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With that, Dr. Watson reaches into his desk, whips out a notepad and a pencil then hits the record button on the tape recorder. “Then tell me, Addy, what is the last clear recollection you have? What do you remember about your life before you came here?”
“You mean before I was brought here?”
“Excuse me, yes, before you were brought here.”
I swallow hard and look away from him. “I don’t want to.”
He probes me further. “Don’t want to what?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. “I don’t want to think about that.” Then I clamp my mouth shut and regret getting mouthy with him. During this moment, I think about the basement. About the devices that I heard are down there. About patients who visit the basement and never return. Then I think about Damien and how I know he probably gave up a lot to follow me here and how his heart would shatter into a million pieces if I earned a trip downstairs and never returned. “I mean…” I hesitate and work up some fake tears. “It’s just really hard to talk about or think about.” I dip my thumb into the corners of my eyes and blot away the wetness. “But sometimes I get bits and pieces.”
Dr. Watson smiles triumphantly. It’s like the arrogant son of a bitch thinks that he’s the one who made me crack. Guess what, you pretentious prick? I made myself crack—no —more like the haunting images of this institution and the realization of what might become of me if I don’t cooperate is what made me crack. “Bits and pieces,” Dr. Watson muses and leans back, steepled hands pressed against his plump lips. “What do you mean by that, Addy?”
“Kind of like flashbacks,” I tell him. What I don’t tell him is that they are the same flashbacks that make me wake up in the middle of the night shrieking. The same flashbacks that make the doctors, nurses, and orderlies working the night shift come running down the hall with forceful hands and syringes filled with sedatives to quiet my screams.
“Why don’t you tell me about them?” Dr. Watson crosses his legs and urges me to go on with his eyes.
I don’t like the way he’s staring at me because it’s almost sensual. Every now and then I’ll catch a glimpse of him, his warm colored eyes sweeping over me and the smug look on his face tells me he’s wondering what I look like without my hospital gown or my under garments.” Daddy is in most of them,” I say. “Daddy has a bad temper.”
Dr. Watson narrows his eyes. “Does he now?”
I nod and exhale. This is painful. Talking about my daddy is like pouring salt into an infected cut, painful. It’s like just when I think the wound is about to scab over, someone brings him up again and suddenly the healed wound is gushing blood. A vision of a saltshaker flits through my mind and I can see the white particles pouring out of the metal holes. I clutch my arm and hold it against my chest. “He does.”
“It says here your father was an alcoholic,” Dr. Watson remarks as he flips through my file. “Is that true?”
I nod.
“Where was your mother?”
“She left when I was ten.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“No. All I know is that I woke up one day and she was gone. Then Daddy said she’d left because she wasn’t cut out to be a mother.” There were also many times where he called her a whore and I always wondered if she left because she found someone else.
Dr. Watson tilts his head to the side. “Is that something that you believe?”
“No.”
“Why do you think she left?”
“Because of Daddy and his drinking.”
“Do you know why she didn’t take you with her?”
I shake my head, look to my right, and gaze out a small, square window. There isn’t much of anything to look at. Winter has taken a toll on the once green courtyard, now all there is, is a bunch of weeds and dead leaves. But that beat staring at the beautiful demon of a man sitting in front of me.
If I based my opinion of Dr. Watson solely on first impressions, I’d say that he was cocky yet complex. Before I thought he was evil. Now, I’m not so sure. I do know there is something sneaky about him and I definitely don’t trust him, but I’ve decided that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t be afraid of him.
At least not until he gives me a reason to be.
~ ~ ~
We get three hours of free time every day.
I spend mine in the corner of the rec room, either reading or watching the boys across the fence.
Oak Hill is split up into two sections. The girls are housed on one side of giant metal fence, the boys on the other. The boys spend a lot of time outside. I don’t know why we don’t. We meaning, the girls. Maybe we do and I just haven’t had the opportunity to yet. The cold weather has just broke over the last two weeks and on top of that I’m
