Schasm (Schasm Series) (21 page)

As I roll up the bag, I remember that there was more than just clothes in my drawers. I dump everything out on my bed and start digging, throwing most of it onto the floor behind me.
Where is it?

It has to be here.

I shove my hands to the bottom of the pile, feeling around in between each article of clothing, until my fingers run over it.

I pull out the drawing of me, Alex and Celia, one thing that has given me happiness whenever I’ve looked at it. But it doesn’t work this time. It’s another lie on top of all the others.

If I’d ever been this happy, I’d surely remember it.

A storm of anger and sadness sweeps through me. I crumple the piece of paper back up and throw it into the hall. I don’t even care to feel happy right now.

All I want to feel is nothing.

Noting at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THEN THERE WERE FOUR

I’VE BEGUN WONDERING
what would happen to me if I tried to escape this place. I’ve thought about making my way to the entrance, scoping out the layout, determining how difficult it would be to become a mental institution escapee. The thought invigorates me.

I think I really am going crazy now.

Might as well.

I join the other greeters who are hovering by the entrance. I can kind of see why they hang out here: whenever someone walks in, a gust of fresh air follows. It’s the closest we can get to breathing in something other than ammonia and despair.

It all comes back to me when I see it again. The doors are covered in alarms, and everyone is escorted in and out by a security guard. My chances of slipping through the cracks here are pretty much nonexistent.

So much for escaping.

Maybe the best I can do is hang around for a bit and try being a greeter for the day. I have absolutely nothing better to do anyway.

It’s a bit scary watching people become admitted to this place. So far, I’ve seen a dozen or so people come in for outpatient treatment, two people have been discharged, and three people have been admitted. Most are dragged in against their will, kicking and screaming. I guess I should be glad I was unconscious when I was brought in. I’m sure if I weren’t, I would have been acting the same exact way.

Thinking about it again, I
have
acted the same way, during my weekly visits.

I guess I should feel lucky they didn’t throw me in here sooner.

On the other hand, watching people get discharged makes me envious. The happiness on their faces gives me hope and something to look forward to.

We’re getting ready to welcome the next person coming up the walkway. The automatic door opens, and I see a middle-aged man escorted in. I study him to determine a condition, wondering if I could predict his situation. But as he comes closer, I’m stunned when I see his face.

I recognize him.

I’m not scared of this, though. I’m intrigued. He takes two large steps in through the door and turns to face me.

He removes his hat. “Hello, Miss Valcourt.”

It doesn’t seem odd that he knows my name, but I have no clue how he would.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

A corner of his mouth perks up into an unsettling smirk. “You will soon.” He looks homeless. His black buttoned down shirt is wrinkled and loose. His tan corduroys have unidentified stains and his loafers look as though they’re about to split at the toes. His greasy black hair pokes out from under his hat, his beard and mustache are greasy as well, and the burns on his hands look fresher than they did the other day.

That’s who he is: the man from the outlets.

Panic sets in as I recall my mother running away from him like a bat out of hell.

“A quick walk before my session?” He points down the hall.

“Don’t go too far,” a nurse shouts at him from the front desk.

I hesitate, wondering how smart it would be to go for a walk with the man she fled from. Then I realize that I don’t entirely believe her story. “Sure. We can talk.” I eye the security guards everywhere, and decide exactly how far we should walk. Then I whisper, “But if anything happens to me, I scream. As loudly as possible. And I think we both know what happens once I do that…Tomas.” I remember what my mother called him. I use it as a test.

I have no idea what will happen next.

 His brows lift. “Indeed…Chloe.”

We begin walking very slowly. “So who are you, anyway? And how do you know me?”

“Call me a long-lost relative.”

“My mother has no relatives.” His story isn’t lining up.

“She did. Once.” He runs his fingers over the brim of his hat. “And still.”

I stop and look him dead-on. “Look, Tomas…I’m in an institution, heavily medicated and not very happy about either. Could you not speak in riddles please?”

