down on the freezing tile floor. I squirm beneath their grasp, kicking and screaming so loud that my throat is raw and my voice is hoarse. Tears matriculate in my eyes and I blink them back, my eyes desperately scanning the hall for Damien. Where is he? I saw him running after us.

Dr. Morrow crouches down in front of me, a syringe in his hand. He tests the needle to air it out and I watch the drugs inside spout from the tip in an arc. Dr. Morrow's eyes center on me and I notice the annoyed look in them. He brings the needle close to my arm. "This should shut you up for a while."

I try to wiggle, but I can't. Marjorie has both my arms and the other nurse has both of my legs. My mid-section is writhing, but that's not going to get me anywhere. Dr. Morrow is a bastard. I hate him with a passion. He's the creator of the Oakhill zombie army. Zombies like Suzette, probably Cynthia, and God knows who else. I may be immobilized, but I'm not out of options. I gather as much saliva as I can in my mouth, roll it around in a wad on my tongue and when Dr. Morrow is an inch away I spit in his face then shriek as loud as I can.

The glass syringe falls from his fingertips shattering on the floor. He wipes the spit from his face and then with a growl, backhands me. Pain shoots through my cheek and trails down my jaw and I think about crying out in pain, but I don't. Instead I start laughing. I laugh so loud that my laughter bounces off the walls and fills up the entire hall.

"Fucking lunatic," Dr. Morrow says through gritted teeth. He's back on his feet and I rest my cheek flat against the cold floor. The icy temperature puts out the fire from his slap. For some reason I can't stop laughing and my whole body vibrates.

The soles of Dr. Morrow's shoes squeak against the floor. Just when I think he's going to turn and wander off to retrieve another vile of drugs to inject into me, I hear a faint gasp from Marjorie, followed by, "Dr. Morrow, no!"

I turn my head for a second.

Just in time to see Dr. Morrow's right heel, rubber sole and all, crushing my fingertips.
Chapter Nineteen

~BEFORE~

That hot night in July, underneath the weeping willow Damien, and I came up with a plan. He'd go away for his first semester of college, and when he returned for winter break, we'd pack our things, and by December 29th, we'd be gone. Far away from, Iowa. Far away from his mother, and my daddy.

Damien told me he'd like to live in a city. Possibly Los Angeles. Or maybe even Seattle. I don't care where we go as long as we're together.

Tonight is my last night with him. He leaves for college in the morning. I'm lying in his arms beneath the willow tree, my ear against his chest. The gentle strum of his heartbeat fills my ears and I take in a deep breath, breathing in the scent of his body and musky cologne. I open my eyes, stare up at him, and trace the buttons on his white shirt that practically glows against his tanned skin with my fingertips. "I'm going to miss this."

He places two fingers beneath my chin and places a soft kiss against my lips. "Me too." He shifts and we both lie down on our sides facing one another. The wet grass tickles my skin and the radiant smile on Damien's lips melts my heart. "Come here," he whispers. I start scooting closer, but before I can get all the way over to him, he slides his hand over my hip and pulls me the rest of the way.

"I was lost before I met you," he tells me. Then he crushes his mouth to mine and the warmth of his lips sends a zing through my core all the way down to the pit of my stomach.

But what this beautiful man doesn't know is that I was the one who was lost. Not him. Me. I had no hopes for a future and had been led to believe that no one would ever love me the way he does.

For the longest time I felt like I was wandering aimlessly through my life. The only thing I could look forward to were my morning walks and dreams of getting out on my own someday. Then Damien came along.

Damien brought me hope. Brought love into my life. He lit up my darkened world with a bright smile. Filled my mind with beautiful images and memories.

He came up with a plan.

We will have a future together. We will.

And in my eyes, our future is bright. Our future is beautiful. It's long and happy. I can envision it in my mind. Damien will come home from work and I'll be in the kitchen making dinner. He'll kiss me on the cheek, hold me in his arms, and our two children, one girl, one boy, will be sitting at the dinner table laughing. We'll be a big happy family. Something I've never had but always wanted.

Damien plays with the hem of my dress, his fingertips lightly brushing my thigh with each twist of the fabric. Every time his heated skin connects with mine a warm shiver of delight circulates between my legs. I look up at him earnestly, so full of love, so full of passion, so full of bliss that it pours out of me. I trail my fingers along his cheek, fanning them out, marveling in the softness of his sun-kissed skin. His right hand moves up my dress and the tips of his fingers dig into my thigh. My fingers find his silky midnight hair and I pull his face closer with a gentle tug. "Make love to me," I murmur against his lips.

A slight twitch and he lifts his face away a few centimeters. "Are you sure?" Worry is etched on his features, a straight line on his lips.

I press my lips against his and as he opens his mouth I can taste a mixture of coffee and chocolate. "I'm sure."

I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life.

He raises his eyebrow. "Are you sure, you're sure?"

I let out a soft laugh and playfully slap his shoulder as he buries his head in the crook of my neck. "Yes."

"I don't want you to feel like you have to. I know what they say about girls when they, well, you know?"

I know what they say too. They call those types of girls loose girls. Daddy calls them harlots. It's the same thing, different words. But I'm neither a harlot or loose.

Sometimes I think I love Damien so much that I feel like just our time together is never enough. I want him to have more of me and I want more of him. "Damien, I love you. I want to." This isn't some cheap one night fling. It's raw, real, and true. It's the kind of love you only experience once in your life, if that, and I don't want to waste any aspect of it.

Damien's lips touch mine and he begins gently caressing my lips with his. I return his kiss eagerly and throw my head back with a gasp when he moves away from my mouth and his tongue traces a line down my neck to my collarbone. Bright white stars beam down from the heavens and fill my gaze as Damien's hands slide up my thighs and spread my legs apart, his needy fingers brush against my stomach as he removes my underwear. Then he sits back on his knees, lifting his shirt over his head. I suck in a breath and bite my lip.

I've seen him shirtless on a few occasions. But there's something about this moment. Something about the way the moonlight ripples over his chiseled abdomen and illuminates his entire body that makes him look completely breathtaking. Intensity burns in those blue blue eyes and as he helps me remove my dress an overwhelming anxiousness bursts through me at the thought of our bodies melting together. I want it. I need it.

I widen my legs and Damien hovers on top of me, his fingers curling around my narrow shoulder blades, his thumbs rubbing back and forth against my flesh. "Addy?" There's a husky tone to his voice and as I lock eyes with him, I swear I can see the depths of his soul.

"Yes?"

"I want you to know something."

"Okay."

He lowers his head, placing a soft kiss on my lips. "I just want you to know that you are my sun, my moon, and my stars. My heaven, my hell, and my earth. I'd do anything for you. I'd go anywhere for you. If you ever left me, I'd follow you."

"You'll never have to follow me because I'll never leave you."

The love for him burns inside of me like a roman candle. The flame is vibrant, smoldering, and the smoke unfurling from the tip is suffocating. And even though I feel like I can't breathe, if this is the way Damien makes me feel, I hope I never breathe again.

With a gentle thrust of his hips he enters me. I choke on a gasp and whimper as Damien's hips sway back and forth, pressing between my legs, softly, rhythmically. He tangles his fingers in my hair and breathes heavily in the curve of my neck. His warm breath floods over my skin in currents and I let out a moan that I've been holding in my throat. Damien grunts and the tip of his tongue sticks out between his lips, a determined look is on his face. I glide the tips of my fingers across his muscled back, feeling the muscles clench and release with each thrust. When he begins thrusting harder, I arch my back, letting out soft groans and lift my hips to meet each pleasureful grind of his hips against mine.

Picking up my head, I place my lips against his and allow his roaming tongue to invade my mouth. My nails bite into his skin. I'm gone. So far gone. Riding on a wave of passion. Swimming in a sea of delight. Sparks of fire hiss inside of me. Flames lick the area between my legs. Damien moans, "You're mine," into my mouth. I answer him with a gentle flick of my tongue.

It's true. I am his.

Forever.

Always.

Because no other man will ever have this part of me.
Chapter Twenty

~AFTER~

Words can't accurately describe the amount of pain that plummets through my hand before charging up my arm.

I let out a silent scream and choke on air. Afraid to move my fingertips, I lie still against the floor and scrape my teeth against the tile. Marjorie is in front of me and her heavy breathing fills my ears. Then she stutters, "Was that...Was that necessary, Dr. Morrow?"

I can't look at Dr. Morrow, but I hear him crack his neck and I imagine what it would be like to grip it and twist until it snaps. He clears his throat and says with a stern tone to his voice. "I wanted to break her." There's a moment of silence then he says to Marjorie, "I'm going to get more of that sedative. Keep her still." Squeaks unfurl beneath his feet and echo down the hall as he walks away from me and turns a corner.

His words throb in my head like the pain in my hand. I wanted to break her.

I get what he meant by that. He didn't just want to break my bones. He wanted to break my spirit. He wanted to teach me a lesson. He wanted to make sure that I got it through my head that he's in charge and that he'll never let me escape.

Another voice is added to the equation. "What is going on?"

Dr. Watson.

His footsteps plod onto the floor and I see his brown loafers an inch away from my face. I want to look into his eyes, but I can't. The pain is swallowing me like a boa constrictor. It's devouring every bit of my body inch by inch, one small section at a time. My chin is against the floor, but my hair is in my face and I can't see Dr. Watson clearly. I try to blow the hair from my face with a soft breath, but it goes nowhere.

"Tell me Marjorie!" he snaps, his voice laced with a blossoming rage. "What happened?"

While Marjorie explains everything I steal a glimpse at my fingers that don't look like fingers at all anymore. They're bent up, crooked, and remind me of dead tree branches. Dr. Watson's loafers are in my face again and now he's crouched down in front of me. A mixture of worry and rage, swirl around in his radiant honey eyes. "Oh Adelaide." I don't think I've ever heard so much emotion in his hard voice. "Are you all right?"

I swallow hard, shake my head, and wince. I try to wiggle my pinky finger, but a pain so intense stabs my hand so I decide that I don't care if I ever have use of that hand again. I'll keep it still forever just as long as I don't have to feel pain like that ever again.

Dr. Watson brushes my hair away from my face and when his flesh connects with mine, for some reason a wave of calm rushes through me. I meet his gaze and his eyes sear into mine with a gaze so overwhelming and so intensely beautiful that it nearly knocks the wind out of my lungs. He inserts his hands under my arms and helps me up, positioning me against the wall. I would have tried to get up myself, except I'm not sure how much force I'd be able to use with one hand.

"Her roommate told me that she's been refusing her morning medication. I don't know if she repeats the process of pretending to take her medication the other two times a day she has to take them, but I know she hasn't been swallowing them in the morning."

Dr. Watson's soft gaze hardens to and accusing glare. "Is this true, Adelaide?"

As if it's an act of defiance, I lift my chin, refusing to meet his eyes, and remain indifferent. Inside a betrayed feeling floats through me and I'm torn between being angry, feeling guilty, and more than anything I'm upset at myself for trusting Aurora. How could she do this to me? I didn't even do anything to her to deserve this.

After Dr. Watson strands straight, Dr. Morrow comes up behind him with a new syringe. "Ah, Dr. Watson," Dr. Morrow greets him with a snarky tone. "I see you've decided to join us."

A vibrant shade of crimson flushes in Dr. Watson's cheeks and in a flash, he lunges for Dr. Morrow, his forearm against the old doctor's neck, pinning him against the wall. "What the fuck have you done?" Dr. Watson shouts, pressing his arm harder against Dr. Morrow's neck.

Dr. Morrow makes a gurgling noise and raises his hands, the syringe slipping from his grasp and once again shattering on the floor. "Can't breathe," he croaks in a raspy tone.

Dr. Watson does not relent and my eyes go wide at the sight of Dr. Morrow's purplish colored face. His veins pop out at his temples. I can tell he's trying to breathe, but he's not having much success. I think Dr. Watson might kill Dr. Morrow. I cover my eyes with my good hand and a nanosecond later Dr. Watson shoves himself away from the wall, heavy breathes leaving his throat. I drop my hand and Dr. Watson paces back and forth in front of a weak Dr. Morrow, and runs a hand through his perfectly coiffed gold hair.

