CH. 1. Broken

Tainted

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Ch1. Broken

If I jump off a building, the fall won’t kill me but the landing,

That should be common sense.

I lean over the edge of the balcony outside Doctor Schell’s office. Looking down at the paved streets, the crowds of people hurrying across them, I realize why the fact surprised me. I just assumed I would jump and then that’s it.

Lights out.

If I jump, I have to watch the earth hurtle toward me or have the wind sucked from of my lungs. From here, at the top floor of a 40 story building, my fall would take about ten seconds. Mere seconds of flight, a final rush of adrenaline and that’s it.

I brace my hands against the balcony’s edge and swing my foot up to rest on top of it. Rising slowly, I pull my entire body up until I'm standing. The wind whips my black hair around my face. My legs tremble slightly as I fight to keep balanced. Below, no one notices me standing tall above them.

Inch by inch, I raise my arms out to my sides. My weight stops shifting and I steady myself. My eyes close and I suck in a final, shaky breath.

Ten seconds.

My body tips forward and I fall…

A door slams shut behind me. I cringe, snapping out of my daze and flinching away from the sliding glass door that shields me from the balcony outside. Dr. Schell hesitates seeing me, his brows drawn low over his eyes. “Bay?”

He glances from me to the balcony and then the space between us. Like any second he’ll have to leap for me. “What are you doing?” he asks.

My fingers flex on the handle, my mind racing for an excuse. “I was just, uh,” my hand falls from the latch, and I make a point not to look behind me, “I was going to get some fresh air.”

Dr. Schell nods, whipping a hand over his balding head, “I see. Sorry to make you wait so long.” He gestures to a chair for me to sit while he moves behind his desk. “I'm glad you were able to come in again today.”

I force myself to take deliberate and slow steps to my seat when I want dash out of the door he just came through. I rub my sweaty palms against my jeans. My face feels hot and my back feels sticky like I just sprinted up a flight of stairs. I sit in the large, plush brown chair in front of his desk. A layer of sweat lines Dr. Schell’s nose, so maybe it’s not just me but the room.

His office is comfortable enough. Champagne colored walls and soft abstract artwork hang up on the walls. In the corner of the room is a five foot sculpture of a woman holding a bowl on her head, a child’s hand in hers. The shelves behind his desk hold books I’ll never read, pictures of Schell’s family, and stress balls of varies sizes. I purposely avoid looking at the wall behind his head. His flashy physiology degrees in bright gold frames. The gold looks more like a neon yellow to me. Almost hazardous.

Dr. Schell shuffles though some papers, staples them and looks at me. “Sorry,” he breathes a laugh, “New intern.” He says as an excuse. He clears his desk of everything but my rather thick folder. “I wanted you here to see if there is anything you would like to discuss.”

My eyes narrow on him, “I was just here Saturday.” And it’s only Monday.

He nods, scratching his black and white beard. “Yes but you had a big appoint with a cardiologist afterward. You said your mom was excited. I'm curious to see how you’re doing.”

It’s not a question. I lean back in my seat and clasp my hands together. I squeeze them so tight my knuckles start to ache. Welcoming the painful distraction, I paste a smile on my face, “Everything is going well.”

Dr. Schell copies my posture, leaning back and joining his hands. “Really? Well that’s wonderful.”

We sit in silence for what seems like hours. His horn-rimmed glasses shielding his expression; my smile still stuck on. Finally, he stands and walks around his desk. He lifts one leg to perch on the end and face me. “If you’re not ready to talk about your treatment yet, that’s fine. On the other hand,” he reaches for a narrow scrap of paper, “This, we need to discuss.”

My eyes flicker to the scrap of paper and back to his face. I look at him with mild curiosity and interest when on the inside panic is tightening my chest. Oh no.

Dr.Schell tilts his head downward to see over his glasses. “Mind telling me what this is?”

I squeeze my hands tighter, “It’s a receipt.” I say.

