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I’m no Carolina, but I make it inside by holding my breathing and squeezing my way in.
The mausoleum has a strange smell, musty and chemical; considering what else is in this crypt, it could be worse. There is one questionable puddle along the far wall. I just make sure to stay on the other side, about three feet away from the wall full of caskets.
I keep my head down, figuring that, so long as I stare at the concrete floor instead of the ornate shelves, I can forget that there are dead bodies in here with me.
It’s fine. I’m not afraid of the dead. The dead can’t touch me.
They can’t do anything to hurt me at all.
I sit cross-legged on the stone floor, running the edge of my gloves along the side of my slipper. I’m tired, sure, but I think I’ve gotten to the point that I’m over-tired. I feel like I drank two espressos, then chased it with an energy booster or something. I’m buzzing, super focused. I use the sense of touch to ground myself. Without being able to touch another person, I’ve gotten used to touching me. I run my fingers along my slipper, my calf, my knee, my arm. I’m here. I’m in one piece.
For now.
I peer at my slippers. They’re damp, but still clean for the most part; flecks of dried mud cover the side and are stuck in the treads. Because I had planned on visiting Carolina, I’m not in my robe or my pajamas. I’ve got on my hoodie, but at least I’m also wearing an old pair of faded jeans. That’ll help me out tomorrow.
For now, I’m grateful for the freezing air conditioning the Black Pine staff keeps running all year long. Even though the summer days are warm, the summer nights are chilly, so I’m kind of used to this weather. It’s really cold inside of the mausoleum, though. Without my hoodie, I don’t think I could have made it through the night.
Eventually, I crash. It had to happen. Even though I keep thinking I hear someone coming—Nine, Rys, the caretaker, I don’t even know anymore—I drift off to sleep, curled up on the stone floor of the mausoleum.
I don’t know how long I’m sleeping. It feels like it’s only been a few minutes when I’m blinking myself awake again, but the air is different than it was. Thicker. Heavier.
The inside of the mausoleum isn’t as gloomy, either. Light filters in through the crack in the door. I’m so happy to see it. One, because the light tells me that it’s daytime. I made it through the night. And two, no one closed the mausoleum behind me. I’m not trapped in here with the dead.
No, I’m just an escapee from a glorified psych hospital. ‘Cause that’s so much better.
Slowly, I pull myself up into a sitting position, stretching my stiff arms and my achy legs. Apart from that, I don’t really move. Moving means accepting that I have to come up with a plan to get back to Black Pine.
I never thought I’d feel homesick for the asylum. I totally do. I’d do anything to be back there right now. I’m too worried, too scared, too apprehensive to feel hungry, but that’s not gonna last. I’m gonna need to eat soon.
And what about my pills? My morning meds? I can’t say for sure if they actually did anything. Still, I know withdrawals are no joke. I can’t just stop taking my medication and assume that everything’s gonna be okay.
How long will it take before my body realizes it’s missing them? I’ve heard horror stories about withdrawals. I’m not looking forward to it.
My head is heavy on my shoulders and I give it a few experimental
rolls on my neck. My hair feels knotted and tangled as it hangs down my back. I wish I had a hair-tie or a rubber band or something to get it out of my face. I twist it and tuck it beneath my hoodie for now. Wiping my dirty gloves on my even dirtier jeans, I start to stand. I was thinking I should wait to break out again until it’s a little later, maybe while the caretaker is at lunch. I don’t want to risk getting caught leaving the mausoleum, but I can’t sit here any longer.
I stay on the dark side of the crypt, pacing back and forth, anything to get rid of this nervous energy. My slippers pad almost noiselessly against the stone floor. When I turn, they shuffle; apart from that, there’s no sound. At least I’m used to the quiet. It’s one thing that has never bothered me. I enjoy it. It’s helpful, too, because when I hear the rustle coming from nearby outside, I’m not caught entirely unaware.
Not that I can do anything about it. By the time they get close enough that I realize they’re heading for the open mausoleum, there’s no way for me to get out first.
I freeze. Is it the caretaker? Did he finally pick up on the fact that the mausoleum is partially unsealed and he’s coming to check it out? Or, worse, was the door propped open because they’re getting ready to put another casket inside?
Oh, no, no, no...
A ray of golden light falls at my feet as a very tall, very beautiful fae slips gracefully inside of the crypt. Even in the dark, dank gloom, Rys seems to shine.
So, uh, not the caretaker then.
At that moment, I don’t think I’ve ever wished to have a weapon on me more than I do now. A baseball bat, a lead pipe, anything. He’s paused in the entryway, but I know that’s his way of making a grand entrance.
I don’t want to let him get any closer and I resort to holding up my hands to ward him off.
“Stay back,” I tell him. “Don’t come any closer.”
Rys’s gleeful laughter sends chills up and down my spine. He places one hand to his chest. “Is that how you greet your mate?”
Not this garbage again. Seriously, I think this guy belongs in the asylum. It’s as clear a case of obsessive delusions as I’ve ever seen. Then there’s the fact that I know he can go into violent, murderous rages in one second, before laughing and smiling charmingly in the next.
