Insanity (2 page)

I throw my head back, listening to the sound of chirping crickets. It’s early morning, around 7:00 and there are a few stragglers who haven’t turned in yet. The sound soothes me, filling my ears with a calm that I don’t get anywhere else but on my early morning walks.

Daddy leaves for work at 5:30 am. I’m not allowed to leave the house when he’s home, so when I hear the front door slam behind him, I watch from my window as his 1953 Rambler flings up dirt and gravel and sails down the driveway. It’s not until that moment that I feel at ease. It’s not until that moment that the fear he’s etched inside of me evaporates. Well, not permanently. But at least I get some peace for about nine hours.

At 6:30, I start walking.

I have no destination. No purpose other than wanting to break out of the prison I’ve lived in for the last eight years for a few hours. I’ve heard some people consider walking a leisurely activity or that they even do it for exercise. I’m envious of those people who have the freedom to make choices like that.
Shall I take a walk? Go to the market?
I roll my head back, allowing the blazing summer sunshine to overheat my pale cheeks. A depressing sigh exits my lips. Simple, mundane choices are gifts that I’ll never receive.

I walk come rain or come shine. Whether it’s hot or cold out. We live in West Des Moines, Iowa. In Geography, I’d learned that our state was part of what was considered the Midwest. It gets pretty cold here in the winter months. And when most people would rather stay inside and bundle up next to a blazing fire and sip hot chocolate, I still walk.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to walk away and never come back. I laugh to myself whenever I think about this.

Where will I go? What will I do? What could any woman do in this day and age with no money and no completed education? I don’t graduate until next year.

I wish I knew the answer to those questions.

Miles and miles of farmland surround me. Acres of property. Fields full of corn. Bales of hay, rolled up and coiled on wide open plains. The sound of tires crunching against gravel pulsates in my ears and I lift my head as a bright red, convertible sails past me. I don’t know much about cars, but I’ve seen a few people in town driving a car like this one. I’d heard them call it a Cadillac.

I know the boy in the car. Well, not know him, know him; I know of him. I’ve heard his name on the lips of some of the girls I go to school with and I’ve seen him a few times, being that he’s lived next door to me my whole life. Well, not really next door. About a half a mile next door. But that’s as close of a neighbor as people get around here.

I used to think his house was a castle when I was a child and Mommy would drive me past it. There’s a red brick wall surrounding the matching red brick mansion and I used to ask Mommy if a princess lived there. “Nope,” she’d answered with a chuckle. “Two handsome princes.”

Damien Allen. Even though he didn’t attend school with the rest of the kids in the area—instead, his rich parents sent him to some costly boarding school—that never seemed to stop the girls from gossiping about him. He was some kind of celebrity around town. His parents owned several tire factories, came from old money, and had two beautiful, dreamy sons. When Damien’s older brother’s engagement to some socialite from New York City was announced, I swear half of the girls went into mourning. But that left Damien as the town’s most eligible bachelor.

We’re the same age. Well, almost the same age. I know he’s eighteen. I’m still seventeen, but I’ll be eighteen in six months. I was born right before Christmas. A frown spreads across my lips and I try to replace it with a smile, but I come up short with a half-assed gesture. I’m thinking about Mommy. How she used to say,
“Adelaide, you’re the best Christmas gift I’ve ever received.”

I think about Mommy a lot. It always hurts. Sometimes I’d rather have Daddy hit me because even though the impact of his palm against my cheek is painful, that kind of pain eventually goes away. The pain of remembering my absent mother doesn’t. Whenever I think of her, the pain begins as a tiny spot on the edge of my heart and after a while it spreads, hardens my heart, and turns the whole organ black.

I inhale and exhale, tears swelling in my eyes, anguish pooling in my stomach. I keep telling myself to think of something else. I keep willing the tears not to fall from my eyes, but it doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself not to do something, my bodily functions never obey the commands I’m screaming at them in my head.

Two tears trickle down my cheeks and I close my eyes, raise my head, and allow the bright, radiant sunshine to dry them. “Hey there.”