For a fraction of a second, his thin lips tighten into a line. “Yes, it is.” He uses his fingers to rub his eyes, his glasses bouncing over his hand. “I thought we had agreement, Bay? If you get mad, if you feel destructive, you call me. This,” he lifts the receipt to Home-Depot, “This is taking three massive steps back in your therapy.” He reads off the listed items but I already know what they are. I picked them out and paid for them.

Seven full body mirrors-

8Yards of rope

14 pikes

1 pike hammer

1 aluminum bat

Total: $ 265.86

My smile slips completely from my face. My therapy.

Five years of seeing a coo-coo doctor to get an opinion on my mentally unstable mind and erratic behavior. Another “professional” in their field; another doctor to fill me with promises; another liar.

“There are better coping skills than this,” Dr. Schell’s says, lowering his voice, trying to sound soothing. “You don’t have to go out of your way to destroy things.”

I press my tightly molded hands into my thighs. I want to grab him and shake him. I want to scream in his face, ‘Because that’s me, right? I break things. I'm thoughtless and impulsive with no right to be that way. I should just paint a pretty picture or sing a song, is that it?’

I lick my lips, staring at a spot on his desk instead of his face. “It’s a science project.”

Dr. Schell blinks, his hands falling into his lap. His mouth drops a little from either shock or doubt, which I'm not sure. “A science project.” He repeats, like he’s trying to make himself understand.

I shift in the chair, “Yeah, light reflects off the mirrors. Like, uh, a kaleidoscope.” He stares at me, his eyes narrowing and I add, “I need the extra credit.”

“You spent almost $300 dollars on extra credit?”

I flinch. My parents aren’t going to like that bill, “Something like that.” I mutter.

He drops the receipt on to his desk. “Fine. Fine. Hypothetically speaking, if this was you falling back into your old habits, you know no good will come out of this. You’ll get hurt, you always do.”

I tuck an unruly lock of wavy black hair behind my ears. “I haven’t done anything.”

It’s the truth but the rest of that sentence hangs in the air between us. I haven’t done anything…Yet.

The silence stretches between us. I glance at the clock on the wall. “I have to get back to school.” I stand and make my way to the coat rack. My heavy, light blue parka feels cool against my hand. I flex my fingers, wiping the sweat off them again. I realize despite the room temperature, I'm overly hot and clammy. I'm no doubt running a fever again.

“Is school going well at least?”

I shrug a shoulder. I hear Dr. Schell sigh behind me. A pang of guilt pinches my gut. He’s not that bad. He’s listened, tried to help me; offered me hopeful solution instead of false miracles. He’s not Dr. Ortiz. Dull gray eyes flash into my mind. I clutch my coat, my nail digging so tightly into the heavy fabric it might tear. Betrayal rises like bile in my throat; furious tears sting my eyes.

“Are you all right?”

I sniff, glancing at Dr. Schell. Concern wrinkles his brows and he starts to approach me. I raise a hand, stopping him. His jaw rotates from side to side, contemplating something.

“I'm fine. Just tired.” I say. I drop my gaze back to my hands. My left wrist is bruised slightly, but remains cut like the fingers on my right. I should start wearing gloves.

“I understand, Bay.” He says, and I stiffen.

“It’s not fair that you're…sick. That’s the hard thing about life, it’s uncontrollable. I'm not trying to take your anger from you. No one can. You should be angry.”

Swelling anxiety fills my chest. A crackling sound fills the room, a hysterical high-pitched screech. I lean against the door, my head thrown back. I'm laughing, “Sick,” I breathe. Sick doesn’t even to begin to describe what’s wrong with me. That’s not even the funny part, “The feelings doctor is telling me to be angry?”

“I want you to have better ways of managing it, but yes. You have every right to be enraged.” He nods, agreeing with himself. As if he understands what’s happening to me. As if a healthy, elderly man with years of experiences could get it. He has a life; a family; a future.

He won’t ever understand.

“Thank you,” I say, yanking the door open, “For giving me permission.”

______________________________________________________________

Rage,

It’s the most exhilarating emotion I’ve ever felt.

My foot stomps hard on the gas pedal. The rubber of my tires screams against the pavement as I speed out of the parking lot of Sun-Haven Psychiatric Care. I turn the steering wheel hard, cutting off traffic and barreling down the main street.

