Page 22 of Heart Sick

The walls are brick.

Rubbing my arms does nothing to keep out the cold. This place is a fucking prison.

Storming over to the door, I pound my fists against the solid wood. “You can’t keep me locked up like some animal! The moment I get out of here, I’m calling my lawyer!”

I’m greeted with silence.

“Fuckers!” I scream, kicking and pounding on the door. “This is so wrong! Let me out! You can’t treat people this way! This is fucking unethical!”

I kick and scream until I tire because it’s evident no one is coming.

Breathless, I press my back to the door and slide down it, accepting defeat. Wiping my nose, I feel the dry blood caked underneath. Peering at my hospital gown, I see it is slathered in deep red blood.

“At least Merlin had a good time.”

I dare not to breathe, almost afraid I imagined his voice.

“Bowie?” I softly ask into thin air, unsure if or where I heard his hoarse voice.

“Are you okay?”

A thankful sigh leaves me. He really is here.

My heart begins to quicken. “I’d be better if I were soaking in a bubble bath, using Noah’s head as a pillow.”

“Ooh, vicious.” A husky chuckle follows.

“Where are you?” I strain my eyes in the darkness, but can’t see anything.

“I’m under your bed.”

I arch a brow, confused.

Please don’t let the only person I trust in this place be insane.

“Look under the bed,” he instructs when I don’t reply.

With apprehension, I do so, plagued with images of Bowie jumping out and scaring me like a bad horror movie. But when I see a small vent in the wall, I sag, relieved.

I scamper over on hands and knees and try to move the wooden base, but of course it’s bolted to the floor. With no other choice, I lay on my side and slide as close as I can to the vent.

The dim lighting passing through the holes in the vent makes a hexagon pattern on the dirty floor. Reaching my arm out, I trace over the shape, counting each line. It transforms into a running horse before my eyes.

“We need to get out of here,” I say, realizing more time spent here will surely drive me insane.

“Yes, we really do.” His voice is smooth, like a neat scotch. It comforts me when all I’ve felt lately is desolation.

“How?”

Silence, and I know that’s because he is thinking of a plan.

“Who had you committed?”

Bowie has guessed me being here isn’t voluntary.

“My best friend. She thought it was for my own good.”

“How about you?”