Beautiful Nightmares (The Asylum Trilogy) Page 3

  We’re giddy.

  Always laughing.

  Always sneaking off to random places to steal kisses from each other or make love. We have date nights, breakfast together every morning, and when he’s not working, we have supper together on those nights.

  To me, this is a beautiful thing.

  To me, to find love again in general is a beautiful thing.

  I wasn’t sure that I’d ever find love again. Years of destruction, heartbreak, and pain can do that to a person. Years of being told that you’ll never be good enough for anything can have profound effects on any person, in my opinion.

  I’ve been cut down, destroyed, and demolished.

  Someone once told me that the human mind is like a temple.

  A sound structure.

  Compiled by bricks, cement, and straw.

  Built by sweating slaves after hours and hours of back-breaking labor.

  But I disagree…

  I disagree because even the most sound and well-built structures can crumble.

  I’ve had days where I felt like my mind was crumbling in the palms of my hands and I was frantic, with fear and desperate with trembling fingers to put the pieces back together.

  I felt like that until my husband saved me.

  I want to cherish the way I feel about Elijah forever.

  I’m watching him now as he plays the violin. We’re in the library. I’m sitting on the edge of his desk, wearing my pale pink satin night dress. He’s three feet away from me in the middle of Mozart’s Requiem. I’ve always admired the passion in him when he plays any instrument. The way his eyes are just barely closed. The crease in his brow. The way he takes his bottom lip between his teeth. And the way he moves with the music he’s making. It’s almost like he’s one with the haunting melody, two metal chain links fused together.

  When he finishes the song, he mock bows to me and I smile exuberantly, applauding. “Well done, Mr. Watson,” I say with a slight nod.

  He stands up straight and grins. “Thank you, Mrs. Watson.”

  After he puts the violin away he saunters over to me, spreading my legs with a thrust of his hips.

  With gentle hands and soft fingertips he tucks my hair behind my ears as a pink flush spreads across my cheeks. “I love the way you look without make-up,” he tells me in a hushed tone. “Have I ever told you that?”

  I flash him a flirtatious look through my thick bevy of dark lashes and smirk. “You tell me all the time, love.” He does too. Almost every night before we go to bed. He also tells me that I shouldn’t wear it all, but that’s his opinion. Growing up, Daddy always said that only harlots wore make-up so I was never allowed to wear it. Now that I’m able to, I like to indulge in painting my face up a little. I don’t wear much, but still.

  There’s a hint of desire flickering in his gold eyes and he leans in closer, his lips fluttering overtop of mine. He’s shirtless and my fingers glide across his abs, his body heat burning my fingertips before traveling to the other parts of my body and setting me on fire.

  My hands slip away from his abdomen and rest just above his hips. “Come closer,” I whisper.

  Elijah smirks greedily then places both hands on my inner thighs before pressing his body against mine. “Is this close enough, Mrs. Watson?”

  Wrapping my arms around his back, I move forward, my lips a breath away from his ear. “No.”

  With that, he lifts my night dress, positions his right hand on the small of my back, holding me into a half lying down, half upright position before assaulting my mouth with mind-numbing twirls of his tongue against mine. His fingers twist through my raven locks and he pants against my ear.

  In one swift motion, he grabs me from underneath my thighs, pulls me closer until I’m so close that our bodies are almost welded together. I stare into his eyes, and I’ve had moments where I’ve felt like I could swim in his seas of honey for an eternity. I’ve had days where stolen glances between us were all I could think about. And I’ve had nights when I’d lie alone in bed yearning for him.

  He works a lot. I hate that he’s on the night shift. So when he have time together for intimate moments like this, I cherish them.

  I hold them close to my heart.

  I implant them into my mind, weighing them down with chains so they won’t move.

  “I want you,” he whispers as his warm breath travels down the back of my neck.

  I shiver out of pleasure, want, and delight. “You say that a lot.” The words leave my throat in a light, raspy cluster.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  I’m captivated by the fact that he knows how to say all the right things.

  Touch me in all the right ways.

  Kiss me like he’s dehydrated and I’m the glass of water he needs to quench his thirst.

  Elijah kisses my neck and I throw my head back, swept up in the passionate moment between us. I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip as he leaves a trail of kisses from my neck to my collar bone.

  “I love you,” I tell him, but my words come out strained. “I love you,” I say a second time, but the words come out all jumbled together.

  “Enough talking.” He silences me with his lips on mine.

  And within seconds were lost in a sea of entangled limbs, breathless pants, and thrusting hips.

