Insanity

PROLOGUE

OakHill Insane Asylum, 1958

If these walls could talk, I wonder what they'd tell me.

I wonder if they'd tell me that I'm certifiably insane. That the pills that are shoved down my throat every day are poison. That there's no need for this room with padded walls, straightjackets, metal restraints, barred windows, and boxed up dreams. That maybe I'm not as crazy as everyone thinks I am.

No...

I don't care what the staff tells me.

I. Am. Not. Crazy.

That's just ludicrous.

Ridiculous.

There's an internal tug of war going on inside of me between what's real and what's not. Perhaps I'm in denial or perhaps the pills that I'm force-fed everyday are making me delusional.

If I wasn't crazy they wouldn't have locked me up. I wouldn't shriek violently in the dead of night. The employees wouldn't stampede down the halls with syringes full of mind-numbing drugs to silence my violent screams and erase my memories.

But I keep telling myself that I am not crazy. That what the employees of the asylum keep telling me is total bull shit.

No, I am not crazy.

I can't be.

But if I wasn't I wouldn't be here, right?

So maybe...

I am.

Chapter One

I remember my first night here.

I remember the flickering lights on the ceiling that reminded me of bug zappers. The disenchanting vibe that was set from the way the dim lights danced along the neutral colored walls. More than anything, I remember the way they dragged me in here. Two orderlies, dressed from head to toe in white, clutching my elbows, escorting me down the darkened hall, barefoot and sobbing. Dirt and blood was caked up and ratted through my midnight colored locks, and smeared around the edges of my lime green dress.

I screamed in hysteria.

Cried with devotion.

And kicked with conviction.

They led me to sanitation area, ripped my clothes from my body, then hosed me down like a pig before it was sent to the slaughterhouse. A bar of soap whacked me on the side of the head after an orderly chucked it at me and told me to wash myself. I was too afraid to do anything. Too afraid to move. So I sat there for five minutes, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, my legs and arms twitching with spasms. Finally, out of impatience and anger the orderly stomped over and washed me instead.

I never felt more hopeless, more pitiful, or violated in a dirty kind of way.

After my seven-minute shower, without letting me dry off, they plastered a hospital gown on my wet body and led me to my room. Freezing I shivered, my teeth chattering while I pumped warmth back into my body with the friction from my hands. Nauseous, I swallowed the vomit inching up the back of my throat. Numb, I stared blankly ahead unable to concentrate. I remember thinking; if they kill people at this place, I hope they kill me soon.

They put me in solitary confinement, a small shoebox of a room with padded walls. They strapped me into a straightjacket. I fought the restraints. I screamed for help. I kicked one of the orderlies in the jaw.

You're a danger to yourself and others, they told me.

This is for your own good, your safety, they told me.

Here's the first thing I've learned since I arrived at the Oak Hill Asylum; when everyone thinks you're crazy, no one is going to listen to you. Either that or they'll make you their own personal pincushion and fill your veins with the kind of tranquilizing medicine they use on horses.

That night, my first night here, I shrieked all night long, tucked into a ball on my small, thin cot sobbing harder than I've ever sobbed before.

The funny thing is...

I haven't stopped since then.

Three weeks.

It has been three weeks.

I still don't know why I'm here.

What did I do to wind up in this place?

I ask myself this question multiple times every day and I can never find the answer.

Sometimes I hear a familiar voice inside of my head. Daddy's voice. You stay out of her head, you little fucker. You stay out of her bed, you little fucker.

But who is the little fucker he's talking about?

My daddy was a bad man. He was best friends with Jimmy, Jack, and a Mexican named Jose. He liked to drink with his three best friends. Sometimes he'd even get piss ass drunk with them. On rare occasions he was nice, usually when his friends weren't around. Sometimes he even led me to believe he loved me, I think.

When I was little, Daddy used to push me on a tire swing he'd made me. I'd tell him how I wanted to be a bird, a canary, because canaries are pretty and yellow and have beautiful singing voices. Mommy was around then and she always thought it was funny that I'd talk about canaries. And where would you fly, my little bird? she'd ask, kissing the top of my head with a chuckle.

Then I'd reply with, I'd fly to the moon.

Mommy, Daddy, and me laughed. We were a happy family.

Until one day I woke up and Mommy was gone.

And Daddy was never the same.

His friends used to come home with him occasionally and after a while they came home with him every day. I asked myself every day where my old Daddy went and thought about how bad I wanted him back.

But I never saw my old Daddy again. He left me, just like Mommy did.

I didn't like my new Daddy. One time, I just looked at him, giving him a sad look, tears glistening in my eyes. He looked back at me and for a second I thought I might catch a glimpse of my old Daddy. He stood up from his reclining chair, walked to me, and towered over me, squinting down at me. I opened my mouth to tell Daddy how much I loved him and that I missed my old Daddy and he's said, You look just like that whore mother of yours.

