Insane Page 3

  I saw the glimmer of blood-slicked metal on the floor by her elbow, and I picked it up. She stopped thrashing, holding her hands up and shaking her head instead, her lips forming pleas that I couldn’t hear. I saw the terror in her eyes as I brought down the letter opener and buried it in her chest. My knowledge of human anatomy was better than the gang bangers’ – I stabbed her through her ice-cold heart.

  I don’t remember anything between that moment and waking up in the hospital four days later, handcuffed to the bedrail, with two uniformed police officers guarding the door. My dad was at my bedside in a wheelchair, looking even worse than he had the last time I saw him. He didn’t say a word. It didn’t matter. My ears were bandaged up, and I couldn’t hear a damn thing. Not the beeping of the heart monitor, or the squeak of his wheelchair wheels, or the voices of the policemen who came to question me. It took hours for them to get my statement. They wrote down their questions, and I wrote my answers, and they’d ask more questions when I didn’t give enough detail.

  My father spoke to them – I saw his mouth moving – but I have no idea what he was saying. The police spoke back. They had a whole conversation right in front of me, and I felt like I was watching it all from behind a thick glass screen. When I scribbled on the notepad they’d given me, asking what they were saying, my father just shook his head. I got worked up, started yelling. When I couldn’t hear my own damn voice, I really lost it. Nurses rushed in to sedate me.

  The next time I woke up, my dad was still there, slumped over and asleep in his chair. My notepad and pencil were on the dresser next to the bed, along with an eraser. I chucked the eraser at him to wake him, and he jerked awake. I wrote down the question I hadn’t had time to ask the first time I woke up:

  Will I ever hear again?

  I handed the paper to my dad. I knew just by the look on his face that the answer was no. He shook his head, sorrow and guilt and a hundred other things I didn’t want to see in his eyes. I turned over and cried for a long time.

  Two weeks later, my dad got out of hospital, walking on crutches. He’d promised me in a scribbled note that I wouldn’t go to jail, that he’d defend me. And because I was a minor, and he was very good at his job, I got off on a temporary insanity plea. He’d tried claiming self-defence, but the other side said my step-mother had no longer been a threat to me by the time I attacked her – that she’d dropped the letter opener. Dad changed tactics and claimed that the trauma of the attack had caused me to have a mental lapse. That one stuck.

  Once I got out of the hospital, I was sentenced to five years in Montgomery Psychiatric Hospital – or three years, plus six months community service, if I proved stable.

  So far, I’ve been at MPH for two years. I started out on the Fifth Floor, with all the dangerous ones. Locked rooms, CCTV on me at all times, trays of food slid through a panel in the door, and a steady stream of meds – some for the pain of my ears, some to keep away infection, and some for my ‘mental lapse’ – that kept me too drugged up and tired to think straight. That was okay, though. I kind of liked the haze.

  It was once they started weaning me off some of the meds and things started to get clear that I began to lose it again. I threw violent rages, broke my hand a couple times punching the walls, the door. Tried to escape once, fought with the guards until some clever nurse stabbed me in the neck with a syringe full of knock-out juice.

  After the rages, came a depression so deep I thought it would swallow me whole. I tried to kill myself twice, once by slitting my wrists open with a plastic knife from my food tray, and once with a noose made from a bed sheet. But, of course, it’s not so easy to commit suicide when you’ve got cameras watching you at all times expressly to avoid such things.

  After my trips to the infirmary, I got some new meds – anti-depressants – and a therapist. Of course, because I couldn’t hear anymore, nobody had tried talking to me just yet; they thought it would cause me undue stress. But Dr. Moore was good. She wrote her questions, and didn’t get pissed off when I replied with scrawled obscenities. It took a couple of weeks before I started opening up to her. Every session was like a journal entry, writing down what I was feeling.

  Then she started asking me questions without the paper and pens, and I got angry because I didn’t know what she was saying. Eventually, she wrote an explanation, telling me I needed to learn to read lips.