After a moment he stands directly in front of Dr. Morrow, a vicious gleam in his eyes. He clenches his shaking fists, clears his throat, and exhales, "Next time you use those measures on my patient without my authority, you're going to have bigger issues than trying to catch your breath, old man."

Dr. Morrow stands with a growl and scowls at me. "That crazy little bitch was having an episode." He straightens up, massaging his throat. "She needed to be sedated," he coughs out, his breathing returning to semi-normal. "And then she spit in my face." His head snaps toward me and I've never seen so much hatred in someone's eyes. "She's lucky I only broke her fingers." I cast my eyes downward knowing that Dr. Morrow secretly wishes he could have broken every bone in my body.

"Don't. You. Ever. Call. Her. That. Again." Dr. Watson pauses after each word. There's grit and a rasp in his voice and for once I think he sounds like a lunatic.

Dr. Morrow opens his mouth, but Dr. Watson doesn't let him get a word in. "I didn't authorize you to give her any barbiturates. I don't want her to have them. Didn't we discuss this already Dr. Morrow? You can treat your patients and use whatever treatment methods you prefer and I'll treat mine using the methods I prefer." Dr. Watson takes a few loud steps toward Dr. Morrow. "Are we clear Matthew?"

"You've lost your mind, do you know that Elijah?" Dr. Morrow tugs on his white coat, smoothing the wrinkled lapels. "She needed the barbiturates. She was out of bed after turndown and having a violent episode. She was out of control. The drugs would have calmed her down and you know that." Dr. Morrow pushes away from the wall and points a finger a Dr. Watson. "You're too close to—."

"Enough!" Dr. Watson yells, in a loud, rumbling tone. "No more barbiturates. No more deep sleep induced therapy Matthew. I'm trying to make her remember, not trying to make her forget."

"You don't even—."

"I said enough!" Dr. Watson crouches down in front of me.

Dr. Morrow shakes his head and pins his eyes to Dr. Watson's back. Then Dr. Watson dips his left shoulder down and helps me to my feet. Once I'm up Dr. Watson's other arm encircles my waist as I suck in a deep breath and slide my bad hand across his shoulder. At least that pain has subsided. Now my entire hand is numb and a tingling sensation shoots up my arm. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Dr. Watson escorts me down the hall and Dr. Morrow's footsteps pound against the tile behind us. "Where are you taking her?

I notice, Dr. Watson's jaw clench, then relax. "To the infirmary."

"You know she can't go back to her room."

"Then I'll take her to solitary afterward. She can spend the night there." We turn a corner, vanishing from the view of the other's and Dr. Watson leans close to my ear. "Don't worry, Adelaide. You're safe with me."

I've heard that statement before; You're safe with me.

I'd heard Damien tell me the exact same thing several times before. And where was he now? The second we got caught, he ran and hid and left me to receive the entire punishment alone. I think that I'm heartbroken more than anything because of it.

And somehow, the words; You're safe with me, makes me feel more terrified than usual.

~ ~ ~

In the infirmary, it has been confirmed that my hand and fingers are definitely broken. Luckily for me, the bones aren't shattered and won't require any kind of surgery, so my hand and fingers are set and I'm sent on my way.

Dr. Watson leads me to my room for the night and once I'm inside, the white padded walls burn my eyes and immediately makes my spine tense. I turn slowly toward Dr. Watson, eyes wary. "You're not...You're not..."

He finishes my sentence, "Going to put you into a straightjacket?" A small shake of the head. "No."

Dr. Watson guides me over to the cot and once I'm in bed, he pulls the cover up to my chin. A smile tries to curl on my lips, but I suppress it by pressing my lips together into a straight line. This is strange. I feel like Dr. Watson is my father and I think this whole scenario is weirding me out because he's also a man who I've had sexually explicit dreams about. Even though the first time his face wasn't visible. I know it was him. There's something about his voice and touch that made me realize it.

After I snuggle under the covers Dr. Watson takes a step back, and shoves his hands in his pockets. I look up into his eyes. The pain in them is gone. The coolness. He almost looks like he's content. "Thank you," I say. I am truly grateful that he came along when he did. Who knows what would have happened if he didn't?

"Do not thank me, Adelaide. I am your doctor. It is my job to care for you."

"To care for me, yes." To save me, no.

"I only wish I would have arrived before Matthew let his temper get the best of him." A spark of regret glistens in his honey eyes and he turns away from me.

I wish I could reach out to him. Touch him. Comfort him. "It could have been worse." I can see his profile and sharp features perfectly from where I'm lying. His jaw clenches at my comment then relaxes. He knows I'm right. He knows Dr. Morrow, and he knows that there was a possibility that I could have left the asylum in a body bag.

Dr. Watson's gaze centers on the clock hanging above the metal door. He stares at it in a melancholy state. He almost looks lost. "I want you to promise me something."

"Sure."

"Swear it."

"I swear."

He stalks back to the cot and sits down next to me. "Promise me you'll take your pills like you're supposed to."

I frown. "Why?"

He stands up and brushes the wrinkles from his khaki trousers. "You want to get out of here, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Who doesn't?" That's what all of the patients at the asylum want. Well, except for maybe Aurora. I make a mental note not to speak to her or trust her ever again. If she told Marjorie about me hiding my pills in the wall, God only knows what she's mentioned about Damien. "Oh shit!" I try to sit up. "Damien."

Dr. Watson winces at the sound of Damien and then places a strong hand on my shoulder. "I'm sure Damien is fine," he assures me.

I know this is going to be a lot to ask, but for some reason I feel like I have to. "Will you make sure he's okay, Dr. Watson?"

There's a moment of silence and Dr. Watson's face is bunched together like he's struggling to deal with the situation and struggling to come up with an answer. Finally he says, "Sure." He changes the subject with a pivot and a proud walk to my door. "If you want to get out of here, you have to give a little to get a little," he informs me.

I'm confused. "Excuse me?"

"It's called a compromise." Dr. Watson wraps his finger around the metal handle of the door and yanks it open. "Just take the meds, okay? For me?"

"Alright." Technically, he did save me and he did say he'd make sure Damien is okay. "I promise I'll take my meds."

"Thank you, Adelaide." He steps out into the hall, but pokes his head through my door. "I'll see you the day after tomorrow."

"Goodnight Dr. Watson." Part of me wants to call him back into the room. To invite him to lie in my cot with me, even though I'm certain it wouldn't exactly be comfortable. I want feel his arms around me. I want to feel his warm body next to mine. His breath on my neck. But I say nothing.

"Goodnight." Then he flicks off my light, closes my door, and I drift off to sleep listening to the sound of his footsteps as they trail down the hall and fade into the quiet.
Chapter Twenty One

~AFTER~

Time passes by slowly in solitary confinement.

Minutes turn into hours. Hours turn into days. Days turn into weeks.

There are times where I feel like a forgotten article of clothing. You know, that missing sock that's hidden in the back of a person's closet and isn't found until the day that the person decides to clean it. Of course Marjorie comes three times a day to deliver my meds and my meals, and a few times a week she delivers me to my treatment sessions with, Dr. Watson. Other than that I am alone.

I can't stand being confined by these padded walls.

My skin is prickly.

My legs restless.

And my heart is heavy.

Emptiness swells inside of me and oozes out through my pores. I've spent a lot of time curled up on my cot crying. Not necessarily out of weakness, but more out of loneliness. I long for interaction with the other girls. I feel like a part of me dies a little more every day when I wake up in this room, and remain here by myself with no one to talk to.

Last week I asked Marjorie if she'd bring me a pack of playing cards. Much to my surprise, she obliged and I spend my free time with the deck laid out across my firm cot, playing solitaire. That seems to pass the time on most days. But there are other days where I just don't feel like playing and when it's one of those days, time seems to stretch on forever.

Even though I'm still angry with her, I miss Aurora. She used to be able to bring light to the darkest situations with one sarcastic comment. I miss laughing. I can't remember the last time I did it. Weeks? Maybe a month? Who knows if I'll ever be able to do it again?

Hugging my knees to my chest, I glance out the barred window in my room. Sometimes, I think about what I might do if I were able to remove the bars. There's a huge chunk of me that thinks that maybe I should just hurl myself through the glass, freefall, and then meet the pavement with acceptance, reminding myself that even death would be better than remaining at Oakhill for the rest of my life.

A knock at the door yanks me away from my morbid thoughts and I'm up from my cot in one hop, dashing to the metal barrier that keeps me confined. On my tiptoes, I peek through the small window. When I notice a white uniform, I step back from the door and listen as the lock clicks. In solitary our doors are locked from the outside so that we can't get out. That's one thing I miss about sharing a room with someone. In the shared rooms you get a little more freedom, they don't lock you in like a prisoner.

For some reason when you're moved to a shared room, it's considered that you're less of a threat to yourself and the other patients. I'm not sure why. I've never thought to ask. Or wanted to. I was simply glad to be out of my straightjacket and glad to have some company. Even if the company has a few screws loose.

Today I'm being taken to the infirmary. They are doing a check up on the progression of the way my hand is healing and they are going to change my cast. I'm glad. This one itches like hell, has gotten filthy around the edges, and smells like sewage. I wait while the lock snaps into place and the door swings open. Damien stands in front of me, snapping the keys on his belt loop. The sight of him infuriates me. Where has he been while I've been locked up? Does he even care?

He skittered away like a scared kitten the night I was brought to solitary. I've only seen him once after that and all we did was exchange a glance. A glance! I brush past him into the hall and fold my arms across my chest. He catches up with me and I feel his blue eyes burning a hole through my cheek. "What's your problem?"

I come to a halt mid-step, facing him with a scowl. "My problem?" His eyes are hard and I know we are going to have a huge blowout and then I'm certain that I'm going to make even the nuttiest patients here seem sane. "My problem?" I repeat, inching closer. "You are my problem."

Where has he been all this time? Why hasn't he come to me? Not just for comfort, but because that's what you do when you love someone.

"You can only have a problem when a person has done something wrong, Addy," he scoffs. "I've done nothing. Do me a favor and stop with the childish bullshit."

My mouth drops open and I start walking again. "Then you do me a favor," I shout over my shoulder. "Leave me alone!"

"Maybe I will!" he shouts back, his loud booming voice filling the narrow hall. "Then you'll have as much time as you want to spend with your new lover, Dr. Watson!"

That stops me dead in my tracks.

Makes my lungs clench.

My heart quits beating.

I pivot slowly, lips quivering, tears watering in my eyes. I'm twisted up inside, torn between hurt and anger and I can't decide which emotion I should let win the battle for my attention. I charge toward him, vision blurred, cheeks flushed, and shove him into the wall. "How could you even say something like that? How could you accuse me of such a thing?" It's true that I've had thoughts about Dr. Watson, but I would never act on them. Never.

But this is where this situation gets tricky. Dr. Watson was the one who was there for me when I needed someone. Not Damien. Dr. Watson swears he's hell bent on seeing me get out of this dreadful place. Damien said this too, but I haven't heard from him or anything about his plan for our escape. So who should I trust? Who should I listen to?

Damien nudges me with his shoulder and pushes past me. "Why should I believe that? You're always with him? I can tell that he loves you. I can see it in his eyes." He faces me, gaze hardened. "Are you impressed because he's a doctor? Got a fancy Ivy League education? I could have had all those things too, you know? I could have—."

My good hand covers his mouth and I say, "Damien stop." I suck back more oncoming tears. "Just stop, please." I drop my hand. "He's just my doctor. That's all. He's trying to help me get out of here."

Judging by the look on his face, I don't think I've reassured him of anything. He starts walking and I fall in line with his steps. "You're going to leave me, aren't you Addy?" Damien casts his eyes downward, focusing on the floor.

My eyes trail down his face and I can see that he's blinking back tears. "Damien you know that's not true."

"It is though." His voice is thick with emotion. Fractured with pain. "I know you love that doctor."

Love him? Love him? I don't even know him.

"Damien, no!" I don't understand why he's acting like this. I don't know why he needs me to reassure him time and time again that he makes me shiver with one caress of his fingertips. Breathes fire into my heart. Lights up my soul. He's the only man I've ever loved. He'll always be. "Please don't talk like this."

He doesn't speak to me for the rest of the walk to the infirmary. At the door he nods at me, a faint smile on his lips as I walk through the open door.

