would never be full.
He was inside. Tiled walls rushed by. Fast, then faster, until the journey was indistinguishable from a roller-coaster ride. Space Mountain. Star Wars . Light speed. Neil wanted to scream, but he realized that his mouth had been clamped shut; leather straps wrapped his skull from crown to jaw.
The chair finally came to a stop in front of a closed door. Green paint flecked off its metal surface. From inside the room, he could hear someone crying. Weeping. Emitting great, gasping sighs. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see who was in there. But even through his eyelids, he watched the door swing slowly open. Someone pushed the chair into the room, then slammed the door closed with a whoom!
Through a high window, clouded daylight fell, illuminating the center of the small room but leaving its corners in shadow. The walls, the ceiling, and the floor were all dingy, puffy, and padded, once white. Flicking his eyes back and forth, Neil noticed long scrapes in the old pads where patients had clawed at the walls, trying to escape. Dark brown streaks painted the edges of the gouged fabric. He imagined broken fingernails, dried blood that no one had ever bothered to clean up. Then, from a shadowed corner, something moved. A voice cried out. No words. A sigh of frustration. A sob of misery. Hopelessness.
The light shifted. Someone was sitting there in the darkness, as if in her own mess, huddled, head down. Dressed in white. A coat with abnormally long sleeves pinned the person’s arms to her torso. Stringy, long hair covered her face, draped almost to the floor. Her shoulders shuddered.
Neil grunted, and the person froze, as if suddenly aware of his presence. The figure raised her head, peering at him from behind the wild tangle of hair. She gasped, leaned back against the padded wall, struggled to stand. Then she stumbled forward, barefoot, step step step step, all the way to his wheelchair, threatening to fall face-first into Neil’s chest. He pressed himself into his seat, unable to move, unable to cry out.
The person froze, examined him closely, sniffing at his face, his restraints. With the figure directly before him, Neil expected to smell rot, filth, stale breath. Instead, he experienced a recognizable aroma, not unpleasant: roses.
His mother’s perfume.
A lightning bolt of nausea melted his muscles.
The woman shook her hair from her face. Though the eyes that peered at him were puffy and red from weeping, they were instantly recognizable, even this desperate and wildly ecstatic.
“Honey,” whispered his mother. “Neil, baby. You’ve got to get us out of here.”
But how? he thought.
As if to answer him, she opened her mouth. A purple tongue lolled out, dripping noxious black liquid. This was no longer his mother’s face.
She leaned in, as if to kiss him, but at the last second, her cracked lips parted, showing him black gums and several clusters of long, sharp teeth. The brightest white in the darkness.
Neil awoke with a start, and when he did not recognize the room, he cried out quietly.
A moment later, his brain clicked everything into place again. He was at his aunts’ house. He’d had a nightmare. A bad one. He let it slip away, but several pieces stuck. The padded room. The figure in the corner. His mother’s plea. The horrible face. He took a deep breath, wishing for the glass of water he always remembered to keep next to his bed back home.
He froze, suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone.
Someone was crying. Here in his room. The faint sound seemed to have followed him out from the dream. But he wasn’t dreaming. In the darkness, he could make out a slumped figure sitting at the end of the bed. She wore a white nightgown. Long brown hair trailed down her back. Her hands were at her face, muffling her soft sobs.
“Bree,” Neil said. “What’s the matter?”
She flinched at the sound of his voice, then turned to look at him. Her face was in shadow, but he
He was inside. Tiled walls rushed by. Fast, then faster, until the journey was indistinguishable from a roller-coaster ride. Space Mountain. Star Wars . Light speed. Neil wanted to scream, but he realized that his mouth had been clamped shut; leather straps wrapped his skull from crown to jaw.
The chair finally came to a stop in front of a closed door. Green paint flecked off its metal surface. From inside the room, he could hear someone crying. Weeping. Emitting great, gasping sighs. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see who was in there. But even through his eyelids, he watched the door swing slowly open. Someone pushed the chair into the room, then slammed the door closed with a whoom!
Through a high window, clouded daylight fell, illuminating the center of the small room but leaving its corners in shadow. The walls, the ceiling, and the floor were all dingy, puffy, and padded, once white. Flicking his eyes back and forth, Neil noticed long scrapes in the old pads where patients had clawed at the walls, trying to escape. Dark brown streaks painted the edges of the gouged fabric. He imagined broken fingernails, dried blood that no one had ever bothered to clean up. Then, from a shadowed corner, something moved. A voice cried out. No words. A sigh of frustration. A sob of misery. Hopelessness.
The light shifted. Someone was sitting there in the darkness, as if in her own mess, huddled, head down. Dressed in white. A coat with abnormally long sleeves pinned the person’s arms to her torso. Stringy, long hair covered her face, draped almost to the floor. Her shoulders shuddered.
Neil grunted, and the person froze, as if suddenly aware of his presence. The figure raised her head, peering at him from behind the wild tangle of hair. She gasped, leaned back against the padded wall, struggled to stand. Then she stumbled forward, barefoot, step step step step, all the way to his wheelchair, threatening to fall face-first into Neil’s chest. He pressed himself into his seat, unable to move, unable to cry out.
The person froze, examined him closely, sniffing at his face, his restraints. With the figure directly before him, Neil expected to smell rot, filth, stale breath. Instead, he experienced a recognizable aroma, not unpleasant: roses.
His mother’s perfume.
A lightning bolt of nausea melted his muscles.
The woman shook her hair from her face. Though the eyes that peered at him were puffy and red from weeping, they were instantly recognizable, even this desperate and wildly ecstatic.
“Honey,” whispered his mother. “Neil, baby. You’ve got to get us out of here.”
But how? he thought.
As if to answer him, she opened her mouth. A purple tongue lolled out, dripping noxious black liquid. This was no longer his mother’s face.
She leaned in, as if to kiss him, but at the last second, her cracked lips parted, showing him black gums and several clusters of long, sharp teeth. The brightest white in the darkness.
Neil awoke with a start, and when he did not recognize the room, he cried out quietly.
A moment later, his brain clicked everything into place again. He was at his aunts’ house. He’d had a nightmare. A bad one. He let it slip away, but several pieces stuck. The padded room. The figure in the corner. His mother’s plea. The horrible face. He took a deep breath, wishing for the glass of water he always remembered to keep next to his bed back home.
He froze, suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone.
Someone was crying. Here in his room. The faint sound seemed to have followed him out from the dream. But he wasn’t dreaming. In the darkness, he could make out a slumped figure sitting at the end of the bed. She wore a white nightgown. Long brown hair trailed down her back. Her hands were at her face, muffling her soft sobs.
“Bree,” Neil said. “What’s the matter?”
She flinched at the sound of his voice, then turned to look at him. Her face was in shadow, but he
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