Page 33 of The Preachers' Promise
“Ophelia,” I say a little louder, lifting my chin.
“Tell everyone why you’re here.”
Is she serious? My face burns. The last thing I want is to tell these people my life story.
“You are expected to talk openly about your feelings and struggles during these sessions, Ophelia. How can you get better if you won’t open up to the people who will understand you the most?”
I don’t believe these are the people who will understand me the most. I had those people in my Preachers, and I was taken from them. But I don’t expect anyone here to empathize with that. Anyway, they’re my only consolation in this awful place, and I don’t want to share the magic with anyone. Instead, I offer something else.
“I hear a voice,” I mutter. I sink lower in my seat, wanting to vanish. “The man who kidnapped me when I was a child. He won’t leave me alone.”
Don’t tell people about me,the Prophet’s voice hisses from somewhere behind my right ear.
I can’t help myself, I jerk my head around, and the moment I do, I realize I look like I’ve heard someone speaking. It makes me more self-conscious. Why haven’t the drugs worked to silence him this time? They normally do. Is it because of the upper I’vetaken? Panic hits me at the idea that the drugs might not work any longer. Without the Preachers here, I’ll be doomed to hear his voice all the time. What have my parents done? I blink back the tears, determined not to let them fall here,
“Thank you for sharing, Ophelia.”
Like robots, all the patients around me echo in monotone, “Thank you for sharing, Ophelia.”
The nurse gives me a tight smile. “During these sessions, we’ll discuss coping mechanisms, and how to deal with anxiety, and building trust between yourself and the staff and your fellow patients. I’m sure you’ll find it very useful. The idea is that as you get accustomed to the medication, they will help even out your emotions and moods, and the therapy will help dig deeper into the causes of your distress.”
I find it impossible to believe I’ll trust the staff here any time soon after the way I’ve already been treated. From what my new friend said about Carter, I doubt the abuse of the patients is a rare occurrence. I’m confused as to why our family doctor sent me here. He’s worked with us for a long time, and I’m not sure he’s done his research on this place. All I can think of is that it simply came up as a high security facility, and both he and my dad panicked. Either that, or this is my dad’s way of punishing me for leaving that letter for Daisy, but I don’t want to believe he’d be so cruel. I need to try to contact my mom somehow. She will be horrified when I tell her what goes on here.
The woman moves on from me and starts asking questions of the other patients. To my surprise, I find myself interested in their stories.
Do others in this room also hear voices? That’s because they’re unwell, too, though, right? Why do I think I’m any different?
I listen to an overweight man in his fifties talk about how he believes the universe is trying to tell him what his greaterpurpose is, and how he sees meaning in everything, from the pictures on the walls, to the programs he watches on television. The universe is communicating with him, but he doesn’t understand what it’s saying yet.
We may be the ones in an institution, but aren’t wealla little crazy in this world? We all have beliefs, it’s just some of us have more intense beliefs, or shout about them louder than others. Why do we knock on wood,, or panic if we break a mirror, or wish when we blow out our candles? We tell ourselves that everything works out for a reason, but what do we base that on if not some mystical faith in the universe, just like this man?
I think of my Preachers, and in particular Roman, with his belief in old gods and ancestors and Mother Nature. Why is it that when some people claim they hear voices, we build them a church, while others, like me, get locked up in places like this?
The meeting continues around me while I’m lost in thought. I wonder what the Preachers are doing now. Are they hanging out at the water tower? Roman might be in one of his history classes. Malachi could be writing a song on his guitar. I imagine Cain at the gym. Have any of them given any thought to me? I wish I had more faith in our relationship, but everything happened so fast between us, and the longer I’m away from them, the more I’m starting to doubt what we had.
It's my nature to doubt things. I can’t even trust my own reality. I was snatched from the only home I’d ever known, then raised in a society where one man controlled the narrative. He dictated the books we read, the music we listened to, and the education we received. Even though I had memories of my past life, it was impossible to cling to that world when I was so completely submerged in a different one. Then I ran, and I was once again told that my understanding of the world was wrong. Everything the Prophet taught me, the world has tried to erase.
Is it any wonder my head is a mess?
16
ROMAN
I feelridiculous in this uniform. The pants barely cover my ankles, and I keep yanking down the sleeves to prevent them from riding up my forearms. I pray no one takes a closer look at the ID hanging around my neck, because I sure as shit don’t look anything like the man in the photograph.
I use the keycard to open the front gates, but hold back a little, allowing Cain, dressed in the electrician’s outfit, to slip by me. He needs to get to the reception desk first so it’s less likely the receptionist is going to ask me to sign in, or question what I’m doing there.
My stomach is in knots. I close my eyes briefly and ask the gods for strength. So much is riding on us making this work. The thought of losing Ophelia for good is unbearable. Why did I ever think that having her would make us weak? The three of us have pulled together, stronger than ever, united in our need to ensure she is safe.
Safe and ours. Weneedher to be ours.
I wait as Cain follows the path to the main building and slips inside. I’m poised, dreading a shout from someone asking what the fuck we’re doing here, but none comes.
We’ve left Malachi behind the wheel of his car. We need him to be ready to put his foot down the minute we get Ophelia out of here. It’s a risk, because it means the two men we stole the clothes from are now unsupervised, but we can’t do anything about that. We’ve threatened them to stay quiet. Their mouths are taped, and they’re both hogtied, but one of them might be able to roll to the side of the van and start kicking against it to get someone’s attention. Luckily, the area is reasonably quiet. It’s not as though we don’t want them to be found eventually—we just don’t want it to happen yet.
Taking a breath, I get on the move, following Cain’s tracks. I reach the front doors, and they slide open automatically. My line of sight is drawn to Cain, who is leaning over the reception desk. His bulk blocks out my view of the receptionist, but I hear her giggle.
He seems to be doing his job, so I quickly scan the rest of the area. No one else is here. I already know where the locked doors onto the ward will be because of the schematics we’ve seen, so I keep my head down and head straight there. I reach for the security pass around my neck and press it to the pad on the outside of the door. My heart hammers with the worry that I’ll need something else to get in, or that the card wouldn’t be activated until I signed in at reception, but a light flashes green, and something buzzes on the other side of the doors.