And then he slapped me across the face.

That treatment continued for the next eight years, but I learned to be quiet, to keep to myself. I learned to keep away from Daddy and obey him. Because I knew what would happen if I didn't.

Then one night, Daddy's friends were over and Daddy was getting aggravated. He had a little too much of them for one night. Daddy's friends made him do crazy things sometimes. That night, the night they brought me in here, Daddy pulled out his rifle, aimed it...

BANG!

Then everything goes black and the shrieking begins.

Plodding footsteps drown out the sound of my screams.

I try and tell myself to stop screaming, but it’s like my mind and emotions are at war with one another. Before I know it, the door to my cell swings open. Four people. There are four people approaching me, arms outstretched cautiously like I am some wild, ravenous beast in need of capturing.

Four people.

I have nothing to defend myself with except for two arms, two legs, and a sharp mind.

But four to one?

I am severely outnumbered. This is a battle I am going to lose. Still, even though I know I'll be defeated, determination pumps through me. I have never been the type to go down without a fight. Perhaps that's why I spent the last eight years letting my daddy beat me within an inch of my life. I never wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing that every time his fist connected with my jaw he didn't mentally break me.

Darting from my bed, I start for the door. Swinging hands swallow me and capture me in a net of firmness before carrying me back over to my cot. Thrashing my arms, I backhand a nurse, knocking the cap off her head and she grips the rounded collar of my hospital gown, cutting off my air supply for a second.

Hold her down! At the doctor's instruction a heavy-set nurse digs her kneecap into the small of my back and presses down.

No! Don't hold me down! Set me free! I don't belong here!

No! My voice is raspy and raw and dry, full of pent up fear and anger. No! I try to swat at someone behind me, but the two orderlies pin my arms to my cot. Wiggling, I try to free myself from their grasp, but the nurse with her knee in my back puts all of her weight on me shooting shivers of pain down my spine and immobilizing me.

Calm down, my doctor says. He has a soft, soothing voice, but it’s deadly.

I peek through stands of my ebony hair, watching the sweet, sweet mind-erasing fluid spout from the tip of the needle like a fountain. The drug speaks to me.

Forget who you are. Forget where you are. Forget why you were brought here. Forget everything.

I won't let them make me forget. I won't let them neutralize me and turn me into one of their empty robots.

I won't. I won't. I won't.

Keep still, Adelaide. This won't hurt. You'll only feel a pinch.

But that pinch will dilute everything. I panic, screaming louder, and thrash as hard as I can. The orderlies in front of me grip my wrists harder and I can only see one clearly through my strands of unwashed hair. Thick black hair, blue blue eyes, and toasted almond skin. He doesn't look at me like the chubby one with pale, ashy hair next to him is looking at me. He's not looking at me like I'm crazy. He's looking at me like he feels sorry for me. Like he wants to take me away from this gloomy prison and hide me from the doctors with needles and metronomes.

Please, Blue eyes.

Save me.

Be my prince charming.

My knight in shining armor.

Rescue me from the burning tower of depression, sadness, and misery.

He doesn't. He won’t. He can’t.

The needle plunges into my skin and I let out a whimper. The drug blasts through my veins and infiltrates my bloodstream, shutting every organ inside of me down for the night. Widening my eyes, I fight off the effects of the drug as it works its way through my body. I clench my fists defiantly, trying to scream again, but I'm too weak, too tired, and too overtaken by the drugs to do anything but moan inaudibly.

I hear the doctor. He’s talking to the members of the staff in the room. Just wait until it takes full effect. His voice is muffled, fading away, and pretty soon I can't hear him at all anymore. I think my door closes.

There's a ringing in my ears that I can't shut out. There's a hand on my wrist that doesn't let go. Before exhaustion takes over I look up. Blue Eyes is at the end of the bed. He releases my wrist and laces his fingers through mine. I squint as the sedative blurs my vision, begins to decapitate my mind, and then I notice the painful look in those blue blue eyes.

On top of the pain in the two blue gems there's familiarity.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

How could I forget him? He, of all people. The one person in the entire world who holds the key to my heart. The one and only person who has ever really loved me.

Then I remind myself that they feed and inject me with so many drugs, that it’s a miracle I don't forget who I am. I struggle to sound coherent, Damien?

He mouths something.

Six words.

Six words that seem too impossible to be true.

Six words that bleed hope into my soul.

Six words.

You're not crazy. I love you.

Chapter Two

~BEFORE~

There's a gentle breeze in the moist June air.

