Page 6 of Lovers Fate

My eyes follow his hand as he slides a ballpoint pen clipped to his shirt off and begins to write on the notepad in front of me. His hand was unsteady.

In the isolation ward, therapists and doctors aren’t allowed inside with pens, electronics, paper clips, or any item that could be used as a weapon. Protocols are set in place. They are required to handcuff the patients during therapy. The rooms are equipped with panic buttons, cameras, and voice sensors to notify someone outside the door if a patient loses his shit, but this particular room is located in the step-down unit.

I love to make him nervous. There were times I wondered who was being treated, me or the doctors.

His green eyes lift as he finishes writing, waiting for my response.

I raise my brows. “Nervous, doctor.”

I always found it amusing how the imagination runs wild around mentally ill people. He looks down at the paper and clutches the pen, his fingers turning white.

“No,” he says in an even tone.

“You watch too many movies, Dr. Foster.”

Movies that can depict real-life events when a patient snatches the pen and stabs whomever is in the room. Scenarios like that come into mind in a place like this.

He writes my name at the top of the sheet again and asks, “Why do you say that?”

I shake my head slowly. “No reason.”

I can’t tell him that he’s full of shit or express my true thoughts. It would delay my freedom. Since I turned eighteen, I’ve been confined to a cell made of concrete blocks, which are the color of barf. They treat you differently as an adult, like an animal in an exhibit. If you get loud and do stupid shit that they find isn’t normal, they stab you with a needle and inject you with meds that turn you into a zombie. I was lucky I wasn’t tried as one, given what I did, and only had to endure this shithole for six months. The way others watch you. When I first arrived, I was scrutinized by other female patients like I was a fresh piece of meat. You’d be surprised to learn how many crazy women enjoy the same sex. I’m not against it by any means, but I prefer to experiment with a normal person. Here, I ignored their crude jokes as they whispered in my ear about how much they would love to suck my cunt. I didn’t want to provoke a fight by telling them to fuck off and scratch their eyes out. Because that would defeat the purpose of me riding the crazy train to get out of here.

He flips a page while his pen hovers over a patient’s outtake form. “Where should they drop you off? I need an address.”

I shrug. “Stockbridge. Any motel is fine. You can use it as my address.”

It was all I could think about since I was arrested. I wanted to go back and find out more because something wasn’t adding up. I needed to find out what exactly happened and why.

After spending time at Worcester Recovery Center and Hospital as a juvenile, they sent me to Stockbridge at Framingham as an adult. This decision was made after I accepted a plea agreement with time served when I turned eighteen. I don’t have a high school diploma or experience doing anything except dancing, reading, and watching crazy people talk to themselves, but I’m sure in a place like Stockbridge, I can figure something out.

He scrolls through his phone, then writes something down. “You want to go back to your hometown. Do you think that’s a beneficial idea, Athena?”

I smile wide. “I can’t think of a better place to go,” I lie. “Stockbridge is home.”

FIVE

I closethe door of the minivan, tuck my hands into my pockets, and head toward the entrance, oblivious to the flashing red motel sign. The two-story building, which I’ve seen every time my mother drove by, could benefit from a major overhaul. The paint on the walls and doors is chipping, and judging by the doorknobs, the motel uses keys instead of electronic key cards.

The heavy scent of musty carpet and cheap lemon cleaner hits me as soon as I walk into the office and shut the green door behind me as if it has sealed off the space from fresh air.

A young guy sitting behind the front desk peers at me through oversized glasses and asks, “How can I help you?”

“Um…hi. I need a room and was wondering if you’re hiring?” I need a job and a room. I figured I could try to get both.

He sits up in his chair and gives me a slow once-over with his large brown eyes magnified through the lens of his large glasses that have slid down his freckled nose. I’m hardly dressed for an interview. My sweatpants hit right above my calves. The tightness of my shirt sleeves makes me want to tear them off my shoulders. It looks like I borrowed it from my little sister. I’mguessing I outgrew my clothes two years ago. Upon my release, they were all I had. It was the only thing I could grab on the fly when the police came to arrest me. There is still dried blood on the inside of the black sweats between my legs. I’m lucky my shirt is also black, or he’ll think I just committed a murder.

He uses his index finger to push his large bifocal glasses up his nose. He reminds me of an owl. “Do you do drugs? Have a record?”

Not voluntarily to the first, and yes to the second.

I raise my brow. “Do you check?”

He sighs loudly, then rolls his eyes. “The Church is down the street. They can help you out better than I can.”

Does he think I need to be saved?

“The church?”

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