L.A. Detwiler - The One Who Got Away

I blink a few times, thinking about last night, about the arm on my hand. I think about Jones and his reaction. I think about the blood-curdling feeling that all is not well on Floor Three, that this place isn’t quite what it seems. The faux homey appearance they try to create with the dusty, dried bouquets of flowers sitting on archaic stands in the hallways. The cheery-coloured paint in the common room, the bird cage with tiny finches near the lift. It’s all a façade to make us feel at home. But this isn’t home. And something tells me I might not want it to be.

Whoever was in my room last night had a warning, clear and painfully frightening. It’s not safe here. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that I see specks in the forced blackness. It’s nonsense. It must be. What real danger could there be in a place like this? Who would come here to carry out malicious plots? What would be the point, after all?

The harsh nurse drops off a tray a few moments later with a spot of tea, some eggs, beans, and what I suppose is meant to imitate breakfast ham. It looks rubbery and grey, an oozing film coating it in an unnatural, unappetising way. After wrestling with the thought of tucking myself back under the blanket and making this whole place disappear with sleep, I decide there’s no use. There will be no serene sleep today, my nerves battling my mind’s need to rest. I sit up wearily, gently folding the scratchy blanket back from my legs.

After plodding to the loo, I gather my strength to get dressed. I’m supposed to push a button to ask for help to change. I find that insulting. I have a heart condition and some forgetfulness that comes and goes. I am not a child. I slowly, painfully pick out an outfit from the chest of drawers, tucking myself into a plain grey pullover and some comfortable trousers. I don’t dare look into the mirror. Goodness knows I don’t need to be any more depressed than I already am.

I snatch the tea from the tray and I wander out of my room, glancing first towards the staircase. It still irks me that it’s locked. I take a breath, though, knowing it’s pointless to worry about it now. I need to focus my mind on other things. Thus, I turn to the right and set out for the common area, deciding that some exploring may do me good.

I plod onward, peeking into rooms here and there, the doors all flung open. When I get to Room 312, though, I notice the door is still shut. Odd , I think. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and wonder what curiosity the room holds. I’m tempted to reach out and touch the door knob, to peek in. I don’t, though. Wouldn’t do to make enemies here by intruding. Still, there’s something unnerving about Room 312, a murky horror that evades all reasoning. I don’t know what it is, but something about the door both lures me in and repels me with all its might.

I keep walking, passing a man in a wheelchair, his head slumped slightly backwards, his throat exposed. He rolls gently back and forth. His eyes pierce into mine, and I shudder, feeling like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Agony drips from his watery eyes. It seems like tears want to fall from them but can’t. Slowly, methodically, careful not to trip, I march on until I finally reach the common room.

‘There you are. We thought you escaped already,’ Dorothy announces, cackling over a cup of tea. Another lady sits beside her in a wheelchair, but she just stares up at me and grins. She’s missing an eye. I tell myself not to stare at the gaping socket, not to be rude. I sit down in an empty chair beside her, my tea in hand.

‘You look like you didn’t sleep a wink. Rough night?’ Dorothy asks.

I shrug, biting my lip. I wonder if I should tell her. I don’t know her yet. I don’t want people to think I’m – what? What would they think? I did nothing wrong.

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Some crazy things happened.’

‘Crazy in a good way?’ Dorothy asks.

‘Crazy in the way that someone was standing over my bed last night.’ I tuck a long, grey strand of my greasy hair behind my ear.

Dorothy shakes her head. ‘Babbling Barbara.’

‘What?’

‘Babbling Barbara,’ Dorothy repeats, slowly this time. ‘I could almost bet my life it was her. She’s the floor’s lunatic. She’s madder than mad. Been here since before me. I think she’s too bonkers to die, you know? She wanders this place like a vagabond. Not even sure the staff know where her room is anymore. She gets lost all the time, even at night. One time I caught her sleeping in my bed while I was in it. Frightening but harmless. Nothing to worry about, dear. Nothing at all. She’s truly not capable of hurting anyone, although her crazy babbling is enough to send even the sanest of us to the loony bin.’

‘She hurt me, and it was pretty frightening. Look what she did,’ I reply, rolling up my sleeve to show Dorothy my wounds.

‘Oh my goodness,’ Dorothy gasps as she shakes her head. She leans in to examine my arm more closely. ‘Barbara did this?’

I sigh. ‘I suppose, if it was truly her. Yes. It was awful. She mauled me and wouldn’t stop.’

Dorothy shakes her head. ‘She’s never done anything like this. It’s peculiar. She truly has been harmless. But goodness, that’s terrible.’

Dorothy’s gaze lifts from my arm, and as she stares into my eyes, I get the sense she’s telling the complete truth. She shakes her head again before sighing and moving on with the conversation. I want to shove the worrisome event aside, to pretend it didn’t happen. Still, as Dorothy blabs on about some of the soap operas she watches and her grandchildren, I stare into my tea, thinking about Barbara’s words.

You’ll die here. You will. Get out now. Get out while you can.

For a mad woman, they sure were coherent phrases. Why did she choose those words? Does she say them to everyone? And above all, if what Dorothy said is true, why am I the only one who has been attacked by her? It’s too frightening to think about. I try to forget the worries, but they sink their teeth into me, gnashing and grinding conspicuously in the recesses of my memory to be rustled out later.

‘It’s a shame you missed breakfast, you know? I would’ve introduced you to some of Floor Three’s finer residents. But don’t worry. There’s still time, of course. We’ve got plenty of time. Hopefully.’

The woman beside Dorothy chuckles at that, like it’s the funniest joke. I do not.

After a long while, I stand from the table. ‘I think I’ll go ring my daughter,’ I announce, suddenly feeling confined in this room. There’s too much furniture here. I don’t like how everyone is just sitting around. I need to be alone. I suddenly, mercilessly thirst for solitude.

‘Are you sure? I think the painting class starts in two hours. Be certain to come. It’s really fun. And the university boy they bring in is a real dream. If I were just a tad younger, I’d have a go at him. Give him something really special to paint.’ Dorothy winks before readjusting her glasses to underscore her point.

‘Okay,’ I reply, turning with my almost-empty Styrofoam cup, slightly surprised by Dorothy’s forward promiscuity. My fingers crunch the cup until a piece falls in on itself.

But before I even turn the whole way around and pointing in the correct direction, I startle, dropping the cup.

‘Get out while you can. Get out,’ she gurgles, her craggy face scrunched up as her finger wags in my line of sight. Her milky eyes are crusty today, the bright whiteness of them alarming in a foreign way in the light. The words strangle in my throat, and I’m suddenly sputtering and coughing, clasping my chest as I back up, almost upsetting the table.

‘Barbara, dear, you’re scaring Adeline. Stop it,’ Dorothy orders, standing from her chair.