Inside the nurse working is a friendly blonde named Peg. I focus on her nametag, and I can't even get excited when she tells me my hand should be as good as new in a few weeks. I'm completely consumed by Damien and the pain that was etched on his features. Not only that, but his self doubt.

How could he think I'd ever love another the way I love him? How could he think that there was anyone else out there that could make my heart sing, soar, and nosedive the way he does?

I need to make him understand this. I need to somehow pull him out of this depressed state and show him that he's my one and only.

And when I walk out of the door of the infirmary those are my exact intentions. I'll crush him with my arms and smother him with my lips and breathe loving words into his ears.

I'll make him see.

I'll make him feel.

I'll make him understand.

There's only one problem with that...When I leave the infirmary there is a new orderly standing by the door and Damien, well...

Damien's gone.
Chapter Twenty Two

~BEFORE~

Damien has been gone for a month. I know that isn't very long to most people, but to me it feels like decades.

He writes me.

Love letters.

They are poetic, heart-warming, and beautiful. Just like him.

The first time I received a letter from my beloved was three weeks ago. At first, I was a little worried about the contact between us because of Daddy and everything, but Daddy is never home when the mail comes. I'm not allowed to get the mail. Daddy prefers that he brings it up when he comes home. But before Damien left he promised he'd write me so I check the mail every day after my walk. And so far I've gotten a letter every week.

Today is Friday.

I stand at the end of the drive and sift through the pile of mail. Joy floods through me when I see my name on the envelope and I quickly remove the letter, fold it up, and shove into the pocket of my dress. Then I race up my driveway, my heart beating a million miles a minute. My veins pulsating with anxiousness, my head swimming with thoughts about reading my lover's words.

I miss him the most when I'm alone in my bed at night. I keep my window open because there's a small part of me that thinks I'll see him standing there, beneath the light of the moon, ready to sneak me out and whisk me away to our own little world. A world of him and me. A world of love and beauty. A world without hurt, depression, or misery.

But he never comes.

I know it's because he's thousands of miles away, going along with our plan, readying for our future. But somehow me leaving the window open at night, and pretending that he might show up helps me get through the days without him better.

Pouncing on my bed, I squeal like a giggly child as I shred the envelope and pull out its contents. Something metal and shiny falls on to my thin, yellow blanket and I pick it up. A heart-shaped locket. I hold it up, watching the sunlight beaming in from the window as it dances along the metal surface. The sun touches it in spots making it shimmer and I suck in a deep breath, overwhelmed by its beauty.

There's a separate piece of paper apart from the letter. I open it slowly and tears sting my eyes as I read it.

Addy,

This is a gift for you, my love.

It reminded me of the way I love you.

And I just wanted you to know...

That you will always have my heart.

Love always and forever,

D.

I've never owned a piece of jewelry and as I continue to read the little note, I put the locket on, and remind myself to take it off when Daddy gets home so he doesn't see it. I know what will happen if he does. See it, I mean. He'll either break it, or steal it and try and sell it. More money for his dirty, wicked habit.

It's expensive to drink in excess. Daddy knows this, but I'm not sure if he cares. He doesn't like me to know any of his financial matters, and I'm sure that's perfectly normal for most parents. I know Damien doesn't know how much money his parents have either. I mean, he knows they have garages full of money, but he doesn't know the exact amount. I only know about our financial situation because when Daddy isn't home sometimes bill collectors call our house. Daddy, doesn't always pay our bills on time and sometimes he doesn't pay them at all. Sometimes I think about mentioning the calls, but I know that might earn me some lashes with his belt or a fist to the jaw.

That reminds me of a saying Mommy's mother used to tell me when I was little. "Children are to be seen and not heard." We couldn't ask questions. We couldn't even speak. Basically, what she meant by that was that children were just supposed to sit there, with their hands folded in their laps and stare off while the adults went about their business. We were supposed to exist and not exist at the same time. We were supposed to be life-like dolls.

I was always thankful Mommy never thought of it that way. She'd always frown at her mother and say, "Oh hush, mother. That's too old fashioned to even think about."

Sadness overwhelms me when I think about Mommy. I know she would have loved Damien just as much as I do. And I know he would have loved her too.

After breezing through Damien's letter, where he tells me about college life, how much he misses me, and how he's counting down the days until he can see me again, I fold it up, and hop off my bead. I move the light wire bed frame and twist off the tip of the left brass knob on the frame and pull out a small screwdriver.

I took the screwdriver from Daddy's toolbox a long time ago. It's not like he ever uses his tools. And besides, he has like twenty of the same screwdriver, so I knew he'd never miss it. I palm the rusted metal tool, and kneel down, jimmying one of the hardwood floorboards loose. I've hidden Damien's other two letters in this spot, and I place the small note and his third letter there as well.

But I keep the locket on.

For now anyways.

This way, I can have Damien's heart right next to mine.
Chapter Twenty Three

~AFTER~

I've been getting flashes lately. Little visions that pop into my mind for a second, if that, and then in another flash, they vanish.

Most of them tell me nothing of importance.

The one I get the most often is me standing somewhere in a white dress. My raven hair is parted down the center, flowing over my ivory shoulders in a cascade of curls.

Another one is a sound. Not necessarily a flash because I'm walking through darkness. A baby howls in the distance. A needy cry and it's like I'm searching for the tiny human. There's an urge rushing through me that once I find the baby I need to comfort it. The only problem is that I do never do, find the infant that is.

Dr. Watson seems pleased that I'm making progress. The day before yesterday, he flashed me a smile that touched his eyes, something I've never seen from him, and then he pulled me into a hug. Another affectionate first from the cold, yet striking doctor.

But it's progress to him. Not progress to me because these visions still tell me nothing. They don't give me any indication of how or why I came to be here.

I've seen Damien a few times since our little tiff on the way to the infirmary. I've tried to talk to him, tried to apologize. I've tried to assure him that whatever happened between us was just a misunderstanding, but every time I open my mouth, he shakes his head and stalks off in the opposite direction.

Today I'm being rewarded for progress and good behavior. Dr. Watson has spoken to Marjorie and she's going to be taking me out of my cage and outside for the day. I'm beyond thrilled by this. Aurora was right. Maybe it does pay to behave and I'm even more sure of that when Marjorie arrives at my door with a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt.

The denim and cotton feel spectacular against my skin. The pants rough and the t-shirt light and breezy. I contemplate asking Marjorie if I can wear this outfit to bed and then tomorrow and then the day after that, but she's got a scowl on her yapper and I decide not to give her a reason to bark at me.

At the entrance to the courtyard the sun is already beaming through the two rectangular windows on the metal double doors. I take a deep breath imagining the wind in my hair, the sun on my skin and the enticing scent of fresh air as I take it into my lungs. When Marjorie finally opens the door, I practically bolt outside into the lush, green courtyard and within seconds I'm rolling around on the neatly manicured grass.

I close my eyes as the wind blows, tousles my hair, and eases the heat from the sun overheating my skin. Damien and I used to spend hours like this in the summers. Covered in blankets of each others arms, beneath the tall tall grass, basking in the beauty of the outdoors and the blazing summer sunshine.

I miss those days.

Now that I'm making progress, I can't wait to have them back.

Someone lies down next to me. I can hear their body thud and the rustling of the short grass as it brushes against it. I smile, hoping that it might be Damien. I don't know why I'm thinking that. I know, Damien, spends most of his time in the men's ward. I open an eye and instantly close it, a scowl forming on my lips.

It's not Damien.

It's Aurora.

"Hey," she says in a meek voice.

"Hi." My voice is anything but meek. I hope she can sense the disdain in it. Unfortunately, she doesn't.

"It's gorgeous out, isn't it?" she chirps in a singsong voice.

I roll my eyes behind my eyelids. "Yeah." There's a small part of me that just wants to be done with the drama and just put what happened between us in the past, but there's an even bigger part of me that knows I'll never be able to get over the fact that she betrayed my trust and our friendship.

Let's face it, I could have ratted her out. I could have told Marjorie that she too had been neglecting her medication and stuffing her pills in the wall right along with me. But I didn't. Because unlike her, I am not a rat.

Aurora shifts in her spot and I can feel her hovering a little too close to me. Opening my eyes, I shield the sun from them with my forearm and turn to face Aurora. She's propped up on her elbow, plucking blades from grass from the ground. Scrunching her eyebrows together and puckering her lips, she opens her mouth slightly. I think she's going to say something until Merilee Winter steps in between us, narrowing her eyes at me. "Can you believe Meredith Thompson?" she scoffs and rolls her hazel eyes, her wiry brown hair littered with strands of gray, wafting around her pale face. "To think she'd accuse me of sleeping with her husband just because he likes to mow the grass and I like grass." Then she laughs and skips off, mumbling to herself.

Poor, Merilee. She's one of the lifers. She'd lost her mind when her husband was found murdered in an alley a few blocks away from their home.

Aurora sits up, pretzling her legs and my attention shifts back to her. "I know you're mad at me," she says. "I can't say that I blame you."

What I'm really anxious to know is why she would do that to me. I thought we were friends. "How could you do something like that?"

She throws her head back, allowing the sun to warm her cheeks and breathes, "It's more than what you think."

I sit up. "Oh yeah? How so?"

"It's a long story," she mumbles under her breath. "And hard to explain."

"I have time," I tell her, urging her to go on with my violet irises. I feel like I deserve an explanation for all that I had to endure for her being a shitty person and it better be a good one, too.

"I was trying to protect you," she tells me, weaving a crown out of a few long blades of grass.

I lift an eyebrow. "Protect me?" Then I glare at her incredulously. "Seems like you did a lousy job. In case you didn't know this, I wound up with a broken hand and a month in solitary."

She pays no attention to my tone and continues weaving. "I did know, actually," she fills me in. Sometimes it bothers me that Aurora can remain so calm about some things. In fact she does the opposite of what most people do; she freaks out about the stupid stuff and remains calm and collected about the not so stupid stuff. "In case you didn't know this," she mimics my comment and tone, "the walls here are thin and people talk."

Shaking my head and grinding my teeth I look away. I don't know why I'm wasting my time, so I move to get up, but Aurora clamps her fingers down around my forearm. "Wait." There's urgency in her voice. "I'm not done."

"You seemed done talking to me."

She scrunched her face. "Well you made an assumption that was wrong."

My eyes center on the metal fence that cuts off our ward from the men's ward. Damien is at the fence, fingers looped through the metal rungs, eyes locked on me. Pushing to my feet, I start for the fence. I can't help the magnetism I feel whenever he's around. I can't help that he's always able to lure me into his web with those crystalline blue eyes.

Aurora is up off the ground following me. "Where are you going?" she whines. "I thought we were having a conversation."

"We were," I say. Then I decided to end it.

She grips my shoulder and jerks me around to face her. "You need to listen to me."

I shrug my shoulder out of her grasp and roll my eyes. "I was until you decided to stop talking." I thought it was nice of me to hear her out as much as I had because there's a huge part of me that thinks she doesn't deserve my time.

"I didn't stop talking," she huffs. "You didn't let me finish." She peeks around my shoulder at the chain link fence, eyes narrowed. "Where were you going anyway?"

"None of your business," I snap, turning on my heel and stalking toward the fence. I come to a stop halfway when I realize that Damien isn't at the fence anymore. I scowl over my shoulder at Aurora and storm in her direction, nudging her shoulder as I brush past her. "Great," I mutter. "Now he's gone."

"Who?" Her voice hikes up a level. "That Damien?"

That Damien?

That Damien?

The way she says it so casually infuriates me.

She doesn't understand. He's not just that, Damien. A random boy. He's the keeper of my heart. The light of my soul. "Not just that Damien," I spit out, my voice laced with anger.

"You need to stop this." She spins around and jogs to keep up with me.

"I'm glad you think you know what I need," I say, hoping that she'll leave me alone before the hot steam swelling inside of me erupts through my ears.

She doesn't let up. "This is exactly why I said something to the staff. Adelaide, you're delusional! I think this place has finally gotten to you."

I whip around, hatred flashing in my eyes. She bumps into my chest and I raise my finger. "You don't know anything! And you're the one who should talk. You pretend you're crazy because you're too much of a coward to stand up for yourself!"