A deep throaty voice sends a nervous wave throughout my body. Quickly I look to my right and wipe the remaining wetness from my eyes and blink several times. A few dangling tears drop onto the gravel and I swallow the thick layer of emotion that I know will be in my voice when I speak. I clear my throat several times and pinch my cheeks to make them look more sunburned than flushed. “Hello,” I croak then swallow again. Turning my head, I’m sure all of the color has drained from my face and I think I’m about to be sick.

Damien Allen’s Cadillac rolls slowly in reverse, falling in line with my steps. His bronzed arm hangs out of the side of the car, and there’s a cocky smirk on his lips. He’s wearing sunglasses and when he removes them, my equilibrium drifts off into the air and I stumble. I’ve never seen eyes as deep and as blue as his. They’re like two sparkling sapphires in a glass case. I remind myself that he’s only a person. That it’s okay if I act normal, but I’m so blown away by his beauty that I can’t act normal.

His blue eyes sweep over me from my feet to my face. I can’t do anything but stare at his beautiful face. His jaw is tight and he massages the edges with his thumb and forefinger. Still, he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Then he says, “Don’t you know it’s unladylike to walk around in your undergarments?”

My eyes widen. I’m baffled by the brash tone in his deep and empowering voice. I blush, embarrassed by his observance. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because this is the first time I’ve seen him up close and realize that the gossiping girls in school couldn’t have been more right about him being more beautiful than Adonis, with his chin-length black hair, sun-kissed skin, and piercing blue eyes.

I peek over at him, my eyes centered on his muscular arm. He’s probably toned in all the right places too.
Stop!
I scream at myself. Stop thinking about what the rest of his body looks like. If my attire is unladylike and believe me, I know it is, then my thoughts are beginning to turn into the kinds of thoughts a prostitute might have.

I look down at my nude slip that is worn out in areas. It isn’t like I am naked or anything. I have my underwear on underneath the slip too. The tips of my fingertips brush against the long yellowed grass against the side of the road. I refuse to meet his gaze. “Yeah, well its hot out,” I bark back. “I can’t stand to wear my dresses in this heat.”

Plus I didn’t exactly plan on seeing anyone during my walk. Sometimes I’ll see a vehicle or two speed down the winding country roads while I’m walking, but that’s rare. During this time of the morning, the town is abandoned.

Saturated beams of sunlight flit down from the heavens and caress my bare shoulders. The longer I stand outside, the redder I will become. I quickened my pace, knowing I have to make it back to the safety of my house. I also had to get a jump-start on dinner before Daddy arrived home from work. I tried to be prompt on things when it came to Daddy because if I wasn’t, he’d take the belt to my backside and after one of his whippings, I couldn’t sit right for days.

Damien’s eyes are still on me. I stare at him, deadpan, not slowing my pace. I suck in a deep breath at the sight of the way his eyes are burning into mine and try to ignore the butterflies swirling through my stomach. “Why don’t you hop in?” He asks as the cocky smirk on his lips breaks out into a full on mega-watt smile. “Have you ever ridden in a convertible before?”

I grin at him then glance at my feet. “No. I haven’t.” I’ve actually only ridden in car a handful of times. Daddy won’t allow it. He won’t allow me to get a driver’s license, either. He always says, “A woman’s place is at home. Not out gallivanting around in some car.” I’ve rode the bus to school a couple times on top of the times Daddy has taken me places in his car, mostly to town for things he needs—or on the rare occasion that he’s feeling generous and allows me to get a new dress for school. Trust me, when I say rare, I mean it. I can’t even count on one hand the times Daddy has bought me something since Mommy left. “My father will be home soon,” I tell Damien. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I’m lying. Daddy won’t be home for hours. But he’s had eight years to put the fear of God in me and he’s done a damn good job. If he heard through the grapevine that I’d been out riding around in a car with some boy—and believe me this is a small town; people talk—I know I wouldn’t be able to sit right for weeks.