  Our sessions became more frequent, almost every day instead of just three times a week. Each time, she asked me questions aloud first, repeating them as many times as I wanted, and if I couldn’t understand, she wrote it down. I got better at reading her lips with every session, until I could have a conversation with her without her writing anything. I still wrote my answers, though she encouraged me to speak. I refused. I didn’t like speaking and not hearing my voice. It felt weird and wrong, and I couldn’t modulate my tone or volume. I had no control over my voice anymore. Years of singing practise down the drain. Mr. Masters would’ve been disappointed.

  Eight months after being admitted to MPH, I stopped lashing out and acting up. I started to accept my situation. I learned to handle it, mostly thanks to Dr. Moore. It took a while, but I got to a stable head-place. I got off most of my meds. I still miss music so much it hurts, like a phantom limb, so I don’t think about it.

  Five days ago, Dr. Moore decided I was stable enough to be moved down to the Third Floor, with patients near my own age. She wanted me to socialize. I spent the first three days in my new room – which was cushy compared to the one I’d had on the Fifth Floor – just adjusting to the change.

  Honestly, I was also hiding out in there. I’d explained to Dr. Moore that I didn’t know how to socialize, that I’d grown up around very few people, most of them adults. I’d never been around kids my own age much. The only experience I had of a normal childhood was the one summer I went to music camp when I was ten, and I hadn’t exactly made a lot of friends then. But she insisted it would be good for me to learn, that I’d need to socialize to survive in the real world when I got out.

  I finally got up the courage to leave my room two days ago, and ended up getting talked at by some nutter with a teddy bear. She didn’t seem to realize I couldn’t hear a word she was saying, and she was speaking too fast for me to really read her lips. It was frustrating, and annoying, and at one point, I started to snap all over again. In fact, I could’ve sworn I heard another voice in my head, which only freaked me out more. I wasn’t crazy – not that kind of crazy, anyway.

  I had a very long chat with Dr. Moore that evening, but I didn’t tell her about the voice. I had pretty much convinced myself I’d imagined it. Maybe as part of my mind’s way of coping with the added stress of new people talking to me, making up for the inability to hear any of them by creating a voice I could hear. Whatever. I kept it to myself, partly because I knew it wasn’t real, and partly because…well, I was afraid Dr. Moore would give me meds for it and I wouldn’t hear it again.

  After two years of hearing nothing but my own voice inside my head, hearing another voice – even if it was one my brain made up – was amazing.

  Now, lying on my nice new bed, in my nice new room without the cameras, I was staring at the ugly grey ceiling and wishing, praying to hear that voice again. But eventually, I decided God hated me. I fell asleep with my prayers unanswered.

  But He answered them the next day.

  ** Callie **

  I avoided the common room for a couple of days after the hearing-voices incident, quite happy to spend my time sleeping or playing I-Spy with Chester with my face glued to the one small, barred window in my room. Eventually, I had convinced myself the episode with the voice really was nothing, so I returned to the common room in the hopes of finding someone semi-stable – and not dead – to have a conversation with. Maybe RJ was on shift.

  I took my usual seat by the window, and Chester leaned against the wall with his arms folded, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling. He’d been quiet today, and he was look
ing a little…more ghostly. Sort of faded. I guessed he was tired – if ghosts could get tired. I knew by now that when he started getting fuzzy and silent, it was better not to try to talk to him. He tended to get cranky.

  So I left him alone and turned my attention to the view outside the common room window. The sky was overcast, grey clouds stretching over the long gravel driveway and pristine green grass and blazing red-and-gold-leafed trees. A wind made the branches shudder, leaves raining down onto the grass, and I longed to feel it. The cold, fresh air on my face. I wanted it so badly my chest hurt and I could practically taste it on my tongue.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been staring longingly out the window when I thought I heard a whisper in my ear. I jerked my head up to look at Chester, who had his head bowed and his eyes closed, as if he had fallen asleep standing up. “Did you say something?” I asked him.

  For a second, he didn’t respond, and then he lifted his head and blinked at me. “What?”

  “Did you say something? Just now?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  I shook my head. “I could have sworn I heard…” I pressed my lips together because the whisper came again, and it definitely wasn’t Chester talking. My heart started to speed up. “Do you hear that?” I hissed.