Her mouth drops open and she takes a deep breath. "You don't know anything either." Suddenly she snaps and digs her fingers into my shoulder. "Do you what it's like in the basement?" Her eyes are wild and for a second I'm more terrified of her than I was the first time I met her. "Do you know what they do to you? How they torture you?" I back up, trying to get away, but she keeps coming at me. "Do you know what it's like to be restrained and have thousands of volts of electricity pumped through your body?"

I'm speechless and I regret snapping at her. I can see the pain in her eyes mixed in with anger. I shouldn't have gone there. I shouldn't have pushed her to bring up this painful part of her past. "Aurora, I—,"

"Just shut up," she growls. "The day you make it to the basement is the day you can comment on the way I act here." She backs away from me shaking her head. "It's your fucking fault I got sent there in the first place."

"What?" I scoff. "I wasn't even here then!"

"You weren't?" She slants her eyes. "How do you know? You don't remember anything before you arrived here a few months ago."

"No," I say in a low voice, shaking my head in disbelief. "No. That's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible," she retorts. "It's like what Dr. Morrow said to me right before he shoved the cotton in my mouth and fried the shit out of me; The mind can be a very powerful weapon."

She's screwing with my head. She has to be. We're all fucked up here and fucked people have a way of making people believe things they wouldn't normally believe. "You're a liar." I creep closer to her. "If I'm the reason you got sent to the basement, why didn't I get sent there too?" Even if I did, I know I won't be able to remember it. "And why didn't you tell me what happened to me?"

"I did mention what happened to you."

"You did not?"

"I. Did." A smug look appears on her childlike face. "But let me guess..." Her eyes widen and she places a finger on her cheek, mocking me. "You don't remember."

I open my mouth to snap at her, but she cuts me off.

"I did mention it. One of the first nights we shared a room together." The hard look on her face is replaced with a soft one and she lowers her voice. "You know, you'd think I'd hate you after everything, but I never did. Even after they took me to the basement, I knew I should hate you, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I was happy for you and I thought if it can't be me at least it's someone."

I'm still lost. Folding my arms across my chest, I frown. "I still have no idea what you're talking about."

Aurora rolls her head back and blows air out of her cheeks. "You're her," she says softly. "The girl I mentioned. The one who got out. The one who got away."

I recall that conversation and a part of me wants to believe her and another part of me is still in denial. "You said I didn't know that girl."

"That's because you don't, do you?"

I shake my head, drop my arms and start playing with my fingers.

"I wish you could remember." A mixture of happiness and sadness tugs at Aurora's vocal cords. "You would have liked that Adelaide."

I don't know what to say. How to feel. What to think. I lift my head, still confused and look deep into her eyes. "I—I,"

She knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Don't apologize." She swallows hard and sighs. "You saying you're sorry a million times isn't going to change anything."

I open my mouth to respond again, but she cuts me off for what feels like this fiftieth time in our short conversation. "Forget it." She raises her hands, walking backwards. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No." I charge toward her. "I'm glad you did."

"It's not going to change anything."

"It might eventually."

Aurora stops on the set of cement steps leading up to the building. Her eyes flit to the metal fence. She mouths the word I just said, "Eventually." The she snaps out of her trance-like state and looks me square in the eye. "I don't understand why you keep looking over at that fence. There's nothing but an abandoned field there. I mean if you like staring at dead grass and garbage that's cool, but—,"

"The men's ward is there," I interrupt. "They're always outside doing stuff. Watching them distracts me."

Aurora stares at me for a moment, puzzled, then her lips form a straight line. "Adelaide, the men's ward burned down five years ago."

"No," I shake my head. "I see them all the time."

"The new men's ward was finished a year and a half ago. It's a mile up the road."

My mind keeps going back to the word liar. I keep telling myself that she has to be lying. But then I have to ask myself why? Why would she make all of this up? Why would she deliberately try to screw with me? "This isn't real," I mumble. Maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe I'm actually sitting in Dr. Watson's office listening to the gentle ticking of the metronome and at any second I'll wake up and realize this whole conversation was just a fucked up nightmare.

"Oh, it's real," Aurora assures me. She glances over her shoulder, peering up at the massive gloomy red brick building. "This place just has a way of fucking with your head." She shudders then faces me. "This place always has a way of bringing a person back. Even when they've escaped in the past."

My eyes follow hers up the building, working past the iron trellis to the second story and center on one of the barred windows.

And the whole time I keep thinking that maybe I'm not as sane as I thought I was.
Chapter Twenty Four

~AFTER~

Aurora's words flit through my mind.

You're her. The one that got away.

I don't understand. I can't wrap my head around it. If I'm the one that got away, how did I end up back here?

More words from Aurora that make no sense bounce around my brain.

Somehow this place always has a way of bringing you back.

Pacing the length of my room, I growl in frustration and rake a hand through my hair. Maybe the tiny flashes I get have something to do with me getting out. Maybe they do have importance then. Maybe they are telling me something. I replay Dr. Watson's words in my mind, "I'm trying to help her remember. Not make her forget." Maybe that's what happening to me. Maybe now that I haven't been given any sedatives my memory is returning. Now I'll know why I'm here and what happened.

The click of the lock on my door turns and snaps me to attention and banishes all of the questions from my mind for the moment. Damien stands in the doorway, his back straight as a board, a frown on his lips, and a haunted look in his radiant blue eyes. "You have to come with me," he informs me in a cool voice.

Seeing him after he's ignored me for so long shakes me to the core, and I can't do anything but remain in my spot and stare at him. Part of me is angry at him for accusing me of loving Dr. Watson, a man I don't even know, and the other part of me wants to be folded in his arms more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life.

"Damien, I—."

He continues regarding me in a cool manner and simply says, "Let's go."

I'm not going anywhere with him until he tell me what's wrong or what I've done to upset him. I fold my arms across my chest. "No."

He slants his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"I said no," I huff. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me what's going on."

He doesn't give me a chance to say anything else. In one swift movement, he lunges for me, grips onto my arm, and yanks me out the door into the quiet hall. He keeps one hand on my arm and locks my door with his free hand then tries to escort me down the hall. I drag my feet, try to run in the opposite direction, but he's much stronger than I am. He tightens his grip on my arm and jerks me forward. "You have an appointment with lover boy and I don't want to get in trouble for you being late because you're being difficult," he snaps.

His words blow holes into my chest. Lover boy? Lover boy? "You're my only lover boy," I tell him then I lift my free hand and dig my nails into his arm. He growls, stunned by the pain, and releases his hand from my arm. "Stop this! Stop this right now Damien Allen!" I scream and spin on my heel, running away from him down the hall.

I don't make it very far. He's next to me in a second, yanking me by the arm again. "You've already ripped my heart out of my chest Adelaide." His tone is rough, gritty, and laced with pain. "Do you want to cut it up and feed it to me as well?"

"You're being ridiculous!" I shriek and swat at his hand. "I've done no such thing! I never would!"

"I thought when you promised me you'd love me forever, you'd stay true to your words. And you didn't," he says harshly as he continues to drag me down the hall. "You're a liar."

"No!" I shake my head. "I am not! You're wrong! You've got this all wrong!"

Damien stops. His body tenses. Then he looks over at me with a miserable tortured look in his stormy seas of blue. Pain etched across his beautiful face. "When I said I'd love you forever, Addy, I meant it."

"So did I," I snap. "I shouldn't even have to assure you of it." Pulling my arm from his grasp, I dash out in front him, taking his face into both of my hands. I gaze into his blue eyes that are rolling all over the place. "Look at me."

Hewon't.  
"Damien, look at me!"

He brings his eyes to mine and I can remember the first time I gazed into them, that hot summer day in June. That seems like forever ago. I remember going home and closing the front door behind me and giggling like a little girl because he asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. Most of all, I remember thinking that if I could stare into the depths of his gorgeous blue eyes for the rest of my life, I'd be the happiest girl on the planet.

I stare into those blue eyes now, but I'm not getting the same vibe that I did then. There's something missing from them now. I can't see into them. They almost look murky and glazed over. Not that deep vibrant blue that they used to be. Closing my eyes, I swallow the wad of thick saliva in my throat. What am I doing? Questioning myself on whether his eyes are cloudy or not? This is insane. I kiss his lips. The beautiful, full pouty lips that have smiled at me, touched every inch of my body, and whispered lovely words into my ears. He returns the kiss reluctantly, but I'm surprised by how cold his mouth is.

How it feels foreign.

And odd.

It's like kissing a fish.

"Damien?" He pulls away from me, runs a hand over his jaw and a soft, genuine smile spreads across his face. My eyes flit back and forth across his cheekbones, eyebrows knit in concern. "What's wrong with you?" His skin is beyond pale. No toasted almond tone. No rosiness in his taut cheeks. He looks like he's been bleached white.

"Nothing, love." He takes me by the arm and guides me down the hall. This time gently. "We'd better hurry. You don't want to be late."

I am beyond confused. What's with the mood swings? A minute ago he was so angry with me I thought he might bring me to tears. Now all of a sudden he's being nice. I grip his fingers tightly, my feet scuffing against the floor, the cold temperature of the tile bleeding through my socks. His profile comes into view and right above his cheekbone there's a patch of his coal black hair missing. I reach up to touch the bald spot, but he swats me away. "Damien? Are you sick?" My eyes work their way over him. "You look terrible, my love."

Damien coughs out, turning his head and using his elbow to cover his mouth. "I think I might be coming down with something."

"Oh no. You poor thing. I wish I wasn't in here. I'd take care of you. I'd make you feel better."

We stop outside of Dr. Watson's office and Damien does something spontaneous. He snakes his arm around my back, pulls me tightly to his chest and kisses me. Kisses me hard. And even though his mouth is still cold, I can feel the intensity in the kiss, the passion, the neediness and want. So I lose myself in it, falling deeper and deeper into a world where only he and I exist.

In this world, we're not confined by the asylum, or doctors, or mental illnesses. We're in the field behind my house, the sun raining down on our skin, the scent of wild flowers dancing in the breeze. We're playful and in love, rolling around in the long green and yellow grass, our clothes crumpled and dirty, perspiration causing our hair to sick to our faces.

We laugh.

Together.

Making music with our voices rumbling together.

Then I'm falling again, crashing back to reality when Damien pulls out of the kiss. For a second, I just stand there, reaching out for him, my eyes still closed. "Come back to me," I whisper. But when I open my eyes, Damien is just standing there, biting his lip, a saddened look on his face. "Damien, what is it?" I move closer. "Why won't you tell me what's going on?"

He winces at the sound of my voice. "It's too much." His voice cracks.

"What's too much?"

He doesn't answer.

Instead he turns his head, lets out a depressing sigh, and I watch as a tiny tear rolls down his cheek. The sight of his tear breaks my heart and makes me sick at the same time because I can't help but wonder if I'm the one who's making him cry. I take another step closer and slowly raise my hand to wipe the tears from his cheek, but Damien catches me by the wrist before my hand makes it all the way up. "Don't." The word comes out shallow and raspy in his throat.

"I don't want you to cry," I say. "Tell me. Tell me what I can do to ease the pain." He has to tell me. He has to let me do something because seeing him like this has me seconds away from tipping over the rails of grief and insanity. "Please, Damien."

He opens his cloudy blue eyes and blinks back a few more tears. He's breathing softly, but his breaths come out wheezy. He shakes his head, lowers it, and when he lifts it, he takes my hand and places my palm flat against his chest cavity. His muscles twitch underneath my fingertips and I can feel his cold, clammy skin seeping through the thin white shirt of his uniform. He hunches over, resting his forehead against mine. "You'll always have it, Adelaide."

I inhale his musty breath. His breath used to smell like coffee and chocolate. Now it smells of damp, dark closets, and decay. "Have what?"

Damien presses my hand harder against his chest. "My heart."

A gasp leaves my throat and his words stab and twist in my gut. My heart throbs and palpitates in my chest. My fingers tremble. With quivering lips and tearstained cheeks, I open my eyes. My hand is still out, lingering in the air.

Damien is gone.

My eyes trail down the hall and I call out his name.

No answer.

Then I bring my hand to my chest, but only make it halfway. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something—that the tips of my fingers are covered in blood.
Chapter Twenty Five

~BEFORE~

Daddy had way too much of Jimmy today.