He smiles. “Fiery.”

I raise my voice. “
Who are you?
”

“I’m your uncle, dear.”

His words make no sense. “No…my uncle was James. He committed suicide.”

“Unless he didn’t.” I squint at him sidelong. “Sorry…no riddles. Right. Did your mother mention that James had other personalities?”

Beads of sweat rise on the back of my neck. “Yes. She did. Franco… and Simon.” I’m surprised I remember them both.

“There was a third.” He nods. “There was
always
a third.”

Tears fill my eyes. I can’t help it. “She never told me who James’ third personality was.”

“I don’t blame her.” He winks.

“But I…” I don’t understand.

“If you’re worried about Franco and his violent ways, you need not be. It’s just me in here now, and it has been for quite some time.”

“James isn’t dead?” I ask, confused.

He shakes his head and smiles. “James wasn’t strong enough to hold his own. I stepped in to help.” His shrugs and pulls in a long sigh.

“What about Franco? And Simon?”

“Locked away for now. And I’m the only one with the key.” His smile is knowing and slightly sadistic.

I can’t believe what I’m listening to. How is he not committed to this place instead of me?

“Why are you here, then?”

He chooses his words carefully. “Assistance. To keep things in place.” Of course. “I’ve proven to the doctors that I’m no danger to anyone, and I haven’t been in over twelve years. So they let me leave on the condition that I continue to show up every week.”

I purse my lips together, still trying to figure him out. “Then why won’t my mother talk to you?”

His eyes drift. “Marie and I share a distinct lack of compatibility.” He shrugs. “She’s ashamed of me…of my chosen career. And I am not. See? Lack. Of. Compatibility.” He speaks so oddly.

“What is your career, then?” I’m worried about the answer.

He shoves his hand into his pocket and jiggles something that sounds like pills in a bottle. “I’m something of an unaccredited scientist, with a focus on psychopharmacology.” I’m sure I look confused by that. “I develop drugs, below the radar…off the grid.” He says it in a hushed voice as he taps his temple. “To fix things.”

“Oh. You’re a drug supplier, then?”

He smiles. I see something of my mother in him. “I am a solution.” He talks like some sort of alchemist. His eyes darken with each interrogating question I ask. “Have I convinced you that I am of no threat? Do you trust me enough to answer my questions now?”

Something in my stomach tells me
yes
. Of all the insane people I’ve met so far, I think I trust him most. Much more than my mother. “What would you like to know?”

His eyes circle the room. “How did you come to find yourself here in Wonderland?” He lowers his chin and his eyes widen, waiting for my story.

I’m sure I’ll regret telling him this, but whatever.

“I drift.”

“You
drift
?”

“My
mind
drifts. Off. Away. I have another life outside of this miserable one.” His face tells me he’s trying to understand. “It’s something like a daydream, only when I’m there, the world is as real as this one.”

“I see.”

I wonder if he really does. “I’ve begun meeting people and forming relationships with them…they and the places I go are all real.”

“And that brought you to this?” His hand waves in the direction of the common room.

“I hurt myself on the other side and ended up in a coma. So my mother admitted me to this vile place.”

He smiles and cups his hand around the side of his mouth as he whispers. “Sounds familiar, dear.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever they’re giving me now keeps me from escaping this hell in any manner. I have to play their game for thirty days if I hope to be discharged.

“That’s a long time not to…
drift
.”

“All I do is stare at the walls all day. I don’t sleep at night…if I wasn’t crazy when they brought me in, I certainly will be by the time they let me out.”

He ducks his head down and leans in close. I smell rotten cheese on his breath and I might gag if he gets any closer. “I have a key for you too, my dear.” he says.

I jerk my head backward to keep from gagging on his breath. “What are you talking about?”

He stands straight, reaches into his pocket. “This.” He pulls out a bottle with several black capsules inside. “It will block the effects of their tranquilizers. It will allow you to feel the way you felt before you arrived.”

