Page 45 of Heart Sick

I don’t want any part in his comradeship until he reveals, “I know where he is.”

I don’t play coy. “Take me to him.”

The man nods and unties me.

I don’t waste a second and leap from the bed but reach out and steady myself against the wall. “Why are you helping me?”

The man smiles, revealing a mouth full of missing teeth. “I like the kid.”

But I don’t buy it.

A hoarse chuckle leaves the man when he reads my thoughts. “I can see why he likes you.”

Bowie likes me?

The thought thaws the pain from around my heart.

“Let’s just say we have come to an understanding. He helps me. I help him. And he’s the best help I’ve had in a while. He calls me Old Timer, by the way.”

I don’t ask questions because I don’t think I want to know what Bowie’s “help” entails. If he trusts Old Timer, then so do I.

We quietly make our way from my room, and I’m surprised how quiet it is. I suspect Old Timer chose this time to come and find me because of this fact. I follow him cautiously because I still need to be on guard.

He retrieves a pair of keys from his pocket, muting the jingling by cupping them into his palm. We turn corner after corner, and before long, the lights grow dimmer and the atmosphere colder—in every sense of the word.

It’s evident from the derelict state of things that this part of the building isn’t used. The hallway is lined with broken hospital beds and wheelchairs missing wheels. It seems to be more of a storage area than functioning ward.

Red, white, and blue streamers limply hang from the ceiling—a Fourth of July memory captured in time. A red telephone booth with a black phone is randomly pressed up against one wall and across from it, a faded poster of Marilyn Monroe.

Goose bumps scatter across the back of my neck. This place gives me the creeps.

There are thick white pillars in front of windows which have steel bars fastened over them. Wall sconces replace low-hanging light bulbs which barely provide any light, but I can see the doors at the end of the corridor.

Above the doorway are the words,Acta, non verba, which is Latin for ‘deeds, not words.’ In plain English, actions speak louder than words.

I wonder what actions are carried out behind these doors.

Old Timer pushes open the heavy door with the old brass key. The first thing that hits me is the smell—the stench of decay. If Bowie is in here, I’m scared to see the state he is in.

He looks over his shoulder, silently asking if I want to continue.

I nod.

He leads the way, clearly knowing his way through this dark, dank corridor. It’s deadly quiet—the only sound I hear is a drip…drip…drip from a leaking pipe somewhere. The buzzing fluorescents flicker on and off, the strobe effect hurting my eyes.

But I persevere because I cannot leave knowing Bowie is down here.

My bare feet are frozen and I wonder if Bowie has a blanket. But when I peer inside a derelict room, I realize that’s the least of his concerns. The room is caked with utter filth. The once-green walls are sullied with brown smears. The ceiling yellowed over time.

This place is hell.

My heart begins to race and I know that’s because Bowie is close. Old Timer stops in front of a brown door, pursing his dry lips. He is giving me one final chance to back out.

I shake my head.

With a sigh, he opens the door and when I peer inside, I understand why he hesitated. This was not what I was expecting because this isn’t a bedroom but rather, a bathroom.

A single white tub sits in the middle of the room, and unlike the other rooms, this one is immaculate. It’s so damn white, it actually hurts my eyes. But the white is overruled by black writing, scribbled all over the walls.

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