When it's a "Jimmy" kind of day, he gets rowdy. A lot of shouting. Tossing things around. He also starts nitpicking. Moving furniture. Examining the cleanliness of household items. Thoroughly.

"Son of a bitch, Adelaide!"

I'm in my room, stretched out across my bed, re-reading Damien's letters when I hear my name.

"Adelaide! Stupid girl! Get the fuck out here!" His loud, booming voice shakes the walls in my room. My blood runs cold and fear circulates through my nervous system when I think about having to leave my room and face him. But I know if I ignore his cries it will only make the punishment he'll inflict on me that much worse.

"Coming Daddy!"

I'm up off my bed in a flash, hiding my letters beneath the floorboards, and out the door in record time.

There's a dinner plate on the floor and a scowl on Daddy's face. "What the hell took you so long?" he sneers with a rasp.

The lie flies off my tongue so quickly I'm surprised by it, "I was getting dressed." Hopefully he doesn't notice that I'm still wearing the same clothes he saw me in this morning.

He doesn't.

He's not even looking at my clothes. Then I finger my locket. It's tucked safely beneath my high collared dress.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

He motions with his finger, his scowl deepening. "Get over here."

With slow shaky steps, I move closer. When I don't move fast enough, he yanks me by the arm and shoves my face into floor. He kicks the plate across the floor and it slides beneath my face. Then his loud, footsteps thunder in my ears like applause in a crowded football stadium as he walks over and stands next to me. I hear his heavy breath and a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead. I've been through this before. I know what's coming next.

"Is that a spot on that dish?" His voice is low, almost a whisper. There's a deadly ring to it. See, I know when Daddy's voice is low I should be even more afraid of him than usual because when he's not shouting, I know he's more sinister and evil and the beatings are worse. "Are you looking, girl?"

Girl? Not even Adelaide. I'm just a girl.

I haven't received one loving word or praise from him since I was ten. But once, just once, I'd like him to recognize me as his daughter. I look down at the plate before me. I try to decide if I should tell him the truth; that there are no spots on this plate or if I should just agree with him. I think of Damien. He comes home for Thanksgiving break today. Then two more weeks. Two more weeks until we elope, determination in our minds, a fierce love in our hearts.

I peek up at Daddy over my shoulder. I settle on a little defiance. "I don't see any spots." I know that's not the right thing to say the second he growls and clamps his massive foot down, boot with rigid soles still on, across my shoulders. "Look closer."

My face is a centimeter away from the plate and my long eyelashes are almost touching the ceramic. My dark hair falls down and frames my heart-shaped face, spread out across the white plate like a raven's shiny feathers. I grit my teeth. "I still can't see anything."

I know I should be compliant. I know I should just go along with whatever he says to save myself from a broken body and a wounded soul, but I can't. I just can't take it anymore. My impending freedom is too real, too close. I'm letting my thoughts about running away take over my mind and in result, I'm lashing out.

Daddy doesn't like when I lash out.

I feel him lift his boot off my shoulder and I don't know why I think this torture is already over because the second I get up on all fours I see Daddy's boot coming toward me, but I don't have enough time to move before the steel-toed tip digs into my gut. "Don't you sass me!"

My body flies back a few feet, slamming into the bottom row of cupboards just below the kitchen sink. Pain, deep ominous pain, halts my breathing, clenching around my lungs like a tourniquet and I hunch over gasping for air. My vision blurs. A deafening quiet buzzes in my ears as I try to slink away.

Daddy sees me and wrenches a hand in my hair, gripping my long locks tightly at the scalp. "Stay here, worthless girl!" With a thrust he shoves me back up against the cupboard. The forceful blow from my back slamming against the wood fills the small square room with yellow walls and oak floors with a loud boom. Sliding my knees to my chest, my whole body vibrates with a mixture of fear, anger, and a hatred so intense I feel like a balloon, so full of helium that I'm about to pop.

I cry.

Quietly.

Out of pain or hatred, I'm not sure.

Daddy doesn't notice.

Thank God.

I've learned through the years that crying never helps. To Daddy, everything I do is wrong. Everything is always my fault. According to him, crying is a sign of weakness. And any weakness in a person, man or woman, needs to be broken.

Dishes clink and clank against the counter. I lift my head, peeking through my trembling fingers, as Daddy removes all the dishes from the cupboard and stacks them in a messy pile next to the sink. One dish teeters on the edge of the counter, wobbling back and forth back and forth. Oh no. It's slipping. My hand juts out, but not in enough time to catch the plate before it crashes into the hardwood floor, smashing into a million ceramic pieces.

It's my fault the dish fell.

Daddy twists around and a loud slap rings out as his palm connects with my cheek. My skin tingles and burns, and instinctively I place a hand on my cheek, hoping that my cool palm will put out the fire. It doesn't.

"Clean this shit up!" he shouts and stomps off into the other room.

With arms and legs like jelly, I try to pick myself off the floor and let out a sob when I only make it halfway, and fall back down. I try again, using the counter as an aid and manage to pull myself up, scaling the length. When I make it to the sink, I turn the water on. Then I sob, not too loud, but I've reached the point where I'm sobbing so hard that I'm dry heaving.

I mouth, "Damien," and use my arms as a bandage to keep myself together. To make myself feel whole. Even though I'm anything but whole. If you held me up to the sun you could see the bright shimmering rays of light peeking through me. I'm just as broken as the ceramic plate in pieces decorating the floor.

Two weeks.

Two weeks.

It feels like the days are dragging on forever.

That my escape will never happen.

Two weeks.

And all I keep thinking is that I hope between now and then that Daddy doesn't kill me first.
Chapter Twenty Six

~BEFORE~

I can't sleep. I'm too antsy, too anxious.

I left my bedroom window open and the cool autumn breeze flits in and ruffles my curtains. Daddy's snoring is loud, but I'm okay with that. Then he won't hear Damien as he clamors in through the window.

I know it's risky. Sneaking him in like this with Daddy asleep in the next room, but I don't care. His absence has put a constant ache in my heart since he left for college and I can't wait for his touch to make that ache disappear.

I can't wait to feel his warm lips against mine.

His body next to me.

His hot breath sending a shiver of delight down my spine.

There's rustling in my curtains. Two thudding footsteps on my floor. Sitting up, I beam into the darkness as Damien untangles himself from a mess of yellow curtains. I rise from my bed and his blue eyes cut into the darkness, staring intensely into mine. I choke on a breath. This almost doesn't seem real. It feels like I'm dreaming. But the reality sets in when Damien strides across the floor in two giant steps, grips the back of my neck, twists his fingers in my hair and lunges for my mouth.

He snakes a strong arm around my back, our bodies pressed together so tightly it's like we're glued to one another. Melted. Fused. Nothing can tear us a part. His thumbs trail across my cheeks and my fingers are raking through his hair as our passionate lip lock smolders and grows deeper and deeper by the second. He grazes his teeth across my bottom lip and in a breathless rasp says, "God, I've missed you."

Words fail me. Escape me. Flee like a criminal with a mask, running through a darkened alley. I can't even begin to describe how torturous it was to be without him for as many months as it has been. So I show him. I show him by never breaking our lustful haze of adoring tongues, lips, and raspy breathing. I show him by walking backwards, falling onto my bed and pulling him on top of me. There's a hungry glint in his eye as he stares down at me. He gets me. Knows where I'm going with this. A playful, sexy smirk appears on his lips. "Oh yeah? You missed me that much?"

Finally I turn my head to the side and come up for air. "I've missed you every second of every minute of every hour of every day."

Damien's deep, throaty chuckle brings a smile to my lips. "That's a lot of time to waste on missing someone."

I face him, gazing up lovingly into his blue eyes, touching his long dark lashes, placing my palm flat against his overheated cheek. "You're worth it." I'd waste every second of my life on him if I could.

"I'd like you to miss me some more."

I hear the husky, seductive tone in his voice and decide to tease him. "Oh, would you?"

He dips his head in closer, his lips almost touching mine. His eyes dart across my face, scanning, searching my soul with fire in his depths of blue. He opens his mouth, his tongue half out. Then he says, "Yes, please."

I answer him with a gentle caress of my tongue and he answers me by hiking up my nightgown and sliding his manly yet soft hand up the length of my stomach. The area between my legs is wet with want. The voices in my head are singing his praises. And the thud in my heart is full of love.

Damien crooks his fingers through each side of my underwear and slides them down. He smirks. "Are you ready to feel what you've been missing?"

"Yes," I hiss, and as he climbs on top of me. I pull down his pants, arch my back, and allow myself to succumb to his every whim, with the first gentle thrust of his hips.

Hours later, we lie in each others arms, glistening with sweat. Our breaths shallow. Our limbs still twitching from our lovemaking. Damien reaches over the side of the bed, grabbing his underwear and pants from the floor, slipping them on in a hurry. I watch him with sad eyes and whimper, "I don't want you to leave."

He presses his lips to mine, moving his mouth slowly, sensually, erotically. Then he pulls away. "Do you think I want to?"

"No," I breathe, and trace the definition in his bicep with my finger. "It's just been so long. And I feel like you just got here."

"I know my love. I know." He shifts and rises from the bed. I wrap the comforter around my naked body and escort him to the window. Kneeling in front of the sill, I can feel the tears pricking my eyes as he climbs out of the square opening and his feet thud against the ground. We're face to face, our eyes hopelessly lost in one another's. Damien brushes his lips against mine. "Two weeks," he murmurs against my lips and backs away from the window, his hand cupped over his heart.

"Two weeks," I repeat in a soft voice and blow him a kiss that he catches and places on his lips.

Then he turns on his heel, breaks out into a jog, and disappears into the night.
Chapter Twenty Seven

~AFTER~

I've been staring at my fingertips for the last ten minutes.

I've been ignoring the person calling my name for the last three.

I saw it. I saw the blood on the tips of my fingers. First it was there, all red, thick, and sticky. Now it's, poof—gone, like it evaporated into the air or something.

Or maybe I am imagining it. Maybe I've finally lost all of my marbles. Maybe this place has finally gotten to me.

"Adelaide?" Dr. Watson peers out the door of his office, his honey eyes radiant and smoldering. "Is something wrong? I've been calling for you. Are you ready for our session?"

I look over my shoulder at him then back at my fingers. "It was there," I gasp, still baffled. "I saw it."

"Saw it?" His voice goes up an octave. "What did you see, Adelaide?"

"The blood. There was blood on my fingers."

Dr. Watson rushes out of his office, takes my hands in his, and begins to inspect me. "Did you hurt yourself?" He lifts my arm. "Did someone else hurt you?" There's a hard edge to his voice.

"No," I assure him. "No. When I touched...when I touched," I stutter, trying to get the words out. "When I touched Damien I saw it. There was blood on my fingers." Dr. Watson lets out a frustrated groan at the mention of Damien and I know that I shouldn't have brought him up.

"Forget about Damien for now," he says and guides me into his office.

My feet scuff against the floor and I lift my head as I sit. The metronome is already sitting on the front of his desk. "No," I say, rising from my seat. Not this thing again. Not now. Not today. Not after I've just come to the conclusion that I might be losing my sanity.

"Sit down, Adelaide." His tone is soft, his voice stern. "You've been off the barbiturates for some time now. I know that you remember what happened. You're just blocking it out."

I grit my teeth. "I don't want to."

Dr. Watson sits on the edge of his desk right next to the stupid instrument. I scowl at him and turn my head with a harrumph. "Addy, you have to do this." I refuse to meet his gaze and shift uncomfortably in the plastic chair, shoving my hands underneath my legs. I think about saying, "No, I don't," but Dr. Watson continues, "Unless you prefer we use Dr. Morrow's method of treatment."

My mouth drops open and my head snaps to face him. "You wouldn't."

He shrugs casually and I gape at the way his broad shoulders rise. "I don't want to," he says, "but if you won't cooperate with my methods of treatment, I don't see any other options for you, my dear."

"I can't believe this!" I throw my hands up in the air, frustrated and upset. "I thought you were on my side!"

"I am on your side." He hops off the desk and crouches down in front of me, lacing his fingers through mine. Part of me wants to yank my hands out of his grasp, slap him across the face, and tell him to get to it then. Tell him to bring on the restraints and the cotton and get the fucking torture over with. But there's a much, much bigger part of me that likes the way his touch feels. I like the way his thumbs feel as they brush against my skin. "You know I'm against those medieval methods of treatment. I don't feel that they work as effectively as mine, which is why I really, really need you to cooperate." He lifts one hand away from mine, gazes deeply into my eyes, and brushes the back of his hand against my cheek. "Please, Addy."

