Page 1 of Soul Bound

1

Winslow

“You’ve been very quiet during our group discussion today, Winslow. Wouldn’t you like to share?” Dr. Beverly asks from across the circle of chairs, herhandy-dandyblue pen at the ready to write down everything I say.

Which I’m sure she’ll immediately relay to my parents.

Dr. Beverly showed up a few days ago with a new haircut. She keeps saying she thinks it’s edgy and chic, but if you ask me, her box-dyed blonde hair looks like it lost a fight with a lawn mower. And lying has never been my strong suit, so when she asked for my opinion, I told her exactly that.

It didnotgo over well.

“Nope, I’m good,” I tell her with a smile I hope comes across as friendly and not homicidal.

“The programs here work because we share our problems and thoughts with the group.” She looks around at the other patients and gives them a reassuring nod.

It’s not entirely shocking when half of them refuse to meet her eyes, as a mass majority of the patients in this facility struggle with eye contact. I know for a fact Nora—or Nutty Nora, as I endearingly named her—believes eye contact is how the demons get in. She had to be sedated when she realized my eyes are two different colors.

“I would like for you to share, Winslow.” Dr. Beverly’s voice is still calm, but I can see how her smile tightens, and her Botox-filled forehead pulls slightly, she’s growing irritated with my lack of participation during her group sessions.

Okay, lady… you asked for it.

I stand and place my hands on my hips with a sigh. “Hi, my name is Winslow, and I see dead people. No, wait! I’m sorry. My bad. I forgot what support group I was at for a second. I’m just in so many here at Cresthill Psychiatric that I have trouble keeping them straight. Let me start again. Hi. My name is Winslow, and I’m a drug addict,” I cheerfully announce. This isn’t like a narcotics anonymous meeting where everyone greets you back. I don’t even technically have to introduce myself, but I get a kick out of it.

I’ve been here for going on two months now, so at this point, it’s the little things like this that get me through my days.

“Like everyone else in this group, I self-medicated with drugs. Not that what I have can be fixed with medication, but that’s another problem altogether we don’t have to get into right now.” I watch as everyone looks to the doctor. I know I only have about twenty seconds before she calls the orderly, and I’m removed from the group, so I start talking faster so I can get it all out.“Also, like many of you, I wasn’t sent here by choice. But unlike many of you—and I say this with love because I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting help—I don’t need to be here. Yes, I see dead people, but they’rereal,unlike the aliens with the laser eyes Daniel sees.” I smile over at the middle-aged bald man who’s so overmedicated he’s staring at his shoes. “Poor guy,” I say with a shake of my head. “Anywho, thanks for letting me share. You’re right Bev, I should do this more often, I feelsomuch better.”

Right on cue, the door buzzes open and Martin, the orderly, comes marching toward me. Martin is a cool guy and the only orderly who doesn’t treat the patients here like complete shit. His dark gaze narrows when he looks at me, and I know I’ll be getting a lecture on my way back to my room about how he’s disappointed in me for not taking the program seriously.

“Let’s go, Montgomery,” Martin sighs, motioning for me to come with him. He has a thing where he calls everyone by their last names. Dr. Beverly hates it. There’s a reason she goes by her first name and it’s not so patients will feel more relaxed around her. It’s because her last name isPincock,and it’s safe to say some unflattering nicknames come with that surname.

I give the doctor a quick curtsy before I follow Martin out. He’s silent most of the way to my room, but he eventually breaks down.

“Winslow, as much as I like to see the doc get her panties in a twist, you need to stop. If you’d only put the same effort into the program as you do in pissing her off, you’d be out of here in no time,” he tells me as he opens another metal door with his key card. “You’ll feel so much better once you accept the help everyone here is offering.”

“Martin, I like you, but I’m never getting out of this place. It’s cute that you think so though.”

My parents made sure I'd never set foot outside these cold, sterile walls again. I guess having a daughter who believes she can see dead people is a real public image disaster.

Martin leads me down the hallway where my room is, the squeaking of his sneakers echoing off the empty walls.When he pauses at my door, he turns to look at me. I see the pity written across his face. “You know why you’re in here, Montgomery. You need to stop blaming your parents for all this and accept responsibility for your actions.”

He holds the door open for me, motioning with his head for me to enter the small jail cell-like room. I pause and narrow my eyes at him. “How are you enjoying your new salary, Martin? If you’d like, I can give you my parents’ address for you to send them a thank-you card. I’m sure they’d appreciate knowing you were able to buy the car you always wanted.”His face whitens, and his eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he grabs my upper arm and pulls me into my room.

Before he can slide the metal door shut, I give him a knowing smile. “Oh, by the way,Little Goose, your mom says hello.”

We both know his mother used to call him that when he was growing up, and we also know she’s been dead for fifteen years.

* * *

I usedto think I thrived when I was left alone—that I was okay to be by myself. I actively sought out the peace and quiet, but now I’m alone more often than I’d like. I guess they were right when they said,“careful what you wish for”because the amount of time I spend by myself here is enough to make me truly go batshit crazy.

I’ve done every puppy puzzle available in this joint, and the only books here are self-help nonsense written by whack-jobs. And because I’m so freaking bored in here, I’ve read every single one of them.

It’s been two months since I was ripped out of bed at the shelter in the middle of the night by men I didn’t recognize. Two months since my parents drug me in here kicking and screaming,two months since I watched my spiteful mother smirk at me as the metal doors slammed behind me, and two months of listening to the patients cry and wail all night long, keeping me awake most nights.

I always try to go to bed early, hoping that by the time the screaming starts, I’ll have already slept for a couple of hours. But tonight, the cries started earlier than usual, and I’ve been awake, just staring at the opposite wall for an hour.

I’m wondering what the original paint color of the walls used to be since they’ve now turned a yellowish color when a chill runs down my back. The hairs on my arms rise and my skin breaks out in goose bumps.

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