“We’ve tried everything…”

I cringe at the harsh whisper of Dr. Ortiz’s voice in my head. My foot floors the gas pedal. Every nerve in my body burns with fury as I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white.

“Surgery just isn’t a possibility…”

I crush my palm to my temple “Stop it!”

His crude and raspy voice hisses in my mind, “There is nothing I can do… we’ve tried everything… I'm so sorry …”

“You’re frickin’ liar!” I bang my fists against the steering wheel, the car horn basting with each pound of my fist. “Liar! Liar! Liar!”

I blindly reach across the dashboard to the glove compartment. A half-dozen transparent, orange containers pour onto the passenger seat and floor. I rake through the pill bottles, my hands shaking as I desperately search for one that isn’t empty. Using my knee to steady the wheel, I lean half my weight over the consol.

A car horn blazes in warning. I snap up and slam on the brakes; swerving to the right just as a black SUV comes barreling toward me head on. I crush the gas pedal under my foot, cutting across lanes. To the direct right, I turn at the dirt road turn off. The car rocks me in all directions as I drive over a small sea of hills that I have to push the gas pedal down even harder to travel up.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Collins…”

I stomp on the brake and throw the gear into park. I tumble out of the car, kicking and banging my fists against any flat surface of my jeep. I snatch off my sneakers, throwing them like a baseball at the truck. “Sorry. My. Ass.” I roar, my shoes bouncing off the car onto the ground. I rip open the trunk. Adrenaline spikes through my veins as my hand clutches the aluminum bat from its hiding place. It’s heavy and the metal is oddly warm. A since of power fills me.

Resting the bat on my shoulder, I turn to the scene awaiting me. Placed in a perfect circle, seven mirrors stand in the vacant field. Each are the same height; the same width apart. Only seven, one for each lie he told me. Those lies and promises tangle in my mind as I step to the center of the circle. An image mimics my movements, a body weaving through an empty field. There is no bat in its hand; dark hair isn’t loose around its shoulder; and a white lab coat replaces jeans.

Dr. Ortiz’s: Harsh blue eyes meet mine. Eyes I haven’t seen since the day he abandoned me.

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Collins,”

Another step, “There is nothing I can do for her.”

A deranged scream escapes my lips. I swing the bat violently. The mirror shatters, hundreds of reflective pieces flying.

“We’ve tried everything for your daughter”

I spin around, facing the mirror behind me.

“There is no magic pill to give her. Surgery just isn’t a possibility for Bay.”

I strike at his face. Beating at his condemning words until his image falls to nothing at my feet. I raise my hand, bat ready, when an angry and mournful voice comes from my left.

“You swore. You swore you would help my daughter!”

My mother’s face shines through the mirror. Her normally soft expression is blotchy and red, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Hot tears of my own sting my eyes. A massive guilt crawls into the pit of my stomach and anchors itself. My mother’s pain is because of me. I am to blame. I am at fault.

“Please, Mrs. Collins!” Ortiz’s voice rings through my ears. His figure overlays my mothers. “Your daughter is an anomaly.”

“Shut up!” I shout at his frozen image, “It’s not my fault!” It is mine entirely. I swing the bat with unrestrained wrath. His voice lingers. “Bay only has a year, two at most.”

My inhuman cries mix with the sound of glass shattering. The shards fly through the air. He’s still there. He’s taunting me, his words circling around me, suffocating me.

“She only has a year…Only a year…A year.”

My mother’s weeping echoes, her face distorted through the destroyed fragments. “Don’t you dare give up on her, not while she’s dying!”

I break. The tears flood down my face as every shard of glass around me screams my doom. The doctor’s voice swarms through the air, “Your daughter cannot be saved!”

The last mirror explodes under my force. The voices are everywhere, ensnaring me. I drop to my knees, covering my ears with my hands. “Stop,” I whimper, “Please, go away.” I rock lightly back and forth. I'm okay. I’ll be alright. I’m always alright.