I've never understood why he's had this effect on me. Why I think about him in an intimate way. Why I like hearing the sound of his deep voice. Feeling his flesh against mine. And have wild, erotic fantasies about him.

He reminds me of Damien in that way.

"Fine," I say in defeat. "But I'm not sure if you'll get anything from it."

He smiles, straightening up, and places a finger right next to the needle on the metronome. "I beg to differ, Addy. I think I'll get a lot from it. You just have to think back, open up your mind, and let me in."

It's terrifying in my mind and I told myself a long time ago, I don't know why I or anyone else for that matter would want to go in there. Go back there. There's nothing but pain in my past, a pain I don't want to relive.

My mouth forms an o. I want to say something, but I forget what that something is. It doesn't matter anyway, because the moment I open my mouth, Dr. Watson's forefinger pushes against the metal needle on the metronome and the needle starts swaying. Starts ticking.

Tick...Tick...Tick...

My eyes are instantly drawn to the metal. It's brass and dull and the way it moves, ever so slowly, puts me in a trance-like state. I am calm. Relaxed. I could sleep. My eyelids start fluttering. Every few seconds I shake my head and open my eyes to try and fight off the effect the instrument has on me.

"Relax, Adelaide." Dr. Watson's voice is mellow—soothing—like a lullaby. "Open your mind to me."

Open your mind to me. I hear this inside my head over and over again. But then soon the ticking becomes louder. The movement of the needle is too calming. I think Dr. Watson is saying something else, but I can't be sure because of the tick...tick...ticking. Soon all of the contents of the office blur together. My eyelids are heavy. I think I hear, "Stop fighting it." A pause. "Just let go."

It's like standing in a cavern with a cliff. You're on the edge of that cliff. You're looking down. You see the blue-green waters in a pool at the bottom of that twenty foot drop, slapping against wet rock. In your head, you know that if you jump the water will catch you, swallow you, and once you break the surface, you'll be able to breathe. But there's something...some tiny, nagging voice in the back of your mind that's holding you back. Telling you not to do it. To not live for the moment. To live in fear. Be a coward.

Don't jump. Stay where you are. Never move forward.

I think of this during the moment when my eyelids finally close and I roll my head back, allowing the lull of the metronome to pull me into a realm of ambiance and sleep. I think of this scenario because it reminds me of life. So many people live in fear. They refuse to move their life in a different direction because they let that fear consume them. Eat away at them. Pick their bones clean. So many people live their lives asking themselves what if?

What if?

What if?

So what if I was on the edge of a cliff? What if I did push that nagging voice to the side, kicked caution to the wind, and hurled myself over that cliff, freefalling, only to be caught in an exhilarating pool of refreshing water? Would I feel better just letting go?

Yes.

I know this because the only reason I've been holding back is because I'm terrified of the pain my memories will bring. But life is pain. Life is chaos. It's never easy. Always a struggle.

Now I know that the only way I'm going to get over the pain in my past is to confront it, head on. And that's the last thought I have before I let the darkness of my mind completely consume me.
Chapter Twenty Eight

~BEFORE~

My new life begins tomorrow.

I'm elated. I feel a thrill. I feel a deep, resounding rush of adrenaline. I lie in my bed fidgeting, but not out of nervousness, out of excitement, because I never thought this day would come.

Daddy's snores pound into my ears. Tomorrow there will be no more of that. I let out a soft laugh just thinking about it.

No more sneaking. No more abuse. My life will only consist of complete and utter love and happiness.

Damien lies next to me, his soft breaths filling my ears, his arm draped protectively over my bare stomach. He's sleeping. I like watching him sleep. He's even more beautiful when his face is completely relaxed, his hair is wild from his twisted haze of dreaming, and his muscles free of tension. Most of the time Damien worries me. He likes to be in charge. He likes to make plans. Follow schedules. And sometimes I think that's too much for one person to handle. I ask him all the time if he'd like my help, but he always answers with, "Let me take care of it, love."

I've decided that for our future, I'll pick and choose my battles with him carefully. Damien stirs and his eyelids flutter. I slide down further in my bed, coming face to face with him. His eyes open in slits, then he groans and twists a piece of hair between his fingertips. "What time is it?"

"Two thirty."

"Two thirty? Shit!" He bolts upright and throws the comforter off himself and me.

"Hey!" I whine and snatch the comforter, pulling it up to my chin. I'm naked and it's cold in my room.

Damien's eyes bulge and he gives me an urgent look. "What are you doing?" He reaches over me and grabs his clothes and starts putting them on. "We need to hurry."

I snuggle into my blanket. "Why? You said we don't have to leave until five." Our bus leaves at six thirty.

Damien and I settled on the city of Seattle to begin our new life. He knows a guy there he went to boarding school with, whose father is the owner of some huge corporation. His friend said they'd give him a job and that's great. I'm happy for him. But me, I'm not really sure what I'm going to do.

"What about me?" I'd asked him when we decided on Seattle.

"What about you? You beautiful, silly girl?" he'd chuckled and breathed into my hair.

"What am I going to do?"

"Whatever you want."

"What?"

"You heard me. You can do whatever you want."

Whatever I want? I've never been able to do what I want. I've always been a prisoner and the idea of freedom seemed strange, as true as it is.

Damien cuts into my thoughts with his panicked words, "Come on, Addy, get up. We have to get your things packed."

"Damien, relax. I did that while you were sleeping." I motion to the few garment bags and a suitcase under my window. I pat the empty spot on the mattress next to me. "Come back to bed, please. I'm cold. Come keep me warm."

He gives me a sexy smirk and slides into bed next to me. He nips my earlobe with his teeth and breathes, "I love you. Are you ready for our forever?"

I smile into the darkness and exhale as his warm fingers slide over my stomach overheating my entire body. "Yes. I can't wait." It feels like that's all I've thought about for the last few months. Me and him. So in love with each other. In a new place. Beginning our lives. Damien nuzzles his chin into the curve of my neck and places a kiss just below my ear. "I love you too. So much," I whisper.

I feel his chest rise up and down against my back and I think to myself that I've never felt more at home than in his arms. I've never really felt like I belonged anywhere. But in his arms, I can't feel that way anymore. I've found somewhere I belong. I've found someone who I love purely and unconditionally. Someone who loves me the same way in return.

But I fight off the pull of slumber because even though this picturesque moment, this scene with Damien and I, our limbs entangled, bodies touching in a loving embrace seems so perfect, so beautiful, and so right, a bout of nausea whips through my gut telling that something about all of this feels off.

Something is wrong.

I shake Damien. "Damien, get up."

He lifts head, gazing up into my eyes. "What is it?"

I strain to hear the sound of Daddy's snoring.

There's nothing.

Dead silence.

Panic seeps into my bloodstream and I stumble out of bed. "Get up!" I shout, half-scream, half-whisper.

"Addy—?"

"Just get up!"

My heart is racing as I dash over to my dresser and pull any dress I can find, I settle on a green one and throw it over my head, not even bothering to put on my underwear or a bra. I rush past the bed and Damien laces his fingers through mine and pulls me back down on the mattress. "Calm down." He snakes his fingers through my hair and brushes his lips against mine. "Everything is fine."

But it's not fine. I know it. I can feel it.

"We have to go." I give the most urgent, pleading look I can give. "We have to go now."

Footsteps thunder down the hall. My eyes avert to my door. "Oh no!" I gasp I forgot to lock it. Terror in my eyes, I glance back at Damien. "Get up! Get out the window!"

But it's too late.

Daddy barrels through my door spots Damien in my bed, and his eyes go wide, twisted in a deep rage that I've never seen before. With three long strides, he's at the edge of my bed, gripping me by the throat, and rasping, "You little whore."

I'm gasping for air. White dots flash in my eyes. I feel lightheaded. Then in one swift motion, Daddy throws me across my small room and my back hits my yellow plaster wall with a thud.

"Get out of her bed, you little fucker!" I hear Daddy shrieking. There's a scuffle going on behind me. Lots of feet moving. Shouting. Things rustling. "You've ruined her!" Daddy's head snaps toward me. "You're nothing but a dirty whore. Just like you mother."

"Don't call her that!" Damien. "Don't you ever call her that! You worthless drunk!" I can feel Damien's eyes on me as I struggle to pick myself up off the floor. "Addy, don't you listen to him!"

"Stay out of her head, you little fucker!" Daddy. There's more noise. Maybe they're wrestling.

I try to scream. "No, Daddy! No!" But the words come out low, barely above a whisper. With wobbling knees, I steady myself against the wall. I swallow, but my throat aches and it feels like there's a permanent lump in the center of my esophagus. I just can't get it down.

Hope flushes through my body. If we can make it to the window. Just a few steps and we can get out. The sound of footsteps plodding across the wooden floor pounds in my ears. Daddy's gone. Damien is at my side. "Hurry Addy!"

"Damien," I rasp, trying to speak.

"Not now," he says urgently. "Just come on." He guides me to the window and yanks it open with force. There's a loud clattering sound echoing from down the hall.

Damien starts throwing our bags out the window. One by one, I hear them crunch as they hit the snow covered ground. The blistering cold wind, wafts in through the open window. I shiver and chills blast through me as the icy winter weather hits me in the chest. Damien extends a hand to me. "Here, I'll help you out." He puts his hand on my waist, preparing to lower me to the ground.

"What about you?" I breathe. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"Don't worry about me."

"No." I remove his hands from my waist and shove him toward the window. "You go." He fights me off, but I urge him forward. "I promise, I'll be right behind you."

But there's not enough time for any of that.

Daddy's back.

He's got a shotgun. "I'll bury you. Just like I buried you're whore of a mother."

Shock burns through me. I can't comprehend what he's telling me. "What?" Tears sting my eyes. "What?" Is he saying he killed Mommy?

He cocks the gun.

Aims it.

BANG!

Daddy, fires a bullet right at my chest. I can't react, I just stand there waiting for death to welcome me. At least with death, there's no pain.

The next sequence of events happen in slow motion. I close my eyes. Feel hands on my shoulders. Feel my body being shoved aside. I topple to the floor and hear a strained grunt. My head snaps to the side just in time to see Damien take a bullet to the chest.

"No!" I shriek. "No!"

There's a glazed over look in Damien's blue blue eyes. His face is whiter than the sheets on my bed. He's trying to speak, but the buckshot from the gun expels all over his front, penetrating through his skin, lacerating his organs, and blood spurts from his mouth. He hits his knees, more blood spreading across his chest like a carton of milk knocked off the kitchen counter. He touches his chest cavity, a ghost-like smile on his lips.

All of the wind is knocked out of my lungs.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

I want to die.

I move forward, my arms outstretched, pain and terror in my violet eyes, a dull throbbing ache in my heart. "No! Damien!"

He turns his head slowly.

Nods at me. Flashes his smile that I love so much. Mouths, "I love you."

Then he slumps over...

Dropping like an iron anchor to the ocean floor.

He's dead.
Chapter Twenty Nine

~BEFORE~

There aren't...

There aren't...

There aren't enough words to describe the amount of pain I'm in. I lunge for Damien, slipping and sliding in his blood, and sweep him up in my arms. I hold him. Rock him. Sob for him. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please." This isn't real. I know it's not.

I slap his beautiful, peaceful face. Once. Twice. Three times. Still nothing.

I rest my palm flat against his cheek. The warmth is fading from his skin, along with the color. He's cold. Clammy. Like he's just been put in the icebox so he doesn't spoil.

"Why?" I scream at him. "Why did you do that?" Tears pour from my eyes. "Why?" I'm waiting for an answer that I know is never going to come.

My fingers flit over the gunshot wound on his chest. Right next to his heart. I wait, thinking that maybe it will still be beating. I'm in denial and I know it, but I can't accept what just happened. I don't think I ever will.

Reality drills through my skull and seeps into my brain.

There's nothing. He's really dead.

I hunch over his body, holding him as tight as I can to keep my arms from trembling. I cry into his stomach, and on top of the bitter scent of blood, I get a whiff of his musky cologne that lingers on his shirt. Then I lose it all over again.

