Page 12 of Heart of a Killer

That gets my attention. “You don’t remember why you’re here?” I’m sure I sound skeptical because I know him and the terrible things he’s done. His eyebrows furrow at me before answering.

“Well, I can’t remember. That’s kind of why I’m here.”

“He has, like, amnesia or some shit?” Brie interprets.

“Yeah, something like that. Brie is really good at reading people, as you can tell.”

They continue talking about the other patients, laughing at their own inside jokes that I’m not privy to yet. I stay silent throughout their exchange and take it all in. So, he—Alex? Leland?—doesn’t remember me? Why does that not make me happy? Why does my heart feel like it’s being crushed in a compactor ever so slowly?Get it the fuck together, Sky.

Hearing an orderly yelling at Patricia interrupts my train of thought. I look over at her eating one of the wooden ice cream sticks. The sound of teeth grinding together grates on my nerves. My own teeth clamp down in reflex, and I cover my ears. When I look up again, the orderlies have her by the arms, and blood covers her lips as she continues to chew on the wooden bits. She is smiling in utter bliss despite the splinters protruding from her gums and blood coating her teeth. A shiver runs down my back as the staff removes her from the lunchroom. My hopes are she goes to a medical wing because I can’t even begin to imagine how painful that must feel.

“What’s wrong with her?” I question Brie, knowing she would know.

“Pica.”

“Shouldn’t she see a medical doctor for that?”

“If it was medical, she wouldn’t be here.”

From what I’ve heard from Nicole and her medical schooling, I thought pica was something to deal with a deficiency that your body is trying to replace in the only way it knows how, but maybe I’m wrong.

The lunchroom bell rings, pulling me from my thoughts of Patricia and her blood-stained lips. It signals that we are to go to art therapy now. The nurses usher everyone to their respective classrooms, and we slowly make our way down the hall. I’m thankful that Brie and I share the same class. At least I won’t be alone.

“Brieanna, come on. You and...” The staff member looks down at their clipboard. “Skylar are holding up the class.”

“The bell just rang. Chill out. We’re coming,” she snaps as we find seats next to each other.

Art therapy should be fun and relaxing, but anxiety creeps in, filling the crevices of my brain. My eyes scan the room, taking in the drawings covering the walls made by earlier patients. I don’t participate in the coloring project for the day. My mind is too consumed by thoughts of Alex, leaving me in a daze.

As soon as the class starts, it ends, and Brie and I spend the rest of the day together until we split to go to our separate rooms for lights-out. I’m glad I have her to lean on, but at the same time, why do I always rely on others for me to feel okay in my own skin?

4

Leland

I’ve only been here three weeks, and I’m already pacing, ready to get out. Being left to my empty mind with nothing to fill that void is irritating. These beds are absolutely fucking horrendous. They don’t want people to sleep here and would instead use medication to sedate us into a false sense of sleep. I’m not good with that. I’ll keep my complaints to myself. I don’t want them giving me more of that medication that makes me drowsy. The beds are covered in plastic, and the grooves press into my back when I lie on them. They’re not comfortable, but they do make it easy to pocket and hide the sleepy time cocktail with just a rip in the plastic.

My mind is trying to unlock the past, but I always hit a brick wall. It only serves to infuriate me more. I have to get some air, but how? The one window is barred with chicken wire, solidifying the suffocating feeling even more. I don’t hear anything outside my door; surprisingly, the screams haven’t started yet. The patients in other rooms wail for their mommies when they bring in the feeding tubes. Others just yell as if they are dying and their dreams are killing them slowly. I would scream, too, if it weren’t for the threat of more medication.

Taking my chances, I tiptoe to the gray metal door. Grasping the cold metal beneath my fingertips, I twist the knob. It doesn’t squeak as I turn it, so that’s a good sign. The lighting is dim when I peek my head out. Looking up and down the hall, I see that the coast is clear. I creep along the wall until I hear voices from a few staff members. They’re chatting about their mundane, boring lives. Rudimentary small talk like, how are the kids? Oh, did you see that episode last night? Can you believe how much Starbucks is charging now for coffee? Their conversation drones on and on.

I haven’t moved, but their voices are getting closer, which is not a good sign for a patient who is supposed to be asleep in bed. I’m not sure if they would do anything if they found me, but I also don’t want to find out. As I inch backward, my hand glides over the white-painted brick until I find a cut-out in the wall. An orangish-yellow sign catches my periphery. My eyes cut toward it and see that there’s a sign with a stick figure walking up stairs. I can’t contain my curiosity but also know I need to move. I open the door, slink in, and press my back against the wall. Breathing softly, I listen to the voices as they walk by outside the door. My chest deflates in relief when they keep walking past my hiding spot, but now I’m curious to find where these stairs may lead me.

Shivering, I hold my arms across my chest. There’s a slight breeze in this stairwell, causing the frigid wind to cut through the cheap-ass tan scrubs they give us to wear. As I walk up the stairs, old food wrappings line the corners, along with caked-up dirt. People do come in here, but who? Staff, to hide away for a lunch break? Or patients? But why would a patient come in here?

After two or three flights of nothingness, I only find more hallways with empty rooms. I still haven’t found the source of the cool breeze. Once I climb the last flight of stairs, I turn around the bend and see another door held open by a patient’s white slip-on shoe. The cool breeze from outside is blowing through the crack, and the air smells crisp.

I’m nearly positive it’s another patient, but I can’t be sure. Not wanting to be caught by a staff member, I peek through the slit. My eyes peer through the gap and land on a blond-haired girl sitting on the ledge of the roof. The worry that she might fall tickles the back of my mind, so I ease the door open, being sure to keep the shoe in place. If it closes, we are locked out, and I don’t want that to happen. We would have to figure out some way to scale the building like spiders. I’m tall and skinny, not built for that.

As I get closer, I notice it’s only Brieanna. She always looks mad, like the world could burn under her gaze, but she has a heart of gold that’s been let down and taken advantage of one too many times. I tread lightly up to her, and she doesn’t move. I’m unsure how to get her attention without scaring her and making her fall to her death. Instead, she surprises me.

“Hey, fucker. You’re not as quiet as you think you are,” Brieanna teases, without ever turning around.

The cool breeze blows her blond strands away from her face, and I see a smirk on her lips. She’s cute but a little aggressive.

“Wow, and I was worried I would scare you off the ledge. I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t the one on the ledge, or I would be the one falling to my death.”

She chuckles a little at that.

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