Page 213 of On a Fault Line

The benefit of having two wealthy brothers is that spending a thousand dollars to get driven three hours away from Portland is easily manageable—albeit impractical. I can think of so many other ways I could have used this money, but I’m in that anxious level of desperation.

I just don’t trust myself.

I’m either being haunted or I’m going crazy—and both sound plausible and equally horrible.

I need help. Plain and simple…

Except nothing is easy.

Nothing.

The con of coming back here is that it gives me the newfound fear that I may never be able to leave. Maybe my short-term living mindset is best viewed as a long-term arrangement, and it’s that possibility that freaks me the fuck out.

What if my mind is too damaged to be saved?

All these months I’ve tried to assimilate back into society, and where has it gotten me? I’m heartbroken and lonely, and my brothers are tainted with a warped impression that being with Collins is what hurt me.

The truth is, being with Collins healed me.

He was my lifeline.

But with him gone, I fear that I’ll forever be in a state of mental unrest, and the glimpse of happiness I had at my fingertips is just a ghostly reminder of losing a once-in-a-lifetime love.

Collins is my once in a lifetime.

“Hi, how can I help you?” the worker asks from the call button’s speaker.

“I’m a previous patient,” I say as clearly as I can into the built-in microphone.

“It’s long past admission time.”

“Please, I’m desperate. I need to be here.”

After several seconds, the door cracks open a few inches. When the worker catches sight of me, she grants me complete access.

“This is against protocol.”

I sigh. “I know.”

“What brings you back?” she asks, giving me the once-over.

I follow her inside the building, where she moves behind the front desk and resumes her position.

“I am going crazy,” I blurt out.

“Oh, dear. This isn’t an outpatient facility.”

“I know that.” I angrily wipe at tears dripping down my cheeks. “I just paid someone one thousand dollars to drive me here. I’m in the system and spent many months here recovering. I’m not a new patient. I’m a returning one.”

“I see. Your name?”

She must be new. She must not realize that my brothers made a hefty donation to this facility when I got discharged months ago. She must not realize that I would never come back here if I wasn’t desperate and sick—really sick.

“Penelope Josephine Hoffman.” Opening up my handbag, I pull out an insurance card and some credit cards.

“What are your symptoms?”

“Do you really need to know all of this?” I’m not at some shop getting my hair done. “Doesn’t this violate HIPAA?”

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