Page 49 of Heart Sick

“I need your help,” I whisper, ensuring no one is listening.

He nods but goes about doing his job, not to stir any suspicion.

“Can you get us out of here?”

He nods once again.

“Tonight?”

He shakes his head.

“When?”

“When the time is right.”

“The time is now!” I whisper a little too loudly as my anger explodes.

Old Timer sweeps around us, his back facing the nurses’ station. “How are you going to get him out of here? Carry him?”

He’s right. I need Bowie semi-mobile for this to work.

“When will they stop drugging him like this?”

“When he learns to behave,” he counters quickly, his astute eyes scanning the room. “I’ve seen it before. They’re making an example out of him. He’s a warning to other patients. You can’t win against them. The only way to get what you want is to play by their rules.”

“I want them all dead,” I spit, surprising myself because I actually mean it.

“I know, we all do.”

His comment surprises me. “Why are you in here? You seem…fine?”

I don’t know what the politically correct term is. Normal is so cookie-cutter because what’s normal anyway?

He appears taken off guard that someone actually asked about him. I guess in this place, everyone has their own cross to bear, let alone dealing with someone else’s shit.

“Where am I to go?” he poses, and his sweeping ceases. “Out there? I’ve got nothing waiting for me out there. This is the only home I know.”

A sadness so great overcomes me. Old Timer prefers these confines because freedom appears to be a lot scarier than being in here.

“Tell me how to help him.”

“The alarm—” But he never finishes his sentence because the room suddenly grows cold, and I mean that in every sense of the word.

The patients, it seems, go into hiding when the familiar heels clicking on the polished floors sound loudly. It has the opposite effect on me.

I rivet my attention to the steel gated door and when it opens, the antichrist in heels enters. She is even more stunning in the daylight. Too bad she’s an evil bitch who tortures those she’s meant to be helping.

Old Timer discreetly sweeps away, but the doctor knows we were up to no good, and when she sees Bowie beside me, her red-painted lips pull into a tight line. She ignores everyone and heads straight for us.

I try my best to remain impassive, but the closer she gets, all I can see is her giving a comatose Bowie a hand job. The moment she stands in front of me, blocking my view of the window, it’s apparent the hatred runs both ways.

“Hello,” she says, attempting a smile. It’s more of a sneer. “I’m Dr. Norton.”

She’s not exactly what I expect a doctor to look like. She’s blonde, beautiful, and tall. But there is no warmth behind her green eyes. But that changes when she looks at Bowie. It seems like everything ceases to exist but him.

It sounds romantic, but put aside the fact that we clearly like the same man, but there is something…wrong with the way she looks at him. It’s not that of a lover but rather of someone who is infatuated to an unhealthy degree.

When she realizes I’m watching her closely, her doctor mask slips back into place. “I hear you and…Bowie have become good friends?”

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