Complementary Colors (37 page)

The monster had gone rabid. I twisted in their grip until my joints popped and my bones strained. I screamed when they wouldn’t let go. I screamed until the air would no longer fill my lungs.

They carried me, frothing and struggling, into an empty room.

“You fucking little whore.”
I shrank away.
“Look what you’ve made me do.”
The boy with no name lay with his hand out. Reaching for me. Begging me.
“Everything was fine until you came along.”
But I was too afraid.
“Dirtyy, filthy boy. It’s all your fault.”
The rabbit watched me with the same dead gaze as the boy.
“All of it.”

Harrison was right. It was my fault.

All of it.

A pinprick set me on fire and a tide of smoke, rendered the monster deaf, dumb, and blind.

Dr. Carmichael called to me from far away, but I was in the bottom of the rabbithole. Dirt pillowed my head, and I alternated from warm to cold.

Carmichael continued to call.

The white rabbit hunkered down near my face, and we lay there nose to nose. I scratched the rabbit behind the ears with my left hand because my right one wouldn’t work.

Dr. Carmichael kept calling my name.

I think I might have stayed there, but if I did, I couldn’t fulfill the promise I’d made to Roy. I missed him so much. The warmth of his body, his touch. Down in the darkness, I would never have it again.

That was the only reason I got to my feet and began the long climb up the tangled roots and back to the surface.

“How do you feel?” Carmichael shined a light in one eye, then the other.

I tried to move, but a shock of lightning shot through my shoulder.

“Be still. You strained your radial.”

My tailbone hurt too.

The room was bare of everything except the bed I was on and a sink and toilet stuck in the corner like pieces of forgotten furniture.

“Paris. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer them as best as you can. What year were you born?”

“Nineteen eighty-four.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Two”

“What’s my name?”

“Cunt face.”

He frowned. “That was uncalled for.”

“You deserve it.”

He patted my arm. “You scared me back there.”

“I warned you.”

“You did. But I’m glad I got to see.” He took a syringe from his pocket, and I pulled away. “It will help with the pain.”

“I don’t do needles. Snort it, smoke it, pop it, yeah. But no needles.”

“This only comes in an injection.”

“Then I don’t want it.”

“Please.”

A wash of dull aches in my shoulder promised high tide very soon. My resolve wilted. “Fine.”

Carmichael lifted the edge of my hospital gown. The pinprick was short lived. He capped the needle and dropped it back into his pocket.

“Do you mind telling me where I am?” I said.

“The isolation ward.”

“Looks more like a prison cell.” I glanced over at the toilet.

“I wasn’t sure what I’d be facing when you woke up.” He leaned forward and studied my face. “Tell me what happened.”

“You’re the doctor. How about you tell me?”

“All right.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t had enough time to think about what I saw to feel confident in a complete diagnosis, but I’m pretty sure what you experienced was an episode due to borderline personality disorder.”

I laughed. “Great, so now I’m Sybil?”

“Not hardly. Sybil had multiple personality. What you display is completely different. It’s why you rage.”

“So give me a pill and send me home.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then how do you fix it?”

“It can’t be fixed in the truest sense of the word, but it can be managed. However, your situation is complicated because I believe you may be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and bipolar, which would also be attributed to the mood swings and the psychosis.”

“So I’m fucked?”

“No. Not at all. That can be managed as well. But I don’t think anything will truly help you until you deal with whatever it is you’re hiding.”

He wanted me to face the monster. To walk into its filth and look into its eyes. Carmichael had no idea what he was asking. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Why can’t I go back to my life? I was fine.”

“No. You were self-medicating by keeping yourself high. And I think that has reached its limits. Think, how many times have you raged in your life that you know of?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, I think you do. In fact, I’d be willing to bet you’ve only done this once, maybe twice before. You said the first time you did this was when the cat was killed. Something about that cat dying set you off. But either way, you haven’t done it very often, and now in a little over two weeks, you’ve done it at least twice.”

“But when I started painting the ugly things I saw, they stopped.”