I lift my eyes, rimmed in red, tears cascading down my pale cheeks and glimpse at the spot where Daddy was standing. He's disappeared and he took his gun with him. Part of me is glad about this and another part of me is not. I'm glad because I've never had a bad temper, but after Daddy mentioning what he might have done to Mommy and then him killing Damien well, I've never wanted to murder him so bad in my entire life. Another part of me wishes he was still here, so I could snatch the shotgun from his grasp, shoot myself, and join Damien wherever he is because dying for the man I love sounds better than the painful reality called hell that I'm living right now.

I'm losing it. I'm losing it. I'm losing it.

Time passes.

I'm not sure how much.

Maybe hours. Maybe minutes.

I've started hallucinating.

Yes, my subconscious hisses. Why?

Because Damien is alive there. He's not dead. He's lying in my arms, smiling up at me a twinkle in his cool shades of blue. Then he's playing with my hair, twisting a midnight colored tendril around the tip of his finger.

I blink and the beautiful fantasy is gone.

I keep telling myself it will return. I keep telling myself if I just wait it out, I'll see him again.

My mind is playing tricks on me, but I tell myself that it's okay. It's okay that I pretend Damien is alive, lying next to me. It's okay that I pretend he's sleeping and that his chest is rising up and down. Anything is better than facing reality. Facing the truth. That he's...that he's...that he's...

No. I shake my head and bury it in the crook of Damien's neck. Don't even think it. I can't. If I do, I'll fall apart all over again.

Someone calls the cops and Damien's parents. I'm not sure who called them, nor do I care. Damien's mother, Marlena, is hysterical. She yanks me from the floor by my shoulders and shakes me. I've tuned out the sound of her voice. I'm comatose, staring at the blood on the floor. And Damien's body. Marlena slaps me across the face and tells me this is all my fault and that snaps me out of the trance-like state I was in. Pain sears in my cheek and I can feel blood and warmth rising to the surface. There's probably a welt. I don't care. I can't react to it.

Damien's father, Luke, pulls her away from me and she sobs into his chest.

It's not until the paramedics arrive and they load Damien's body into a black bag that reminds me of a bag that belongs in a trashcan, except it's thicker, that I move from my spot. I hurl my body at one of the paramedics and knock him to the floor. "You can't take him!" I scream, tears pooling in my eyes, a stabbing pain in my chest. "You can't take him! We belong together!" I throw my body over the bag and scream hysterically. My chest vibrates with sobs. There are small streams of tears running down the bag. "No! No! No!" More tears. More pain. More screaming. "We were running away!" Hate burns in my eyes and I glare at Marlena. "We're running away from you!" Marlena turns her head back into Luke's chest, and she sobs harder than she was a minute ago. I think she blames herself for this happening more than me, but she's the type of person who'd never admit to it.

It takes two paramedics, two cops, and one sedative to pry me away from Damien's body. A police officer stays with me as they load Damien's body into the back of the ambulance and the only reason I'm calm is because of the drugs in my system. More than anything I feel empty inside and I've convinced myself that my heart lies bleeding on the floor in my bedroom, drenched in Damien's blood too.

An hour later, the remaining cops load me into the back of their car. "Are you okay, sweetie?" an older one with kind brown eyes and graying brown hair asks.

I don't answer him. I'm staring at my house through the mirror above the dash, replaying everything that just happened in my mind. Damien's face swirls around behind my eyes. The widened, stunned look in his sapphire eyes imbeds itself in my brain. It was the moment he realized he'd been shot. His face fades away, now all I see is his lips. His full pouty lips and the last words he'd ever have on the tip of his tongue, "I love you."

Those words are no one else's.

They belong to me.

Forever.

Always.

No matter where he is now.

And I can't help but have a morbid thought during that second, about how badly I want to come back to the house I grew up in, douse it in gasoline, strike a match, chuck it at the porch, and watch with a sadistic smile as the house burns to the ground.

Now there's pain again. The sedative can't take this kind of pain away. It doesn't matter how much drugs they give me, I know this. No amount of drugs can ever take away the pain that accompanies a broken heart.

~ ~ ~

On the way to the police station, something comes over the radio, "The suspect has been caught. He had the murder weapon in his possession."

Daddy.

I hope they either fry him or lock him away for the rest of his life. I hope they make him understand the meaning of the word pain.

For Mommy.

And for Damien.

The police sit me down in a small, square room and try to question me. I tell them what I can about the tragedy that just occurred, but I'm not sure if I'm much help. I can't keep my voice from trembling. I can't keep the tears from falling. I can't keep myself from bringing my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth, gripping onto my hair, and screaming at the top of my lungs. The officer questioning me looks at me like I'm crazy.

Who knows?

Maybe I am.

The cop questioning me leaves for a while. When he comes back he grips me by the arm and helps me out of my chair. "Where are we going?" My voice quivers.

"We're taking you away from here."

"Away from here?" I repeat in a melancholy state.

"Yes." I don't meet the officer's eyes, but he has a kind tone in his voice. "We're sending you somewhere where you'll be able to get better."

I laugh. "Get better?" We turn a corner and the white blurs in my eyes from the walls of confined corridor. "Get better?" I laugh harder. It's almost uncontrollable. The kind of laugh a person laughs when they've truly lost their mind.

There's a worried look on the cop's face and he looks away from me as we continue walking. These people are morons. I know they're only trying to help, but they are still morons.

Because only I seem to be the one that sees things clearly.

I'm never going to get better.
Chapter Thirty

~NOW~

All of the painful memories come flooding back.

My eyes snap open. I gape at Dr. Watson. My lips turn down into a scowl. Everything hits me all at once. Damien, Daddy, Mommy, and him, Dr. Watson. He's known about my past the whole time. He had to have. Of course. The bastard has my file.

Why would he do this? How could he do this? Why would he want me to remember something so devastating and horrifying? Who calls this sadistic torture a treatment method?

I stand slowly, knees trembling, my heart in flames, and my fists clenched at my sides.

"Adelaide?" Dr. Watson's eyes are on me. He looks confused. "Can you tell me what you remember?"

"No!" I hiss, moving closer.

Dr. Watson stands and towers over me, but I'm not afraid of him. I think that the rage boiling in my bloodstream is making me fearless. "How could you?" I seethe. "How could you do this to me? It's sick!" I scream, tears flooding my eyes. "It's evil and sick!"

Dr. Watson raises his hands. "Calm down, Addy." He's trying to reason with me. Calm me down. But it's not going to work this time. Not now. Not anymore.

"I hate you! I hate you!" I'm surprised by how high and shrill my voice is. "You're an evil, evil man!"

"Adelaide!" Dr. Watson yells. "You don't understand!"

"Don't understand, what?" I probe him with a snarky tone. "Tell me, Dr. Watson. What is it that I don't understand?" I've never seen Dr. Watson look so lost or confused. Maybe I should show my out of control side more often if I want to get some answers out of him.

"It's complicated."

His vagueness is what makes me lose the last bolt that has been keeping my mind together. With trembling fingers, balled up fists, strained breaths, and a clenched jaw, I scream. I shake my head. Go wild. Go crazy. I'm like a savage, barreling into Dr. Watson and knocking him back on his desk. He stares up at me, wide-eyed, arms up in the air, trying to restrain me as I reach for his neck. The overwhelming urge to crush his windpipe is the only thing I can think about.

Dr. Watson grunts while I continue shrieking like a banshee, clawing at his face as he grips onto my wrists. "How could you? How could you do this, Dr. Watson?" Tears flood my eyes, blinding me and I have to blink several times for my vision to become more clear. "I thought you wanted to help me!"

"I do, Addy," he pleads and there's a desperate look in his honey eyes. "That's all I've wanted." And I think I hear him add, "You're all I've wanted."

I'm still irrational, and angry, and now not only has Dr. Watson broken my heart, my mind, and my soul, but he's broken my trust too. Now, I'm not only in agonizing pain, but the betrayed feeling that's surging through me is beginning to fuck with my emotions.

He starts to gain the upper hand in our struggle as Dr. Morrow and Marjorie dash through the door. "Son of a bitch, Elijah!" Dr. Morrow shakes his head, wraps an arm around my waist, and tugs. "Alright! Alright!" Dr. Morrow glances over his shoulder at, Marjorie. "Go grab a sedative. We're doing things my way, now." Marjorie nods and is out the door in a flash.

Marjorie returns and doesn't waste any time. She stabs me in the thigh with the needle, hard. I try to fight off the effects of the drugs like I have so many times before. Dr. Watson and Dr. Morrow are arguing, but their words are blurry and I can't understand what they're saying. The bright lights of the office are starting to dim. My flailing limbs are no longer flailing, now somewhere in between flopping and flicking like a fish out of water on a wooden dock.

I'm starting to lose my fight with the drugs. They're overpowering me. Clouding everything. The room spins. Faces fade in and out of focus. The sweet, sweet sedative is seeping into my bloodstream.

There's a voice in my head screaming, fight it, fight it, fight it!

Don't let them poison you!

Don't let them make you forget!

But it's not my voice that I hear screaming in my head.

It's Damien's. He's reaching out to me. From where I don't know.

And just before I close my eyes, I think I see him.

Then everything goes black.

~ ~ ~

When I open my eyes, there's a squeaking noise tickling my ear drums. Dim flickering lights hang above my head and pass by quickly. The walls surrounding me are made of cement. And there's a damp, musky scent permeating the air.

I feel like I'm floating.

Then I realize I'm moving. I'm being pushed down a darkened hallway on a gurney. I try to sit up, but I can't. And when I gaze down at my body, I notice three wide brown belts strapped across my chest. Oh no. Panic penetrates the walls of my stomach and I've seen someone strapped into a gurney just like this. Cynthia. Right before she was taken down to...

Oh no! They're taking me to the basement! Or I might already be there.

Cackles trail down the narrow hall and as I look to my left, I notice cells with metal bars. Suzette's arms hang through the bars and she's repeatedly tapping her head against the metal. Against her cage. Her laughter, soft and eerie, with a sing-song ring to it. As I'm wheeled by her, she lifts a crooked finger and points at me. Fear latches onto my spine and refuses to let go. I swallow hard, but my throat is raw and dry from all of my previous screaming.

I'm wheeled down the hall further and several more cells come into view. Most are empty, but in the very last one Cynthia lies on her cot, in a burial like position, her eyes centered on the ceiling. "Cynthia," I whisper and try getting her attention.

It doesn't work.

Cynthia's gone.

Another lost victim of the asylum and its screwed up methods of treatment.

The gurney slows when it comes to a set of swinging double doors. Whoever is pushing me, maneuvers the gurney around, entering the double doors with their back to it. They push me into a corner of the room, next to a machine with a whole bunch of different buttons, knobs, and climbing meters. I see a headband-like instrument and have to turn my head. Vomit inches its way up my throat and my lungs constrict. Electroshock therapy. They're going to give me electroshock therapy!

I need to get out of here.

Twisting, I grind against the leather straps, trying to loosen them. The thick leather bites into my flesh and begins to burn lines into my skin. But I can't give up. I refuse to give up. Still twisting and thrusting my hips upward, I try wiggling. I try moving my feet. It's not working. Looking down, my eyes sweep over the length of my body again and I catch a glimpse of the restraints wound tightly around my heels. The restraints are chained to the gurney. Sobs leave my throat when the sudden reality hits me.

I can't get out.

There is no escape.

Footsteps pound against the pale green tile flooring and Dr. Morrow looms above me. "Well, hello there, Adelaide." There's a rotten tone to his voice and I know he's purposely toying with me. He reaches to his left and grabs a giant wad of cotton off his tray. "I'm very excited to introduce you to what I like to call treatment."

I'm crying so hard that I have to gasp for air and Dr. Morrow shoves the cotton into my mouth with force." Don't," I try to say, but the words come out muffled.

Dr. Morrow points to my mouth. "That's so you don't bite down on your tongue, my dear."

I'm still trying to beg him to stop, even though my mouth is full and I know he can't understand me. "Plllease. Pleeassse."

He ignores me, grabs the headband-like instrument and places it on me, the two nodules on each side pressing into my temples. I focus on the round, dome-shaped lighting fixture above me. I hear squeaking as Dr. Morrow fiddles with the electroshock machine's dials. My saliva has dampened the wad of cotton and the little hairs are sticking to the walls of my cheeks. I have nothing left. Begging was my last option.