  He rolled his eyes skyward for a second, pursing his lips. Then he shook his head. “Nope. Don’t hear anything,” he said. Then he looked down at me and something sharp glinted in his eyes. “Hang on. Are you hearing–”

  “Shh!” I cut him off before he could say it. My hands trembled as I curled my nails into my knees, listening. That voice was back. Only, this time, it wasn’t yelling. It was quiet and calm, reciting lines.

  “…suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but – I hope – into a better shape…”

  I recognized it as a quote from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. I glanced around, looking for the source of the voice, and found him sitting in the corner of the room with his feet propped on a chair and a book raised to his face. I peered closer and made out the title on the cover: Great Expectations.

  I was out of my seat and walking across the room before I knew what I intended to do. I wanted to demand to know why he was reading aloud, as if he were reading to a bunch of kids, but then again, people here probably did much stranger things on a daily basis. Really, I just needed to know he was actually talking – if I saw his mouth moving with the words I was hearing, I’d know the voice wasn’t just in my head.

  As I passed Teddy Woman, who was clutching her bear and whispering to it, and the guy I’d mentally assigned the name Buzz because he sometimes twitched like he was swatting a bee away from his ear, I called out to the guy with the book. “Hey.”

  He didn’t look up, so I tried again. “Hey there. Good book?”

  Nothing. I stopped right next to him and put my hands on my hips. He didn’t even look up – just kept reading aloud. I cleared my throat. Not even a twitch.

  “What’s going on?” Chester asked, suddenly appearing beside me. I jerked in surprise and shot him a glare. He knew I hated it when he did that.

  Ignoring his question, I looked back to Book Boy and frowned. “Excuse me?” I said in my politest voice. The guy completely ignored me once again. I finally snapped and put a hand on the top of his book, pushing it down from his face. “I said, excuse me. Are you deaf or just–”

  It was the guy from the other day. The one I’d thought was speaking. He glared up at me with hostile green eyes under a mop of red-brown hair. Up close, he was actually kind of pretty – even with dark circles under his eyes and chewed lips.

  He glanced over my shoulder, right at where Chester was standing, and then brought his sharp gaze back to me. He didn’t say a word – like suddenly, now he was struck mute. For some reason, it really pissed me off. “Uh, hello? Are you capable of speech? Habla Ingles?” I spat, unnerved by the combination of both his glare and his silence.

  Finally, I got a reaction. His glare intensified. What the hell is your problem? You think it’s funny to mock the deaf guy? What kind of screwed up are you? he barked. Only, just like before, his lips didn’t move.

  Stunned, I took a step back, eyes wide. Looking confused and worried, Chester flicked his gaze between me and Book Boy. “Callie? What’s going on?”

  I just shook my head, incapable of speaking. Book Boy switched his glare to the spot where Chester was standing and said, without ever opening his mouth, What’s going on is your girlfriend is being a psycho – but then, I guess there’s a lot of that in this place.

  I froze, staring. I felt like I’d just been slammed in the head with a two-by-four. My vision blurred. Book Boy’s words tumbled through my head. Your girlfriend is being a psycho. He was talking about me. He was talking about me…to Chester.

  My eyes nearly bugged out of my head, and I grabbed Book Boy’s forearms, amazed. “You can see him?” I shrieked, so loud I startled some of the patients. Book Boy didn’t flinch. He just stared at me with wary, wide green eyes, like I was crazy. I wasn’t sure anymore that I wasn’t.

  Of course I can fucking see him. I’m deaf, not blind…wait… He blinked, his lips parting. Wait, you can hear me? He sounded as stunned that I could hear him – hear his thoughts, I realized; he hadn’t opened his mouth once – as I was that he could see Chester.

  Slowly, I nodded. I opened my mouth to say something along the lines of “What the hell?”, and then stopped, realizing he couldn’t hear it anyway. I wondered if he could read lips.

  Yes, I can read lips. How else would I have known what your boyfriend said? Book Boy thought in reply.

