The master at Grimhill would never willingly let me go anywhere. He treasured me too much as if I were a trophy he wanted to put on one of his shelves in the otherwise impersonal office. There is no way he would have willingly sent me to this hospital–or whatever it is–for fear of exposing what happens in the place that’s supposed to be an orphanage for lost children but, in reality, is anything but.
The only answer that makes sense for why I ended up here is the accident Mr. Ricci told me about. It’s the only reasonable option. The only sensible conclusion is that the master must have been desperate to keep me alive after the so-called accident, prompting him to send me here for medical attention. Neither the impact nor the sensation of the accident is etched into my memory. Maybe the painful memories should be left untouched; the sheer magnitude of their horror must be why my brain chose to forget.
However, if it was some kind of accident, surely someone else must have been admitted here too, or am I the only one?
The thoughts swirling around in my head do not ease the headache, in fact, they make it worse. I lean my head against the wall to take deep breaths, trying to ignore the fact that the room is spinning.
Despite the darkness and isolation, the room fills with a chilling, biting wind that seems to come from all directions.
Besides the pounding headache, the only other pain I can feel is in my lower back and buttocks from being forced to lie on the rock-hard floor for two days.
Shit, how did I even eat during those hours?
The grumbling starts right on cue as my stomach cries for food, twisting into knots from discomfort. If I could only have a mouthful of the repugnant, cat-spew-like dish they served us at Grimhill, I would be more than content right now.
A metallic whistle rings from the hinges of the door to my left as someone forces it open, and the same type of shoes I’ve seen before appear in the corner of my eye. I momentarily cease my rocking, my palms sweating as I struggle to stay grounded and quell my nervousness at encountering him again. Sometimes my mind drifts away as if a veil of serenity has descended, and I’m left with a fragile shell of myself in a place away from the world. This moment is one like that, and it takes all my energy to break away and find my place in the room again.
I inwardly reprimand myself because losing control in unknown environments is a dangerous game. After all, doing that can be a recipe for disaster I cannot afford.
I am Naya, I am twenty years old, and I have not always been crazy.
I find myself repeating the same phrase in my head over again. My brain seems to be etched with the words so that I can turn to them when the world around me seems cloudy and I feel powerless.
My body fills with newfound confidence when I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and when I open them, I’m able to look Mr. Ricci in the eye without hesitation. It would be very tempting to bash his skull in until he collapses on the floor with blood dripping down his face from his broken nose, and that urge is strong. A part of me longs for the sound of his whimpering as he cries out in pain. I would enjoy it as he would be in pain, however, I can’t seem to have fun at a place like this and have to be constrained.
It’s a fucking bummer.
“Lily, follow me.”
Something about the name causes anxiety to swirl in my stomach, and no matter how many times I wipe my hands on my dress, they stay sweaty and clammy. I can tell from the solitary stream of light shining through the crack in the door that I am the only one in the room. My eyebrows draw up to my hairline as I stare blankly at Mr. Ricci, who is looking at me with narrowed eyes, clearly not amused by my lack of reaction.
“I said now,” he grits through his teeth.
Technically, you didn’t.
Momentarily forgetting the name he uttered, I stand up and follow him through a corridor with the same stone walls and lamps that cast white light. The hall is as bare and bleak as the room I was in a moment ago; there’s not a single sign of life. It has no personal touches, paintings, or evidence of people living here. Across the gray slate floor is a matching wall, while a white clinker wall lines the narrow corridor on the other side with what looks like drain pipes that run along the wall and up to the ceiling. It’s at least relatively clean, but the previously painted white wall is covered in cream flakes, and the gray undercoat is still visible.
I hear another couple steps following me, and I turn back to see the guard. He holds a wooden bat in his hand as if to threaten me, and I quickly turn in the other direction again. I scurry after the taller man–who feels like a goddamn tree compared to my five-foot-nine inches.
Forty-eight fucking hours.
My life has been filled with so many hours of nothingness, and it’s like an endlessly echoing void. But then again, the last few months of my life have been a completely chaotic waste of time. It feels like my life has been thrown away, and sometimes I truly believe it has.
Maybe this place can be the new beginning I so desperately need, to leave the past in the past and keep my head focused on the future. However, I’m skeptical that this place will bring anything good.
When I think back on how different my life could have been today, I remember the time I wanted to attend university or travel the world–a dream I nurtured since I was just a child with aspirations beyond my wildest dreams. That hope had been a light in my life, but Grimhill extinguished the flame and never set it on fire again. Sometimes during the hardest moments of anxiety, I believe that my fate was always meant to be like this–to end up in a place where they destroy everything that I am, only to make me into a broken doll for their liking. Maybe my life hasn’t been my own at all, maybe I’m not the owner of my existence.
Despite not many people noticing the signs, I remain as maniacal as I have always been, and I don’t think anything will ever change that now. Nothing will erase the shadows within my head, a constant reminder that I’m still here and alive despite everything that has happened.
Despite everything I have done.
I don’t deserve to stand here today like a breathing human being. I don’t deserve to feel the sun kiss my skin, or the water pouring down on me on rainy nights. Becauseshewill never experience anything like that, but neither will the man who raised me until I was seven.
I cannot help but find it ironic that, after I was involved in an accident, I was brought here–how could I have been allowed to survive such an ordeal? The master is known for torturing and hurting everything he can whenever he gets the chance. That he would willingly let me live is absurd, and I cannot help but wonder what is really going on here, and why this Mr. Ricci is allegedly lying to me.
The corridor reverberates with the sound of many locks being opened, and then the large, heavy metal door opens with a high-pitched squeak that makes me wince. I’ve always had difficulty dealing with the piercing sound of high-decibel noises.
As we climb up the rusty staircase just beyond the door, the room’s heat increases as we ascend to the floor above. We venture further down an abandoned corridor, my feet drag across the dusty floor. After only a few steps, we find ourselves in a spacious area with a reception desk to the right and a door right in front of us that appears to lead to a long passageway.