Time passes and no voice but my own remains. My thick breathing and the soft clink of glass falling from its frame are the only sounds left. I lay on my back. A wetness touches my lip and a metallic, iron like taste fills my mouth. Blood.

I can feel the broken pieces piercing my skin through my sweater but it’s more of a dull throb than a stinging pain. My eyes close. In my head, the mirrors are my fears. Hard, cold and reflecting who I am. With the world shut out behind my lids, it’s easy to pretend that every fear is shattered. For a moment, the world isn’t making me play a very sick and twisted game.

My phone rings.

I ignore it, breathing deep. My focus becomes the erratic beating of my heart. The way my numb toes contrast to my aching heals. How my collar bone burns despite the freezing cold or the –

Ring. Ring. Ring-Ring.

Crap.

I sit up, raking my fingers through my long hair. Tiny slivers of glass are embedded in the thick, black waves. I pick the largest pieces out and stand. I gasp sharply, feeling the repercussions of not wearing shoes. Walking on the balls of my feet, I play hop-scotch with the broken mirror.

My bright, sun-kissed yellow jeep is slanted on the hill, the trunk wide open. I sit on the edge and lift my foot, cussing as I yank the piece of glass out. I find my shoes and slip them on as the phone rings again.

I answer, “Hello?”

Bec’s voice is a bit breathless, “Bay? Where are you?”

“Um…” I glance back at my destruction “At the library,” I roll my eyes at how lame my own lie sounds. “What is it?”

“They shut down the internet! Who does that?” I tuck the phone in the crock of my neckand dig through the items in my car. I grab the ready card board boxes. As an afterthought, I dig deeper for my thick leather gloves.

Bec mumbles to someone else before answering me, “It’s a frickin’ mad house here. I think someone –”A scream cuts her off midsentence.

“Hello? What’s wrong? Who just screamed?” I drop the box to the ground and crouch to pick up the broken pieces. She doesn’t answer, her muffled shouting distracting me. “Bec?”

“There dragging her out of the dorms…some of her things too. Do they need a warrant for that?”

I stop, bent over the box. Warrant? I yell Bec’s name, trying to get her attention, and stand after picking up a large shard of glass. The sun reflects off the surface and shines in my eyes. Blinking feverishly, I examine my injuries. The worst of it is a cut on my cheek, close to my ear. It’s small and easily fixable if I slap a Band-Aid on it. Taking off my gloves, I turn my hand over a few times and flex my fingers. My knuckles look raw. Fresh cuts rest on top of older ones.

“Bay?” Bec calls, her voice returning to the phone, “you still there?”

“Yup,” I grunt and lift the box to rest on my hip, “what’s happening?”

She sounds like she’s running, “There’re police everywhere.” She whispers.

I trip over my own two feet. Only one possibility involves the police when it comes to my best friend. “I told you this would happen!” I bark, more out of worry than actual annoyance. “How many government files did you think you could hack and not get caught?”

“What? No, it’s not that. ” Another voice, deeper, says something to her. “Why not? It’s my room,” she shrieks, high and furious “How am I not allowed?!”

“I don’t understand,” I say, walking back to my jeep. “Why are the police in our room?”

“They’re making everyone leave the female dorms. I mean, c’mon! Some still have on pajamas.”

I heft the box of broken glass into the trunk and toss the gloves on top. The dorm, capable of holding over 150 girls, is the only housing for a female attending Dalsworth Academy. If we have to leave, like me, many of us are screwed. My parent’s house is nowhere near campus.

“I’m on my way now.”

“Speed,” Bec orders, “If I find out they went anywhere near my underwear drawer, they may as well handcuff me now” She clicks off and the line goes dead.

I shake my head, causing the phone to slip. I bend to pick it up. A hand comes down hard on my back. I gasp, straightening. A crow flies past my head and smashes into my window. Blood smears as it slides down the glass. I scream, falling to the ground, my hands covering my face. I feel bile rise in my throat. I barely turn in time to get out what little I have in my stomach. My arms shake from trying to hold me up.