I laugh at that. “And why would I ever take something you made in your crack house? You really are crazy.”

His eyes narrow. “I’ve been behind the doors you find yourself behind now. And yet I’m able to walk through them as I please.” His warm breath in my face makes me recoil. “Who’s crazy now?”

I take two steps back, just out of his reach. “Let’s just say I’m brave—or stupid—enough to try your
keys
there.” He nods. “What are the side effects? And how long do they last?” I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. Then I remember why I would be:

Alex.

“No side effects that I’ve encountered.” He says it with a straight face. “I’ve tested them on myself.”

That explains a lot.

This has
bad idea
written all over it. He’s way too convincing, and I’m way too desperate. My instincts override everything else. “I think I’m good, actually. You can keep the pills.”

He tries to close in the space between us again, but I take another step backward.

“Minds change, Chloe. Mine, for example.” The mystic talk is getting old. He reaches out his closed hand to me. “Take them, in case yours does, too?”

“Fine.” I grunt. “I’ll hold on to them.” They’ll likely end up in the trash.

“There are five for now,” he warns me. “Use them wisely.”

“I’m sure that will be plenty for…whatever.” I realize he probably expects payment of some sort. “I have nothing to pay you with.

He shakes his head. “No payment necessary.” He grins kindly, but it makes me uneasy. “Simply remember this kindness, and be prepared to offer it back should I need it from you somewhere down the line.”

His hand is still reaching out to me, clenched, concealing the pills. I place my open hand below his and accept the tablets.

He drops the little bottle into my sweating palm. “Keep these hidden in your shoes. No one will look there. I suggest you take one pill about an hour after you’ve been given your medication.” His voice is so soft that it’s almost impossible to hear him.

I clench my hand over the pills and shove it into my pocket. I realize that even with the creepy Mad Hatter language and the grunge of his appearance, he’s the only one who seems to understand what I want, the only one who wants me to have it. That catches me off-guard. “Thank you, Tomas.” I turn on my heels to leave.

“One more thing, my dear.” I turn to face him. “I must remain our secret, my presence here unknown to your mother.” He looks grave and concerned that I understand this. “She must never know I was here.”

I nod. “Not a problem. I never tell her anything, anyway.”

He winks. “Clever girl.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BLACK PILL

I’M SITTING ON MY BED,
tapping my foot on the floor nervously. The battle between my head and my gut is driving me mad. Part of me thinks I should flush the pills, just get rid of them. But can things really get any worse than they are right now? Doubtful. If I weigh the risk of trying versus doing nothing, it’s no contest.

I need to talk to Celia about Alex, and this may be the only way.

It’s now seven, and the last rounds of the day have been made. I go around to the side of my bed, squat down and pull my shoe out. I tap it upside down over my hand. I close my hand over it and take a deep breath.
I have nothing to lose
, I repeat to myself. I sit back down on my bed, open the bottle and slide one of the little black pills into my hand. My trembling fingers reach out for the water cup on my dinner tray. The pill goes on my tongue; I swish water around my mouth and swallow until the pill slides down my throat.

Wonderland
, he called this place.

This pill must be the rabbit hole.

Remorse sets in instantly.
This was a bad idea.
I contemplate shoving my finger down my throat to get it back up. I’m probably going to drop dead now. I don’t even know how long it takes for this stupid thing to work.

Why did I have to be so desperate?

You have nothing to lose,
I remind myself.

A pain shimmers through my stomach. I wrap my arms tightly around myself and fold my body in half. I turn around and search for the wastebasket. I grab it, hold it up to my mouth and shove my finger down to my tonsils.

It’s too late.

The tiles on the wall begin to move. They’re almost dancing in rhythm to the dizzying music now playing in my head. The TV has started swinging from side to side, and the floor is gliding like a river. Dazed and dizzy, I lean back on my bed and slide my feet under the covers. I close my eyes as I begin to float like a feather. Nausea sets in, and I wish I could either be here or there. This in-between area I seem to be in is making me feel sick.