Page 48 of Heart Sick

I haven’t seen Bowie since that night in the bathroom. Nor have I seen the lady, who I’m assuming is his doctor.

This entire situation makes me sick. I need to get out of here, and I regret not doing so when I had the chance. But until I know what happened to Bowie, I can’t leave. If he’s still here, then I’ll do everything in my power to find him.

I don’t understand the pull I feel for him. And now that he’s gone, it’s even stronger. The longing keeps me awake, and I now welcome the drugs they give me to help me sleep. It’s the only time I’m at peace, when I knock myself out cold.

The dreams have subsided, as has Misha. I don’t hear him anymore. I don’t like it. If hearing him makes me crazy, then I’ll happily accept that diagnosis because I prefer that than feeling this…emptiness.

His memory is fading day by day…minute by minute.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to remember him; remember his beautiful face, his contagious laugh, and his kind heart…the heart which now beats in a stranger’s chest, helping him live a life Misha will never live.

I fucking hate that person with every fiber of my being.

A hysterical laugh slashes through the air, but it’s a common occurrence here. A laugh which usually signifies something joyful, is anything but at Parkfields.

Opening my eyes, I see Starlight being restrained by two orderlies. She’s a sore loser which is why no one wants to play any board games with her. The last person who did was force-fed the top hat playing piece from Monopoly.

She kicks and screams, and when a nurse in white comes rushing into the rec room, syringe in hand, I know Starlight won’t be doing much of anything soon. She’s jabbed in the arm, and after a few seconds, she’s quiet.

This place isn’t helping anyone. Instead of offering support and care, they simply turn their patients into medicated zombies, which is their “cure.”

It’s my goal to expose this place for what it really is. But first, I need to get the fuck out of here.

The gates open, and I know Jabba and the Hulk are waiting by it, looking for their chance to escape. I give them credit for their perseverance. Not bothering to pay anything attention but the robin outside the window, I don’t realize someone is wheeled by me until I hear the wheels being locked into place.

I return to the now, and two things happen—my heart begins to race, and I hear him. I hear Misha.

“Miss me?”

Snapping my head to the right, I’m thankful to be strapped in my chair because who I see beside me leaves me a mess. I don’t speak. I wait for the orderly who has a bandage around his throat to leave. But the way he looks at me, I know he’s somehow involved in what happened to Bowie.

I haven’t seen Noah, but I know he’ll be back. In the meantime, his goons are keeping an eye on me, reminding me that it’s not over.

Once he’s gone, I take a moment to look at Bowie, or rather, Jonathan. I prefer Bowie, however, and refuse to acknowledge him by any other name.

He’s in a starchy hospital gown, and his long hair looks freshly washed. I blanch, however, wondering if that’s because he has been subjected to that torture in the bathtub once again. I know that bastard orderly placed Bowie next to me for a reason.

A warning, perhaps?

His head is drooped forward, and saliva hangs off his chin. The crucifix around his throat is like a pendulum. My vibrant boy is no more.

“What have they done to you?” I whisper, tears in my eyes. “Bowie, can you hear me?”

I hope, like in the bathtub, he’ll give me a sign that he’s here. That although he may be caught in a drugged stupor, he’s still present.

But I get nothing.

Bowie sits beside me, but what animates him is gone. His bitch of a doctor made sure of it.

“I’m not giving up on you. I know you’re in there. You just have to try. This isn’t for nothing,” I continue, swallowing past my tears. “I won’t let them get you too.”

Bowie is the first person I’ve felt any connection to, besides Misha, of course. And I don’t give up on the people I…love?

I don’t love Bowie. Well, I don’t think I do. But I can’t deny the attraction I feel is not just physical. It’s beyond that. Far deeper than I can explain.

The TV is on, and I pretend to watch it as I strategize ways to get the hell out of here, and when Old Timer comes into view, sweeping the floor, I know he’s my only hope.

He notices me watching him and casually sweeps his way over to me. When close enough, he looks at Bowie, his anguish clear.

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