“They stopped because you’ve stayed drunk or high. The drugs Dr. Mason has been giving you are not meant to be used to treat bi-polar because they can aggravate the cycling of mania to depression.”

“You think he’s been keeping me sick?”

“I think if he’d been treating you properly, you wouldn’t be facing another psychotic episode. I think because of what he’s been giving you, for whatever the reason he’s been giving it to you, you have reached your limit.

“These episodes are only going to grow more frequent and more violent. You’re already a danger to yourself and others.”

My chest tightened. “So you’re going to keep me here forever?”

“I told you when you first came here I want you to get better. That means facing some things you don’t want to. If you don’t, you will eventually hurt someone. Maybe even kill them. There is a very good chance that someone could be Roy.”

“Just let me paint. When I paint, it goes away.”

“It doesn’t. I promise. You’re telling a story in those paintings you create, but no one can understand what you’re saying but you.”

“Roy understands.”

“That may be, but he’s not enough. I think you know that. I think every brushstroke you put to canvas is a cry for help. This secret you’re hiding is eating you alive.” He stood.

“Can I go back to my room?”

“No.”

“How long will you keep me here?”

“Until you’re ready to work with me and tell me what’s made you so angry.”

“What if I don’t know?”

“Oh, you know.” He headed to the door. I sat up to go after him, but my feet and legs floated beyond my control. “Until you talk to me, there will be no paints, no TV, no private bathroom. No privileges of any kind.”

“Roy is supposed to call.”

“I’ll keep him informed about what’s going on.”

“You won’t let me talk to him?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry it has to be this way. And know that when you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen.”

The sound of the door closing echoed a death knell through the room. I crawled out of the bed, but the drugs had stripped the connection between my brain and body. My legs buckled, and I tried to catch myself with my hands. My one arm was in the sling, and the other was about as effective as a rubber band. I collapsed and had just enough time to roll to the side before my face smashed into the ground.

I inched my way across the floor. Half the time, I wasn’t even sure if I actually made any progress.

When I got to the door, I jiggled the knob. Locked. And the only window was a long narrow strip covered with mesh. I’d been a fool to come here. Dr. Carmichael would never let me leave. Roy would call, and Dr. Carmichael would give him some excuse. How many times would he believe it before he gave up?

A sob broke out of my chest.

I had to find some way to tell Roy what was happening. He’d help me. He wouldn’t let them lock me up like this. He understood the paintings. He saw why I had to create them.

I just needed a phone.

Even if I could get back to my room, I wouldn’t be able to dial out. I needed access to an outside line. The only place I’d find something like that was Carmichael’s office or the nurse’s station.

But first, I had to get out.

After four days in lockdown, a few orderlies escorted me to a tiled room for a bath. To keep the sling dry, there was only a few inches of water in the tub.

The poor nursing assistant assigned to me couldn’t have been a week on the job. I must have been the talk of the mental ward with the way he jumped if I so much as breathed hard.

After he dropped the soap for the tenth time, I took the sponge out of his hand. “Please let me. I’d like to get this over with before the water frosts over.”

“Sorry.”

I lathered up the sponge. “How long have you been here?”

The bar slipped out of my hold two times, and then three. As soon as I picked it back up, it shot out of my hand and landed on the floor.

The nursing assistant retrieved it for me. “Two weeks.”

I scrubbed my bad shoulder, my chest, and my legs. I couldn’t reach my other arm. “Here.” I gave back the sponge. “Do you mind?”

His hand shook as he brushed the sponge over my skin.

“You’re going to have to scrub harder than that.”

“Sorry, I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Why, because you think I’ll hurt you back?”

He looked away.

“Jesus, what kind of shit do they talk about around here?”

“You broke a man’s nose.”

“So?”

“Fractured another orderly’s skull.”

“Worse happens in a bar fight.”

“Yeah, but both of them outweigh you by a hundred pounds each.”

“Lightweights. Should have seen what I did to the lion, tiger, and bear.”

He stopped washing.

