Page 69 of Crybaby

“I’m calling security.” He reaches for his walkie-talkie.

“No, you’re not…Michael,” I counter with a chuckle, peering at his plastic name tag. “Pretty sure they wouldn’t be too happy knowing you’re getting high on the job.”

His bravado soon dies, just how I knew it would. “What do you want?”

I stop a few steps away because if this plan fails, I will have to resort to option number one.

“My girl is inside. I’m here to tuck her in.” I don’t offer any other explanation.

The man snorts a disbelieving laugh. “Are you fucking joking?”

Removing my hood slowly and lifting my chin, I take great pleasure in witnessing this asshole gasp and take a small step back when he sees my beaten face. “Does it look like I’m fucking joking?”

“I ca-can’t let you in there.”

“Who says?”

“I’ll get into trouble,” he lamely replies while I roll my eyes.

“Only if you get caught.”

He looks from left to right, clearly wrestling with his morals. So I decide to make it real easy for him.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out a couple of hundred bucks and a small bag of weed I stole from the glove compartment of the truck we stole. I knew it would come in handy.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” I offer him the cash and weed while he eyes it hungrily.

People are so predictable; it is actually fucking sickening.

He reaches for the bribe and quickly shoves it into his pocket.

“We good?”

He nods, taking a last drag of his joint before putting it out. “Follow me.”

The moment I step foot into this place, memories assault me, and it takes me a second to adjust.

The medicated smell mixed with desperation still lingers in the air, and I want to be sick. The stark white walls are amplified, thanks to the fluorescents, and I suddenly have the urge to slip on some shades to block out everything this place represents.

My boots squeak across the polished linoleum, and I hope I leave a trail of mud behind to tarnish the perfect floor. This place should be a haven for those who need help, but in reality, it’s just a shiny prison.

I can’t stop thinking about the many times I broke into this place when I was a kid. No wonder I’m so fucked up because as macabre as this place is, it still feels familiar, like home.

“What’s her name?” Michael asks quietly as we walk down the corridor of endless doors.

The only glimpse of the outside world the people locked behind these doors have is a small glass panel. But most are handcuffed to their bare beds for their “safety,” so the only real view they have is that of the ceiling they stare up at, counting every second which feels like years.

“June Blackwood.”

Michael’s keys stop jingly against his hip as he comes to a brief stop and turns over his shoulder. “She’syour girl?”

I deadpan him. “Yes.”

He doesn’t pry any further and continues walking, stopping when we reach a door. I know what’s behind here.

He unlocks it and leads me down the corridor paved with maniacal ramblings and laughter that chill me to the core. I hate that she’s in here again; the ward for the “special ones.” The place where the hopeless are sent. The place for people society will forget about because they are considered too far gone to help.

I peer into each door as we pass by, my stomach twisting in knots with every step I take. Most of them are bound to their beds with brown leather straps. The ones who aren’t are rocking in the middle of the floor, crying for their mothers to come save them.

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