The humidity moistens the wisps of hair dangling from my loose ponytail and curls the tendrils at the nape of my neck. My tan slip clings to my damp body and it’s a sticky and uncomfortable feeling, but surprisingly I'm okay with it.

I throw my head back, listening to the sound of chirping crickets. It's early morning, around 7:00 and there are a few stragglers who haven't turned in yet. The sound soothes me, filling my ears with a calm that I don't get anywhere else but on my early morning walks.

Daddy leaves for work at 5:30 am. I'm not allowed to leave the house when he's home, so when I hear the front door slam behind him, I watch from my window as his 1953 Rambler flings up dirt and gravel and sails down the driveway. It’s not until that moment that I feel at ease. It’s not until that moment that the fear he's etched inside of me evaporates. Well, not permanently. But at least I get some peace for about nine hours.

At 6:30, I start walking.

I have no destination. No purpose other than wanting to break out of the prison I've lived in for the last eight years for a few hours. I've heard some people consider walking a leisurely activity or that they even do it for exercise. I'm envious of those people who have the freedom to make choices like that. Shall I take a walk? Go to the market? I roll my head back, allowing the blazing summer sunshine to overheat my pale cheeks. A depressing sigh exits my lips. Simple, mundane choices are gifts that I'll never receive.

I walk come rain or come shine. Whether it’s hot or cold out. We live in West Des Moines, Iowa. In Geography, I'd learned that our state was part of what was considered the Midwest. It gets pretty cold here in the winter months. And when most people would rather stay inside and bundle up next to a blazing fire and sip hot chocolate, I still walk.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have the courage to walk away and never come back. I laugh to myself whenever I think about this.

Where will I go? What will I do? What could any woman do in this day and age with no money and no completed education? I don’t graduate until next year.

I wish I knew the answer to those questions.

Miles and miles of farmland surround me. Acres of property. Fields full of corn. Bales of hay, rolled up and coiled on wide open plains. The sound of tires crunching against gravel pulsates in my ears and I lift my head as a bright red, convertible sails past me. I don't know much about cars, but I've seen a few people in town driving a car like this one. I'd heard them call it a Cadillac.

I know the boy in the car. Well not know him, know him; I know of him. I've heard his name on the lips of some of the girls I go to school with and I've seen him a few times, being that he's lived next door to me my whole life. Well, not really next door. About a half a mile next door. But that's as close of a neighbor as people get around here.

I used to think his house was a castle when I was a child and Mommy would drive me past it. There's a red brick wall surrounding the matching red brick mansion and I used to ask Mommy if a princess lived there. Nope, she'd answered with a chuckle. Two handsome princes.

Damien Allen. Even though he didn't attend school with the rest of the kids in the area—instead his rich parents sent him to some costly boarding school—that never seemed to stop the girls from gossiping about him. He was some kind of celebrity around town. His parents owned several tire factories, came from old money, and had two beautiful, dreamy sons. When Damien's older brother's engagement to some socialite from New York City was announced, I swear half of the girls went into mourning. But that left Damien as the town's most eligible bachelor.

We're the same age. Well, almost the same age. I know he's eighteen. I'm still seventeen, but I'll be eighteen in six months. I was born right before Christmas. A frown spreads across my lips and I try to replace it with a smile, but I come up short with a half-assed gesture. I'm thinking about Mommy. How she used to say, Adelaide, you're the best Christmas gift I've ever received.

I think about Mommy a lot. It always hurts. Sometimes I'd rather have Daddy hit me because even though the impact of his palm against my cheek is painful, that kind of pain eventually goes away. The pain of remembering my absent mother doesn't. Whenever I think of her, the pain begins as a tiny spot on the edge of my heart and after a while it spreads, hardens my heart, and turns the whole organ black.

I inhale and exhale, tears swelling in my eyes, anguish pooling in my stomach. I keep telling myself to think of something else. I keep willing the tears not to fall from my eyes, but it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself not to do something, my bodily functions never obey the commands I'm screaming at them in my head.

Two tears trickle down my cheeks and I close my eyes, raise my head, and allow the bright, radiant sunshine to dry them. Hey there.

A deep throaty voice sends a nervous wave throughout my body. Quickly I look to my right and wipe the remaining wetness from my eyes and blink several times. A few dangling tears drop onto the gravel and I swallow the thick layer of emotion that I know will be in my voice when I speak. I clear my throat several times and pinch my cheeks to make them look more sunburned than flushed. Hello, I croak then swallow again. Turning my head, I'm sure all of the color has drained from my face and I think I'm about to be sick.

Damien Allen's Cadillac rolls slowly in reverse, falling in line with my steps. His bronzed arm hangs out of the side of the car, and there's a cocky smirk on his lips. He's wearing sunglasses and when he removes them, my