  I hastily let go of his arms and glanced at Chester, who looked completely lost. Then I looked at Book Boy again, really looked at him, and saw apprehension flicker across his face as he realized I hadn’t asked that aloud.

  His eyes met mine, and a shudder slid down my spine. I can hear you, too, he thought in a whisper, naked awe written across his face. I pressed my lips together, not sure how to handle the raw vulnerability in his eyes.

  He dropped his book and carefully got to his feet, not taking his eyes off me. Do it again, he murmured. Think something else at me.

  I swallowed nervously. This is insane, I thought back.

  An uncertain, fearful sort of smile spread across his mouth. I can hear your voice, he murmured. I can hear… His eyes took on a far-away look, and I couldn’t read his expression, but I sensed something huge was happening inside him.

  “My thoughts. You can hear my thoughts. And I can hear yours,” I replied, vaguely aware I was shaking and Chester was talking to me, trying to get my attention. Other patients were watching us too. How long had we been standing there, staring at each other?

  I broke the gaze and backed up until the backs of my knees hit a chair. I collapsed into it, dropping my gaze to the floor. It was so shiny I could make out the blurry shape of my reflection in the white tiles. “Callie, please, tell me what’s going on,” Chester pleaded, kneeling in front of me. The bright lights and pale, shiny floor made him look even more faded, but I could still see the panic in his hazel eyes.

  Not caring about looking sane anymore, I said aloud, “I can hear his thoughts.”

  Chester blinked. He shot a sideways glance at Book Boy – It’s Casey actually. My name’s Casey, the boy corrected, and I repressed a shudder, wrapping my arms around myself. There was something violating about having a stranger’s voice in my head.

  Chester muttered, “Him? You can hear that guy’s thoughts?”

  I nodded. Chester frowned. “Can he hear yours, too?”

  I nodded again. For a long moment, Ches just stared at me, his lips pursed. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking – though it was disconcerting because I’d known him for ten years and I could usually read his expressions, right now, it was sort of a blessing.

  What’s he saying? Casey asked, his voice inside
my skull without ever passing my ears.

  Keeping my eyes on Chester, though I could see Casey’s legs through his semi-transparent form, I said, “He wants to know if you can hear my thoughts.”

  It wasn’t until Chester gave me a funny look that I realized I’d spoken aloud. To his credit, Chester looked less freaked than I felt. He just cocked an eyebrow into his curls, his lips turning down at the corners. I started to relay my answer to Casey in my head, but he cut me off.

  I got it, he said. He sat back down in his chair, absently moving his book out of the way. He cut a glance at Chester. So, who is he?

  “My best friend.”

  Casey’s brow furrowed, and he pushed his red-brown hair back off his forehead, making it spike up wildly. And why are you surprised I can see him? he asked, confusion in his…voice? Thought? I was going with voice, because it was less confusing.

  I looked at Chester, who seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. My throat tightened, and I found I couldn’t choke out the words, so I thought them instead. He’s dead, I answered. I dropped my gaze to my hands curled in my lap, my eyes stinging. Even with him sitting right in front of me, it was still hard to accept he was dead. The memory of a shiny wooden casket carrying my best friend’s lifeless body into the ground still made my chest hurt.

  Casey’s eyes widened. Oh.

  Chester waved a semi-transparent hand in front of my face. “Callie? Care to clue me into this silent conversation please?”

  I nodded. “Sit next to me so Casey can read your lips too.”

  Ches frowned, but he moved to sit in the seat next to me, so his back was no longer to Casey. “He’s deaf?” he asked, leaning back in his seat and eyeing Casey with – distrust? Disdain? Dis-something. I couldn’t be sure. My brain was malfunctioning. Maybe it was some sort of shock.

  I desperately wished I could reach over and take Chester’s hand for comfort, like I used to. Sometimes, when I was upset, he would stay the night in my room and we’d curl up together on my bed. It started when my parents got divorced and my mother left, and even when we got older, my father never protested to a boy spending the night in my bed because he was Chester and dad adored him – trusted him. Now, I’d give anything to be able to curl up with Ches, with his fingers laced in mine and his warm breath on the back of my neck.