“It’s a joke.” I slapped at the water. “I feel like a kid.”

“Just trying to keep the sling dry.”

“Second time I’ve had a hurt arm.” I examined the sling through the plastic bag wrapped around it.

“How did it happen the first time?”

“I slipped down the steps.” With some help from Julia.

“Sorry to hear that.” The nursing assistant put the sponge aside. “Stand up please.”

I grabbed the handrail to pull myself up only to lose my grip and slop water out over his shoes.

“Fucking soap.” I rubbed my thumb and finger together. Like the colors that formed one of my paintings, the feel of that soap formed a plan.

“Here, I’ll rinse you off.”

“Actually…I’d like to wash some more.”

“You’re clean.”

“Not clean enough. I’ve been sitting in that room for days with only toilet paper and a sink. I’d like another going over.”

“Mr. Duvoe, I promise you, you’re clean.” He smiled at me. I didn’t smile back. “I really need to get you back to your room.”

“I really need another bath.”

“Sir.”

I held out my hand. “Give me the fucking soap.”

He handed it over.

“Help me stand.”

“But—” I glared, and he pulled me up.

This was completely insane. But considering where I was, why not go with the flow? I scrubbed the soap over my body until I was coated in an oily white film the consistency of melted butter.

“Here, do my other arm.”

“Shouldn’t you sit—”

“Shut up and lather me up.” He did, losing his grip on the soap twice. When I was head to knees in slime, I said, “Towel.”

He picked it up. “Shouldn’t you rinse?”

“Put it on the floor.”

“Please—”

“Put the damn towel on the floor before I test the thickness of your skull.”

He threw the towel down. I stepped out and scrubbed my feet on it until they were dry.

“Mr. Duvoe, you really should get back in the—”

“Open the door.” I would have done it myself, but my hands were coated in soap.

“Sir?”

I turned on him, and he shrank back, tripping over the stool he’d been sitting on and landed on his ass. Water soaked through his blue scrubs, turning them dark around his thighs.

I almost laughed. “Open the door.”

He scrambled to his feet.

“Please, Mr. Duvoe…”

I drew my lips back over my teeth.

The nurse’s aide made a mad dash out of the room to get away.

One of the meatheads looked inside, and that’s when I rushed him. He made a grab but lost his hold. Another tried to wrap me in a hug, and I dropped to my knees, shooting out of his grip like the bar of soap. The third one didn’t get the chance to try for me. He stepped down on a streak of bubbles, lost his balance, and slammed into the wall.

My feet slid for a moment but it was only water. I got traction and ran down the hall. The nurse’s station was just ahead. I’d never get past them and into the main wing. But I didn’t need to get past. I just needed to get inside. I yanked the lever on a fire alarm mounted to the wall, and an electronic wail sent the nurses into a frenzy.

One of the women opened the door while the other one called out on the radio. At a full run, I dropped into a slide, heading right for the opening. My bad shoulder caught the corner of the doorjamb, and everything grayed out. I fought against the rise of nausea and blurred senses. If I passed out, I’d never get out of this hell.

The nurse tried to block the doorway. I knocked her feet out from under her, and she came down on top of me. She threw herself to the side and scurried out the door. I jammed my foot in the opening and slithered inside.

The door shut, and I slumped against it. The second nurse stood in the corner. She held up her hand as if to ward me off. I grabbed a chair to pull myself up and couldn’t find traction.

“You can go,” I said. She kept staring. “Get the fuck out of here.”

She ran for the door.

“Slow down, or you’ll…”

Just as she yanked open the door, she slipped. Her scream was muffled by the thick Plexiglas. The office door couldn’t be opened from the outside without a key, but there was a dead bolt on the inside so I engaged it. I guess it was a safety measure in case one of the patients acquired a card. Escape by soap probably never crossed their minds.

I wiggled across the room on my ass to keep from meeting the same fate as the fleeing nurse. When I got to the desk, I pulled down the phone and dialed Roy’s cell. After a half dozen rings, it went to voice mail. I hung up and dialed again.