Page 62 of Heart Sick

Even beneath her sunglasses, I sense she is examining him in more than a professional manner. He accepts the challenge, and she is the first one to look away.

When gray clouds loom ahead, my minder opens a large umbrella and stands by me to shelter me from the oncoming rain.

“Have a lovely time,” the woman says, sipping from her coffee cup. “But remember, at all times, please stay with your chaperone.”

This is her saying in a roundabout way that even though it may appear to townsfolk this is a lovely day out for us, it is, in fact, just another day being told what to do.

No one dares to speak up, and with that, she nods, gesturing we’re to have “fun.” I notice she walks over to Bowie, but when my minder loops her arm through mine, I have no other choice but to follow.

“Is there anything you’d like to see first?”

“I don’t really know,” I reply honestly. “I can’t really remember what’s here.”

“Oh, god, I didn’t think,” she gushes, and I wish I knew her name because it would make this a little less weird. She seems nice enough, but the fact I don’t know a simple thing like her name puts a damper on “enjoying” the day.

“How about clothes shopping?”

I smile but know no clothes will be bought because I don’t have any money.

We walk into a store and she peruses over dresses and blouses, asking my opinion of them. Looking at her shape, I reply, “If you go for something like this”—I reach for a short orange dress and offer it to her—“it’ll help show off your assets.”

She appears utterly stumped by what I mean, so I gently position her in front of the mirror. We’re both peering at her reflection as I state, “This complements your bust and highlights your shapely legs. Forget dresses that hide your legs. Instead, choose a simple, straight-line dress. This focuses on your assets. And besides, this is completely your color,” I conclude, tapping my chin as I wonder if there is a matching belt.

“How do you know all that?” she asks, catching me off guard.

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. It came second nature to me.

Was this something I did in the past?

Peering around at the mannequins, I do feel at home. For some reason, I know the cuts of the garments and which body types they suit. Reaching out, I run my fingers through the racks of clothes, flashes of me wearing all different sorts of garments, then to me, on my knees, pins in hand as I take up a hem.

Then another vision comes to me—of girls posing in those clothes before being asked to take them off and pose naked.

I grip on to a nearby rack for support, but a debilitating pain tears at my temples. It takes the air from me.

“Here, sit.” I allow my minder to lead me over to a plush lounge and sink into the cushions as I attempt to catch my breath.

I measure my breathing, trying to make sense of what I saw. I’m certain I was involved with something to do with fashion and photography. So what happened for me to end up at Parkfields?

Were the pressures too much?

Frustrated, I punch my fists into the cushion beneath me and soon become aware that everyone in the store is looking at me like I’m some circus attraction.

“That poor girl. She’s crazy,” a lady whispers to her friend. “They shouldn’t be allowed out. It’s too much stimulation. I heard it onDr. Phil.”

Oh, fuck her and the pristine horse she rode in.

“What are you looking at?” I scream, glaring at them.

They quickly avert their eyes, embarrassed. But I’m not ashamed of my behavior. “You think I’m crazy? I’ll show you crazy.”

I snatch a yellow ruffled crop top from the rack, and without thought, I tear it in half. The material is flimsy and rips easily. But it’s not enough. I grab any item of clothing I can find and deliver the same fate as I tear the sleeves, pant legs, collars of anything I can find.

I’m hysterical and I’ve never felt more alive.

Strong arms wrap around my middle, pinning my arms to my sides. I kick and squirm, but I know my fun has ended.

“She just went nuts,” says my minder to the guy manhandling me.

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