Dr. Morrow is going to fry my brain like an egg in a pan.

And there is nothing I can do to stop him.

"Let this be a lesson to you," he whispers into my ear. "What goes around, comes around."

So this isn't only about treating me. It's about payback. Revenge. All because I spit in his face?

Marjorie enters the room and takes her place next to Dr. Morrow. She nods at Dr. Morrow and he reaches for one of the dials. My brain is already buzzing, setting itself up for the volts of electricity that are about to circulate through it. I clamp my teeth down on the cotton in preparation, and clench my fists. Then I try to tell myself that I'm ready for it, even though I know that's a lie and I think I'm about to wet myself.

"Stop!" Dr. Watson's voice booms inside the small operating-like room and Dr. Morrow's hand freezes on the tip of the dial. Dr. Morrow ignores him and I think I hear the machine come to life. "God damn it, Matthew! I said stop!" I try to lift my head, but only make it part of the way. Dr. Watson stomps toward the table, his eyes sweeping over me in a panic. His gaze darkens when he looks at Dr. Morrow. "Let her up. Undo her restraints."

Marjorie makes a move toward me and Dr. Morrow bars his arms against her chest. "No, Marjorie."

Dr. Watson's face is flushed, his brilliant eyes are fueled with rage, and he puffs out his chest before slamming his balled up fist onto the table next to the machine. He speaks with a gritty voice, lingering on each word. "I. Said. Let. Her. Up."

Marjorie moves fast, removing the cotton from my mouth, removing the restraints from my ankles, and unfastening the ones across my chest.

"You're making a huge mistake, Elijah," Dr. Morrow scolds him. "You're too close to this case! You need to back off!"

"I am in charge of her!" Dr. Watson fires back. "She is mi—!" Dr. Watson corrects himself. "She is my patient!"

"She shouldn't be!" Dr. Morrow shouts. "You can't separate your feelings! You're too attached! You can't be her doctor!"

Dr. Watson reaches down and helps me off the gurney. His eyes are kind and loving, his face is bunched together with concern. "Can you stand?"

"I think so."

Dr. Watson dips his shoulder and I slide my arm across it. He helps me onto the floor and the shock of the freezing tile brings on goose bumps. Dr. Watson rubs my biceps, pumping warmth back into my skin. "This is what you get, Elijah," Dr. Morrow tsks and shakes his head. "This is what you get for getting involved with a nutcase."

Dr. Watson snaps, a crazed look in his eye, and lunges for Dr. Morrow, gripping his collar and backing him into the wall. "I thought I told you never to call her that."

Panic flashes in Dr. Morrow's eyes and as Dr. Watson backs off, he straightens out his lab coat. Dr. Watson is at my side again and guides me to the double doors at the end of the room. "You've lost your mind just like her, you know that, Elijah?" he shouts after us. "She doesn't even know who you are!"

Dr. Watson halts me at the halfway point. His body tenses and when I gaze into his eyes I see a flash of hurt. I don't know what's going on here. I don't know what Dr. Morrow is talking about. I've never felt more out of the loop, confused, or tortured in my entire life. Dr. Watson laces his fingers through mine and peers over his shoulder, a glimmer of a psychotic break in his beautiful eyes. "Let's get one thing straight, Matthew," he says coldly. "If you so much as lay a finger on my wife again, I'll fucking kill you."

His wife?

His wife?

But that's impossible.

I just got here.

Didn't I?

Aurora's words flit through my mind. You're her. The one that got away.

Oh...that's right.

But when did I get married?

My mouth hangs open and I stare at the beautiful man in front of me. The man I'm supposedly married to. He gazes into my eyes, casts a glance downward then pulls me to his chest, tucking my head beneath his chin. He kisses my hair and his warm breath trails down the back of my neck. "I don't understand Dr.Watson, how—?"

He silences me with a soothing sound and another kiss, this time on the temple. "I know you don't, my darling. You've been through a lot and I promise to explain everything tomorrow."

"O..o..okay," I stutter, still in shock.

"I had to try and get you to remember your first time here, and why, in order for us to move on to the next step of your treatment."

"The next step?"

"Getting you to remember how we met and fell in love."

And got married, I think to myself.

He takes my face in his hands, brushes my hair back away from my face, and gazes deeply into my eyes. I can see the love glittering like tiny specks of bronze in his honey irises. "I just know it will only be a matter of time before you come back to us."

I raise an eyebrow. "Us?"

He places his lips against my forehead. "Yes. Willow and myself."

"Willow?"

"Our daughter."

Hurt bleeds from my heart.

Tears prick my eyes.

I still don't know this man. Despite what he claims, I still don't know him as anything other than my doctor. And I don't even know my own child. My flesh and blood. I close my eyes and the wetness rains down my cheeks. My face is on fire and Dr. Watson's cool thumbs instantly put out the blaze when he caresses my skin, wiping away my tears. "Don't cry," he murmurs. "I know the memories will come back to you. I just know it. I won't give up until they do."

"Dr. Watson, I—."

"Elijah."

"Elijah," I repeat with uncertainty. Confusion spreads throughout my body and a part of me still thinks that all of this might be an elaborate hoax. "Why, Willow?"

He backs away slightly and raises both eyebrows. "What, my love?"

"Willow. Why did we name our daughter, Willow?"

A radiant smile curls on his lips. "We didn't name her, Willow. You did. I fought you on it because I thought it was silly to name our daughter after a tree."

"A tree?"

"Yes. You always spoke of this weeping willow in the backyard of your childhood home and how you spent so much time there."

"Oh," I gasp, eyes wide and bring my hands to my mouth. "The willow tree."

Hope ignites in Elijah's eyes and he nods excitedly. From the look on his face, I can tell he thinks I've had some great revelation. I haven't and I don't have the emotional strength to tell him that I still can't remember any of my relationship with him or the day I named our daughter Willow.

But even without my memories, I know why.

Because of one man, with blue blue eyes, black hair, and toasted almond skin.

Damien.

Elijah, slides his arm across my shoulder, kisses my temple again, and places his lips a breath away from my ear. "More will come back to you, my love. I just know it. I can feel it. And I'll never give up the fight until it does. I promise."

We walk together, hand in hand to the double door and just before we exit I see Damien in the corner of the room, cowering, a sneer on his lips and a single solitary tear dripping down his cheek. Our eyes deadlock. There's a cold, calculated glint in his eyes and I can't tear my eyes away from his.

Then he opens his mouth and says, "See, I knew it." There's a disgusted look on his face and a hateful gleam in his blue eyes.

"Knew what?" I mouth.

"You are a liar."

Now an excerpt from the thrilling sequel to Insanity, White walls.

I attacked Daddy.

After he was tried and convicted of killing Mommy and Damien, I attacked him.

I tried to stay calm.

Keep my composure.

Be the better person.

But I couldn't. I snapped, lunging for his neck with needy fingers.

And I hate myself for it.

I tried to choke the life out of him. I can't explain what came over me. Maybe it was the simple flashback of when I was on the stand and he drug his thumb across his throat as an obscene gesture toward me that made the last sound part of my mind float away.

Or maybe...

Maybe I am more like him than I thought.

And the possibility of that terrifies me.

It took four police men to pry me off of him. All the while Daddy wasn't even upset. He was cackling like a lunatic. Why? Because he won. He beat me up and broke me down in every physical, mental, and emotional way.

And I let him.

As I tightened my fingers around his neck and he choked out his laughter, I screamed.

Thrashed.

Anger blazed through my fingertips when I tightened my grip.

And when the police officers pulled me away, I was clawing at air, hoping that by some miracle my fingernails would scrape the skin on his face. To leave deeply rooted scratch marks.

So I could leave scars on him.

Just like he left scars on me.

After the guilty verdict had been read and I lost my wits, my mind, and all of my composure. The police officers secured me in a holding cell.

You've been through a lot, the cops told me.

We're sending you away to get the help you need, they told me.

But they told me they were going to get me help before and they didn't. Now I understand why. Because they were watching me.

Waiting.

Probably hoping that the last thread of sanity inside me would finally break. Then they'd be able to say haul her away, she's a lunatic.

I'm pretty sure they've got exactly what they've wanted.

Now, I am the canary I've always wanted to be.

Or at least the bright yellow bus I'm riding in makes me feel like one.

I'm flying.

Flying far, far away.

There's only one problem; I'm flying alone because Damien, the second person who was supposed to be on this journey with me, is dead.

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

It doesn't matter how many times I tell myself that he's really dead. It still doesn't sit right with me. Feel right. Or ease the never-ending pain I've felt stabbing at my insides since Daddy shot him.

My attention averts to the window as the wide, open plains and sporadic trees breeze by. Ahead there's an empty wide stretch of road and the bus picks up speed. I look away from the window. All of the scenery is blurring together and it's making me nauseous.

I scan the empty seats. They're tan. Probably fake leather. I poke the seat in front of me, watching the indent from my finger as it slowly disappears. Frustrated, I roll my head back and begin tapping it against the soft head rest.

I wish there was someone to talk to.

Or look at.

I wish there was someone else on the bus to distract me.

But there isn't. Aside from me and the driver the bus is empty.

"How much longer?" I call up from a seat three rows from the back on the right side.

The driver, a rotund man with a chubby face and a comb-over eyes me in the mirror. "About another hour."

All the police said was that I was being sent to a place that was going to help me overcome my 'issues'. The issues I'd accrued after Damien's death. There was a brief moment; days after his death that I thought I might be okay. That I might be able to always remember our love, but be able to move on. But that changed the day of his funeral. When his mother threw me out of the church.

She saw me in the back of the church, in the last pew. My eyes were cast downward because I couldn't keep the tears from falling. I didn't even know she'd seen me until she gripped me by the elbow and hissed, "You." Her voice was filled with pain and hate, and then she ripped me from the pew and escorted me to the double doors.

My eyes water and I let out a long breath when I think of that moment. My heart aches, rips from my chest, and falls somewhere on the bus floor. Seconds later, sobs leave my throat and I have to hug myself to keep myself from shaking.

What I wanted to scream at his mother was I loved him too.

So much.

More than she would ever know.

It wasn't fair that I wasn't able to properly say goodbye to him. Because now, I'll never have closure. I'll never be able to move on.

My sobbing escalates to the point where howls of anguish leave my throat and there's nothing I can do to hold them back.

The bus driver hears me and asks, "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

I can't answer him. The grief and heartbreak is swallowing me.

Consuming me.

Devouring me like a cannibal.

Then I hear something.

"Psst."

I lift my head slowly, blinking back tears and squinting at the front of the bus. There's no one there.

I hear the sound again.

"Psst."

Twisting, I dig my fists into my eyes and swallow a mouthful of saliva, trying to drench the dryness in my throat. My eyes center on the last seat in the bus. Right by the emergency exit he sits. A smoldering look in his blue blue eyes.

"Damien?" I whisper. I pinch myself several times because I know I must be imagining him. Then I shut my eyes, squeezing them tightly before opening them abruptly.

A wide smile breaks out on his full lips. "Don't cry, love."

The sound of his voice is like a gift from God and my previously absent heart magically reappears and starts racing. "This isn't real," I cry, trying to reassure myself. "You aren't real."

Damien gets up, walks down the aisle and sits next to me. "Don't you remember, my silly beautiful girl?"

I reach out to touch him and feel the warmth from his skin beneath my fingertips. "Damien," I gasp and pull his lips to mine. They feel hot and wet and his sweet, sweet breath wafts into my mouth. "You're here!" I can't help but cry as I plant kisses all over his face.

"You sure you're okay?" The bus driver says again.

I ignore him and continue assaulting Damien with my kisses. "I can't believe you're here."

"Of course I'm here," he tells me. "Don't you remember what I said?" We gaze into each other's eyes and he touches my cheek. "I said that I'd follow you anywhere."

Lauren Hammond knew from a young age that she was born to be a writer. After publishing her first novel in 2007, she then went on to write several screenplays and a few award winning poems. She aspires to be a positive role model for young people who have a pencil, a piece of paper, and a dream. Never give up on your dreams, you might wake up one day and regret not pursuing them.

