Page 46 of Heart Sick

It appears like someone was punished and forced to write a single line a hundred times.

That line reads:Cleanliness is next to godliness.

It’s written all over the walls, the ceiling; it’s everywhere.

But when I see Bowie, I forget everything but him.

Running over to him, I gasp when I see the state he’s in. He’s wrapped in a wet bedsheet, the only thing visible is his head above the water, and when I dip my hand into the water, I yank it out because it’s ice cold.

He looks like he’s been mummified. His lips are blue, but he doesn’t move. Is he dead?

“Bowie!” I cry, dropping to my knees and gripping his face into my palms, coaxing him to look at me. But his eyes are vacant. There’s no life behind them.

“Get him out of here!” I tug at the leather straps securing him down, but they won’t budge because they’re locked with a gold padlock.

“It’s called hydrotherapy,” Old Timer explains calmly. “It’s a continuous bath. The cold water is used to treat manic depression and agitated behavior.”

“I don’t give a fuck what it’s called!” I scream, cupping Bowie’s beautiful face in my palms. “Help me!”

But he doesn’t.

“Oh, god, what have they done to you?”

Bowie’s stare is dead, and with hesitant fingers, I check his carotid pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.

I peer around the room, desperate to find a tool to unfasten the locks, but there’s nothing.

“Why did you bring me down here if you’re not going to help me?” I shout at Old Timer, tears of anger streaming down my cheeks.

“Because you need to see what happens when you don’t listen. You won’t win,” he explains, leaning against the wall. “To survive in here, you have to play by their rules.”

“You mean be a fucking snake,” I snap, realizing Old Timer is in bed with the enemy because that’s the only explanation for why he’s walking around unsupervised.

“You’ll both see I’m a friend you need. Bowie knows what I want.”

Right now, I want his head for being another power-hungry asshole. But I focus on Bowie, gently caressing his cheek.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper, staring into his eyes and brushing the wet hair from his angelic face. “We’re going to get out of here. I promise you. No one is going to hurt you again.”

My finger is suddenly wet and the moonlight streaming in from the window highlights a single tear slipping down Bowie’s cheek.

He may not be able to talk, but he can hear me. Being held this way, he is literally a prisoner in his own body. This is the worst form of torture.

Suddenly, I hear the click…click…click of heels echoing down the corridor. The sound sends chills down my spine.

I don’t know what to do. I fruitlessly tug at the straps, but they won’t budge. “Tell me what to do!” I plead, peering into Bowie’s beautiful eyes.

“We’ve got to go. Now!” Old Timer whisper yells. “She can’t find us down here.”

His terrified tone reveals whoeversheis, is the person responsible for doing this to Bowie.

“Should I stay and fight?” I ask Bowie, my hands still pressed firmly against his cheeks.

There’s no movement. He simply stares straight through me.

“Or, will that make things worse for you? Do I hide and watch, and when the time is right, strike?”

That sounds like the coward’s way out, but I have no weapons and no way to get us out of here safely.

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