  Chapter Six

  ~After~

  If the Oakhill Asylum was an arm, fleshy and layered with muscle, veins, and fat, the minute someone took a scalpel to it and sliced it open with intent and purpose they’d notice something odd about the blood that seeped out of it.

  It wouldn’t be red.

  Red is the color of passion, the color of life.

  It is illustrious.

  And flowing.

  So if Oakhill were an arm it wouldn’t bleed red.

  It would bleed black.

  A never-ending, lonely abyss of a color that only means one thing in my book…

  Death.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m living in an internal graveyard. Sometimes I feel like the patients roaming the halls are just souls that haven’t found their way into heaven. There are days where I find comfort in the tortured screams that echo down the corridors because they remind me that I’m not dead…

  Yet.

  I keep my eyes glued to the floor as two burly orderlies escort me to my doctor’s appointment. I watch our three shadows as they dance along the tan tiles and think to myself that these weekly appointments are pointless.

  Useless.

  Dull.

  Not educational.

  I can’t remember my past. And the parts I do remember only bring on memories that are painful, destructive, heartbreaking, and miserable. I think of Damien in these moments. I think of the way I held him while he took his last breaths. The way I felt the warmth slowly pour out of his skin as my fingers skimmed across his cheek.

  How I gazed into his sapphire eyes with will and determination in my own, urging him in a silent way to fight for his life.

  But it was too much.

  It was too late.

  And I had to realize that guns have more power that love, hope, or prayer ever will.

  The thought of this always saddens me to the point where tears well up in my eyes and I have to raise my chin and blink them back to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks. I have moments where I have to tense up because if I don’t, I know that I’ll collapse into an emotional heap onto the floor and sob and shake and sob and shake until my limbs are like putty and my tear-ducts are all dried out.

  I snap to attention when the orderlies on each side of me come to an abrupt halt. Lifting my head, I stare straight-forward as they escort me through the double doors of my doctor’s office. The walls are white and bare. There’s no clutter on the desk. No pictures.

  Just four plain white walls that remind me of the walls in my cell.

  Two chairs with black cushioned seats.

  A large rectangular cherry colored desk.

  And a chai
r with wheels behind it.

  I’m shoved into one the black cushioned chairs and I gawk up at the orderly to my left when he says, “Wait here.”

  My eyes scour over him and then I look at the orderly to my right. He’s staring straight ahead with a sour look on his pudgy face. These two are my usual escorts anytime I have to come here. They never speak. They’re like robots and it’s almost if their creator opened them up and wired them with purpose so they wouldn’t.

  Don’t talk to the nut jobs.

  You can’t.

  You mustn’t.

  If you do it’s a crime…

  And I’m sure they’ve been told they’d be penalized if they do.

  My eyes drop to the floor when the orderlies turn to leave and the sound of their plodding footsteps against the hardwood floor throbs in my ears. It’s right before they get out the door that I hear one of them mumble, “God help that one.” And at that moment, I think about jumping up from my chair, racing toward him, tackling him, and showing him what the real meaning of crazy is all about.

  But I don’t.

  I remain seated and lift my head, my eyes drilling into the plain white walls. I think to myself; what a simple minded asshole.

  But they’re not the only ones that do it….

  They are not the only staff members that talk about the patients in a derogatory way.

  They say, we’re all, nut…nut…nuts!

  Just tie em down and feed em pills!

  The funny thing is that they think we don’t hear them.

  We do.

  I do.

  What I’d really like to say to them is; please don’t judge me unless you know what it’s like to walk a mile in my shoes.

  And I’ve had a hard life.

  And I’ve walked a lot of miles.

  Sometimes when I hear a crazy jab I think about asking the staff member if they have any regard for other people’s feelings? Then I talk myself out of it because deep, down inside I already know the answer.

  They don’t.

  Wrangling patients into their cells every day is paycheck for them. Caring about them isn’t an added bonus.

  My thoughts are interrupted when I hear heels clicking against the wood and I peer over my shoulder at my doctor. Long, tan legs. Black stilettos and a matching tee length black dress, covered by a white lab coat. A shoulder length coal black bob that curls under at her neckline.

  Vivian Swell.

  Dr. Vivian Swell.

  The name Vivian Swell reminds me of some cinematic starlet. Not a woman who cures the crazies.

  “Good morning, Adelaide,” she greets me with a monotone yet chilly tone to her voice and I keep my eyes on her as she walks around the side of her desk. Then she sits down in her chair, the same chair that belongs to Elijah, and crosses her long legs. “Do you remember where we left off on Friday?”