A disappointed look blooms on Damien’s beautiful face and witnessing that look makes my insides throb and clench before turning into a full blown ache. I wish that I could tell him why I couldn’t go for the ride, but I’m ashamed, and on top of that, I don’t really know him. He might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but my trust is something that’s precious and something that has to be earned.

I know beautiful people. I go to school with them, see them from time to time in town, and they always have a way of getting what they want. They always have a way of sneaking inside of you and getting you to agree to things before you even realize what you’re doing. Well, I don’t care how beautiful Damien Allen is or what his motives may be. He’s not getting whatever it is he wants from me.

“Oh.” There’s sadness in his deep, rich voice. “Maybe some other time then.”

“Sure.” I smile and block the sun from my eyes with my forearm. “Some other time.”

Honestly, I never intended on going on that ride with Damien, but I learned fast just how persistent Damien could be. After my first refusal to go on a car ride with him, he showed up in my driveway a few hours after Daddy went to work every single day for a week straight. “How about that ride?” he’d ask and finally after days of refusing him, I agreed to let him take me for a ten minute cruise.

Chapter 3

~AFTER~

You’re not crazy. I love you.

I’m dreaming the words and picturing the face of the person who said them. Black hair. Blue blue eyes deeper than the depths of the Pacific. Clear smooth toasted almond skin. High cheekbones. Chiseled jaw line. A lean muscular body. Strong hands. Long fingers. Low rich voice.

I sit up still groggy and realization goes off like a bomb inside of me. Blue Eyes. I know him—no—not just know him. He’s my other half. My heart is a lock and he holds the key. Damien, Blue Eyes, the orderly…

He’s the love of my life.

Yesterday was the first time I’ve ever seen him here. I can’t remember the last time I saw him. How did he know I was here? How did he find me? When I was brought here, part of me hoped that he would find me.

Words ring out in my head. Beautiful words once spoken to me by him. “Addy, you are my sun, my moon, and my stars. You are my heaven, my hell, and my earth. I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you anywhere.”

And he’s here.

I’m angry with myself for not recognizing him right away, but then again I’ve been so bogged down by the asylum’s oblivious mind-fuck pills that I haven’t noticed much of anything lately.

I snake my fingers through my hair and tug.
But it’s Damien! Damien!
He’s not just any guy.

I’d forgotten him.

Now I know I have to find him.

Shoving my feet off the side of the bed, new surroundings burn my eyes. Tan plaster walls instead of thick white padded ones. One oblong barred window. Two dressers. Two closets. Two beds.

They’ve moved me to a different room.

A gentle squeaking noise bounces off the walls and my eyes avert to my right. Oh shit. They put me in a room with a nut job.

They say I’m a nut job.

But not like this.

Not even close.

She rocks back and forth on her cot, knees to her chest, twisting a piece of her wiry, red hair between her fingertips. Her freckled arms are trembling. She sings with vibrato.

I am slowly going crazy. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Switch.

Crazy going slowly am I. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Switch.

I think about screaming again. Somebody turn her off. She lifts her head slowly, a maddening look in her big, brown eyes and eerie smile crawling across her pale, freckled lips. “Shh,” she whispers. “They’re coming for us.”

“Who’s they?”

She shakes her head and lets out a cackle laced with the deepest kind of crazy. I think they put her in here with me purposely. They’re trying to break me. They think if they put me around truly insane people that I’ll accept my place here. Well…They are wrong.

I don’t know how many times I can say this; I don’t belong here.

I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here.

I jump at the sound of the door banging against the wall. I glance at Crazy, who is still rocking back and forth on her cot. A second ago she said, “Shh. They’re coming.” Maybe Crazy is psychic.

There’s a chubby nurse at the door with bright red lipstick and two paper Dixie cups. “Adelaide,” she hands me the cup. She keeps a close eye on me, watching, waiting. She slits her beady gray eyes. It’s like she’s saying;
swallow the damn pills already, you lunatic.
I watch her watch me. There’s a sneer on those bright red lips. I’d like to wipe it off her face. My eyes flit to her nametag. Marjorie.

She was here during my fit last night. Rammed her knee in to my back. My spine still throbs from the force of her putting all of her weight on me.