I turn slowly, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. I expect to see a twitching carcass or a watery, sugar red paint scattered against my car. I don’t see anything. Nothing.

I rise on my knees just enough to reach the back seat window. My fingers tentatively touch the glass. I even glance under the car. There’s nothing, no crow or blood; just the undeniable certainty that I had felt something touch me. Or maybe I'm not so certain. I don’t know anymore. My temples start to throb, the pain growing despite my massaging. I take in a long, deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. I do it again; and again.

When my clenching stomach finally settles, I rub both hands over my face and tuck my hair behind my ear. I hiss at the sharp pain of my hair caught in my earring. I stand, looking into the (side mirror) and untangle the strands from the ring. The feather shaped earring is a long as my pinky; a plain silver with the colors of rust and gold embed in between its groves. I run the pad of my finger gently over the surface. My father gave it to me as a tenth birthday present. I've worn it every day sense. A pang of sadness tightens in my chest at the thought of my dad. Shaking it off, I check my reflection one more time and get into my car.

The radio blast screaming rock n’ roll as I turn on the ignition and back up down the hill. I take the same roads back, this time calmer. From the clearing to the path through the trees is a 10 minute drive to the main road. From there it’s another 10 minutes till I can spot the large, looming gate that surrounds my school.

The ancient-looking iron and stone barrier is engraved with an even older looking plaque. Dalsworth Private Academy: school of brilliance and achievement. In the center of the 120 year old school is a bone chilling 180 year old Asylum it’s named after. A crumbling school built on the grounds of a crumbling institution- my home. A police cruiser sits in front of the entrance like he’s guarding it. A confused frown tugs at my lips. I pull up closer and roll down my window as he approaches. He takes a few steps and squints at the student pass in my wind-shield. Satisfied, he lets me through.

Dalsworth is in chaos. The mass of students flood the entrance; from the administration building to the dining hall, it’s impossible for me to drive forward without hitting someone. I park my car and get out. I try to push my way through the crowd of bodies and fail. I settle for scrambling to the fountain at the center of the entrance’s circular driveway. Not once, in the near five years I've been here, have I seen water coming from the sculpted woman’s hands. Her body is naked accept for the random piece of fabric that just so happens to cover all her feminine parts.

From here, I can see the extent of what is happening. Officers are rushing confused and unwilling students out of the dorms. Bright, yellow tape goes up in a flash, marking a line forbidden to cross. To the side, in a small cluster, several girls are crying and clinging to each other.

A hand brushes my arm. Bec’s petit frame barely comes up to my shoulders. Her normally large, vibrant blue eyes are shielded and darting in different directions. Her short, sun blonde hair is knotted and carelessly tucked my behind her ears. “Bec?” I touch her arm, watching her nostrils flare as she studied the police.

“They’ve been screaming for the past 15 minutes.” She’s looking at the crying girls, “The cops won’t let anyone go over there.”

“Did they say why we have to leave the dorms?” I ask.

Bec shakes her head. “No, they just said they were searching our rooms.”

The door to the dorms flies open and a tall blonde head rushes out. Her hair flies around her as a cop grabs her and forces her still. She fights him, screaming and crying until the cop lets her go and she collapse to the ground.

“Is that Bridget?” Bec whispers. I nod without answering. She’s been here longer than I have, a lifer. I've never seen her like this. She’s normally so calm, even a little uptight. Other officers raise their hands above their heads. They point and steer us backwards, away from Bridget. Bec tries to see over a cops arm as he asks her to step back. She glares at him once before ducking under his arm.

“Bec!” I hiss. I start after her only to pull up short as she does. I bite my lower lips to stop its quivering when I stare at Bridget, particularly her uniform. “What happened to her?” Bec demands. The cop grabs her shoulder and my arm, forcing us to turn away. It’s too late. We saw.

.”Do you not see her?” Bec yells, pulling on the officer’s hold, “Let me go – what’s going on?”

“She’s none of your concern.” Is all the cop says.

No, she isn’t, I think, don’t get involved.

Despite the thought, I still look over my shoulder to where Bridget is covered head to toe in blood.