  I make eye contact, my eyes bore into her dark chocolate eyes and search for some kind of sympathy in them and there isn’t any.

  I don’t like Vivian Swell.

  To her, it doesn’t really matter if I make progress or not. How do I know this? By her actions. She doesn’t try any extensive therapy sessions. Whenever I talk she simply nods and it always seems like she isn’t even paying attention. She gives me answers like; I see and continue. She reminds me of Dr. Morrow with her no regards for people attitude except she doesn’t display any cruel behavior.

  “Well, Adelaide?” she probes, lifting an eyebrow.

  I blink and respond with, “Aren’t you supposed to know that?”

  A faint smile spreads across her lips and she shakes her head the slightest bit. “We’re not working on trying to get my memories to return, Adelaide,” she states. “It’s up to you to try and remember the sort of things we discuss during our sessions.”

  I clench my jaw and clasp my hands together in my lap. “Right.” I purse my lips together and let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t remember where we left off.”

  “Very, well then,” she says as she pulls open the top left desk drawer and pulls out a manila colored folder.

  It’s that moment that I realize that I don’t dislike this woman particularly just because of the reasons I’ve listed above. I dislike her because she’s not him.

  She’s not Elijah.

  Over the last couple months since I’ve been seeing her, I’ve requested repeatedly to be put in his care. I’ve tried to explain to her that my sessions with him are pertinent in order for me to make a full recovery and be able to remember my past. I’ve tried to tell her that I need him in ways that she’ll never understand.

  Because he knows me.

  He gets me.

  He loves me.

  At least that’s what he led me to believe and I can’t understand why a person would lie about something like that.

  During the first month of my sessions with her, I’d come in and ask, “Where’s Dr. Watson?” At first, she’d brush off the question by ignoring me and me, well, I don’t respond to that well. If someone asks me a question, I always answer it. So I’d ask again, “Dr. Swell, where is Dr. Watson?”

  And after the first couple months of the same answer, I stopped asking. Mainly because every

  time she answered, I felt a sharp stab of pain puncture my heart. She’d respond with the same four words every time she answered me.

  Five words.

  Five excruciatingly painful words that made me spend an entire month questioning my sanity.

  Five words that wrapped around my lungs like a steel tourniquet and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until I forgot what it was like to breathe.

  Five words.

  The.

  Same.

  Five.

  Brutal.

  Words.

  “There is no Dr.Watson.”

  So now…I don’t inquire about him anymore.

  Chapter Seven

  ~Before~

  A little piece of good news can change a person’s entire day.

  I’m pregnant.

  Elijah and I are going to be parents.

  I’m over the moon with excitement.

  In fact as I drive home from the appointment with my obstetrician, I feel like I’m glowing. On top of that, the sun is shining brighter, the grass seems a little greener. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. My only hope is that Elijah will be as happy as I am.

  However, I do have my doubts about that.

  I’ve mentioned the want to have children several times and he always changes the subject or ignores me entirely when I talk about it. I know my husband. I used to think he was a very complex man, but I don’t think that so much anymore.

  I know he’s afraid. He’ll never admit it, but I know his fear stems from issues with his own father and him not wanting to turn out that way.

  I think his fears are ridiculous though.

  Elijah has told me stories about his father and I know with certainty that Elijah is nothing like him. His father was brutal, tyrannical, callous, and vicious. Elijah couldn’t be more opposite. He is a good, kind, loving yet guarded man.

  He’s sleeping when I arrive home and I decide to wait for him in the kitchen. I take a seat at our circular table, unable to hide the smile pulling at my lips. I don’t have to wait very long. About twenty minutes after I’ve taken my seat, Elijah strolls into the kitchen, scratching the back of his head and staring at me, puzzled. “What are you so excited about?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his deep voice.

  I’m beaming as I slide the paper across the table that the doctor gave me. “I have some wonderful news,” I say and try not to squeal.

  Elijah opens the refrigerator door and pulls out the milk as he swipes the paper from the table with his right hand. He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye as he chugs the milk and raises the paper to be level with his eyes.

  “And what news might that be, Mrs. Watson?”

  “I’m pregnant!” I blurt the words out with so much force that I p
ractically scream them. But I don’t care. I’m too excited to contain myself.

  I wait for Elijah to partake in this joyous occasion, and I’m not prepared for the reaction he gives me.

  I’m not prepared to watch the amused look fall from his face. I’m not prepared to watch as the glass jug of milk to slip out his grasp and shatter all over the tiled checkerboard kitchen floor. And I’m definitely not prepared for him to look at me, disappointed, like the pregnancy is all my fault.