L.A. Detwiler - The One Who Got Away

‘You’ll die here. You will. I’m telling you, lady. Get out now. Get out.’ The words spew faster and faster, and spit lands on me. The figure is close enough that I can make out her short, curly hair, her feminine jawline. She is frothing at the mouth as she yanks at my arm and claws at me. She shreds the shoulder of my nightshirt with one hand as the other vehemently digs into my arm. Saliva leaks from her lips as she repeats the lines endlessly in a racing fury. I move my arms about, trying to startle her away, but she doesn’t flinch. Her fingers are crusty with what, I don’t know. Her nails, long and sharp, scratch into my arm painfully, and I’m afraid to look at the damage she’s causing. A warm, sickly feeling oozes down my arm. I think I must be bleeding. I struggle away, shifting on the bed, trying to back up. The call button. I need to push the call button.

I reach around the figure, my eyes adjusting. I grab for the button, my sanctuary. I push it over and over and over. No one comes. I push it again as the woman paws and mauls me, scratching and clawing incessantly as she repeats her mantra. I look up at her, trying to calm her, pleading with her to stop. Her eyes are glazed over and white. They look like they’re oozing in a supernatural way. Her gaze is blank, marred by the milky white haze of cataracts.

I’m ready to shout out, to scream, when suddenly, a cackle rises from her slimy lips as the hand lets go of my arm. The woman turns and slowly trudges out of the room, the deranged laugh bellowing as she does. Tears drip from my eyes. I push the button again. And again. But the person is gone. All quiets down, and I wonder why no one is coming. A few minutes pass as my heart beats wildly. I pant and wrap my arms around myself. Tears trickle down my face. I stare at the doorway, wondering if she’ll come back, trying to assess the situation. I’m too afraid to look down and see what sort of condition I’m in.

After a few more moments pass by, I reach for the cord of the lamp. I turn on the light and take stock of my arm, of the room. My arm is bleeding, scratches up and down it like a rabid animal has mauled me. In some ways, I suppose it’s true. The curtain that separates Rose’s area of the room from mine is pulled across, so I can’t see her, but I hear a raspy gurgle from her side, a sputtering inhale that does nothing to calm my frayed nerves. I touch the blanket on the bed, rubbing the threadbare material between my thumb and forefinger. It’s real. All of this is real. It’s not a nightmare. It’s happening. I’m not home. I’m not at Quail Avenue. I’m here. That’s right. I’m here now.

What was that? Who was that? I don’t know. Grogginess lifted, I slink out of bed, stand, and slowly stretch my stiff legs. After a long moment of staring out the window, a voice bellows into the room.

‘What is it?’

I startle, jumping out of my skin. I turn around to see a man in a nurse’s uniform, standing back from the doorway. He is bald, but his dark moustache curls up on his lip, giving him a sneering look. Or maybe he is sneering.

‘Th-there was … someone was here … I saw someone.’ I want to ask why he didn’t come sooner, but something stops me from uttering the words.

The man crosses the room in three quick strides. ‘Get back to bed,’ he orders gruffly, not waiting for me to explain.

‘Sorry, there was someone—’

‘Come on, old woman. There’s no one here. Get in bed.’ He grabs my arm, the same one the person – there was a person, wasn’t there? – was grabbing. He roughly hurries me towards my bed, ignoring the scratches and blood dripping on my arm. My skin burns at his touch, the flesh still raw. I fall a little before he forces me into bed and roughly adjusts the blanket around me. He cocoons me in as if the blanket will keep me hostage in the bed and he won’t have to deal with me again.

‘I won’t be having any more trouble, will I?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow. He leans in now, closer and closer. He is centimetres from my face.

‘No, sir,’ I whisper, a new fear gripping my heart.

‘Goddamn right, I won’t,’ he whispers harshly into the space between us, and I shudder at the way he looks at me. It’s a threatening glance, one that challenges me to defy him. I don’t dare consider it.

He backs up, looking at me for an uncomfortably long moment, before pulling the lamp cord. But before he does, I notice a nametag. I see the familiar name.

Jones.

Why do I know that name? Why is it ringing a bell? I search in my mind for the answer. Was it the knitting lady? Did she say something about him?

My head throbs as I try to sort all of it out – the mysterious figure, the nurse, the name. Jones curses again under his breath, the darkness plummeting about me, as he leaves the room. When he’s gone, I begin to wonder if there’s more to worry about on Floor Three than I could have ever imagined.

A hand startles me awake, and I sit up, gasping. It takes a moment for me to recognise where I am, the sunlight now streaming through the windows and illuminating the room. I stare at the pink wallpaper, faded to a dusky, decaying rose colour. The floral pattern is so muted and miniscule that it looks like scratches on the wallpaper instead of the ornate design the decorator probably intended. My eyes absorb the depressing sight of the room, my home now, as I take another deep breath. Exhaustion pounds in my skull, crackling against my brain. I didn’t sleep well, not at all, and my neck is stiff from the tension.

‘Mrs Evans, it’s breakfast time. Are you going to the dining room to eat with the others, or shall I bring your morning meal to you?’ I peer up at the nurse standing above me. Her red hair is pulled tight into a bun, the pasty skin on her face stretching back so tautly her cheek bones look like they might rupture through. Her face is placid, stoic, as she says my name with tart condescension mirrored in her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s just got a permanent poker face or if her hairstyle prohibits any expression from showing through. My head spins and aches. It craves to be plopped back down on the pillow and to let sleep wash away all of last night’s calamities.

‘Can I just take my meal here today?’ I ask.

‘Fine. I’ll bring it back around when I get to it.’

With that, the harsh-looking woman is off to jostle Rose, who doesn’t have a choice in the matter since she can’t speak up. The woman flings back the curtain, the only semblance of privacy in our room now foiled. Rose coughs and sputters, squealing at the sight of the nurse. As the serious woman rousts Rose up from the bed, my frail roommate stares at one thing – me. Her arm, trembling from the effort, rises just a bit. I notice her hand, curled into a fist, is shaking violently. Is she shaking it at me? I don’t have time to decide because harsh woman is complaining about the mess Rose has made and how she’ll need to tend to that before breakfast. I sigh in my bed, transferring my gaze to the window. There’s so much wrong in this place, but I feel a little guilty. It could be worse. Rose has it harder than me, for sure. I suppose I should be grateful that at least I can choose where to eat my breakfast. At least there’s still that.

When the nurse has gotten Rose into the wheelchair with the assistance of some brute of a man, she wheels her out of the room. Rose’s head is cocked towards me, shaking to the side. She mumbles as they wheel her away. I feel terrible, but I am gloriously thankful when they are gone and the room is quiet again. I settle back into bed, but I find that sleep doesn’t return. I blink, lying on my side as I peer out the window into the dismal greyness of the day. What day of the week is it? I don’t much know anymore. It seems time in here is a whirling enigma. Truthfully, I guess it doesn’t matter much anymore what day it is. They are all the same, and I have nowhere I need to be. No one is expecting me anywhere, and no one is remembering me, in honesty. That’s a lonely thought. I decide to push it aside.