Beginning

I wonder if it’s true that before you die your life flashes before your eyes. I hope not. I have a feeling that the life that would flash before my eyes would be very empty and lonely, mostly pathetic, and totally not worth reliving. My life, so far, has turned out thus, and probably won’t be changing for the better anytime soon.
         If I had to give someone an accurate story of my life, there would only be three great occurrences between long expanses of blah. And when I say ‘great’ I mean important, not wonderful or powerful or really good.
         The first was on September the 29th, 2003. I had just started my fourth grade year of school, and was a pretty normal, happy girl. That didn’t last long. Right after I settled in for school, and steeled myself for another year of learning and social interaction, my life changed. Not for the better. I learned, that day, that I was a special brand of human. An abnormal, abhorred brand. I learned, simply, that I could hear what other people were thinking. That was the first great occurrence.
         The second was three and a half months later. On January 12th, 2004. The day that my mother divorced my father and left, taking most of the money, the house, and the car. She also took the lawyer, whom she married soon after. She’s a lovely woman, really.  Way deep down inside the black pit of her soul. But no hard feelings. That left me, a freak of nature, and my penniless father to fend for ourselves. Of course, Dad didn’t believe me, didn’t want to believe me, when I said that I could tell what he was thinking. So I was signed off as one of those schizoid people. Lucky me.
         That leads to the third occurrence. The day I got shipped to a mental hospital for my supposed schizophrenia. February 3rd, 2004. Now, this day wouldn’t have been very special, besides the change in scenery, if it did not also include a second event; my dad’s apartment building setting on fire. There was this guy, see, who snapped and tried to burn the lot of the tenets. As it turned out, he only  succeeded in killing three people. A three year old child and his mother, and my dad.
         That last event, my father’s death, took a toll on me. It truly did. I wouldn’t care one way or another if my mother or her husband died. But they’re still alive, and healthy, living somewhere in California. Suddenly, I was alone for the first time in my life. Well, aside from the other crazies and the psychiatrists.
         
         When I awoke it was to the smell of my room. Which meant burnt coffee and pressed bed sheets. My two favorite scents in the world. Not. I stretched and yawned. The motion sensitive camera in my room swiveled to regard me, and I turned to it and flipped it off with both hands, in a casual ‘good morning’. Maybe whoever was watching would get the picture and not send someone to check on me. It was a vain hope. And I knew who would be coming.
         There was a knock on my door and then Chris barged right in. He already looked a little bit flustered, his white shirt crumpled and a little bit of flush on his cheeks. Maybe he had recently had a little trouble with another patient. Or maybe with his boss. I hoped for the second. He opened his mouth, and I said the words for him. Proving that I was not crazy, once again. I really could read minds. “Good morning to you too, Aurora. You know, obscene hand gestures aren’t really very nice.” He paused, his eyes popping a little out of their sockets. But he recovered fast. He was used to me being able to ‘guess’ what he was thinking. I continued for him, after his initial pause. “You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s rude not to let me talk. Maybe we’ll just have to get someone to up your dose of angry meds.” By ‘angry meds’ he referred to the medicine I took to help me control my temper. Unfortunately for me, my temper really wasn’t any part of my ‘schizophrenia’; I was just naturally obstinate. Still, the meds made me really tired, and dopey, and it was no fun schlepping all over the place like a druggie. I liked to be aware at all times.
         I frowned, but said nothing, which was customary. According to the specialists, that was part of my mental disease also. Something about being antisocial and distant. I wasn’t really distant, I just didn’t want to talk about anything with these people. And it seemed their favorite subject to torture me with was my father’s death. How stupid could they be? They knew how tore up about it I was, and still pressed to make me reveal my inner feelings. I hated it here.
         Chris approached me casually, but he was cautious. One never knew when a patient would go a little zanier than usual and attack. “Okay, let’s get you dressed.” I said it, and I saw a vein twitch on his forehead, near his left temple. He really disliked it when I spoke for him. That’s why I made a point of doing so. I held up one hand. This time, I spoke for myself. I did talk occasionally when I needed to. “You know good and well, pervert, that I do not need help dressing. So get out of here until I say you can come in again, and no barging in prematurely.” He frowned, but gave up and left the room. He was so weird. Why he insisted on being one of my helpers, I didn’t know. I would be perfectly happy with someone else. Truthfully, I would be just plain happier with someone else. Maybe I should complain and get him on parole or something.
         I crossed my room, opened my dresser, and got out a pair of light blue scrubs. They were big into scrubs here. Apparently, it was hard to hurt yourself, or others, with scrubs because they didn’t have zippers or buttons or anything. Plus, they were pretty darn comfortable. The camera followed me. That was another thing I didn’t like. The camera watching while I was getting dressed. There was no privacy here.
         I pulled out all the dresser drawers and left them open, so that they halfway shielded me from the camera. Then I hunkered down and hurriedly dressed, pulling off the old clothes and putting on the new. After my clothing was firmly in place, I closed the drawers again and padded over to the door. Then I rapped, three times.
         Chris opened the door sulkily and took my hand, leading me out into the hallway. I grabbed my own hand back and scowled at him. He scowled back. “I could get in trouble for leaving you in there alone,” I said for him, and his frown deepened. “I’m serious! You could be dangerous to yourself. That’s why you’re here.” I ignored what he said, which was funny because I was the one who really said it, and we descended in an elevator to the first floor, which held the cafeteria. It was breakfast time.
         I went to my normal table and sat, under watch of Chris. He didn’t like me to do anything for myself, even get my own food. It was his excuse for staying by my side at all times. I gestured to him and he left for the line. Every once and a while he would look back at my table, to make sure I was still there. For all the mind reading, I didn’t understand what his issue was. He was so. . . protective over me. Like I belonged to him and him alone.
         He came back with two trays. His and mine. On mine, there was a pancake with no syrup, a bowl of fruit, a plastic cup of milk, and a          mass of scrambled eggs. I got this everyday. On his, there were two bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwiches, a pile of toast, a carton of orange juice, and three little hash browns. His tray also held a knife and two forks; silverware. I waited while he patiently diced my pancake for me. I wasn’t allowed to touch the knife, or at least he told me that. He liked to think that I was dependent on him. As if. I let him do the stuff for me because it was easier than him throwing one of his fits because I wouldn’t listen to him. After he was done, he handed me my fork, which was plastic of course, and we dug in.
         I was finished before he was done with his first sandwich. I was a fast eater. Chris had a habit of taking any food he thought I didn’t want. He would eat my tray and his if I let him. So I didn’t let him. I just snarfed down the food, which tasted pretty good, actually, and sat and waited for him to finish.
         That was another thing. Most of the patients here didn’t have to have supervision when they ate. Only the ones who were too dangerous to be trusted with plastic cutlery had to have a helper sitting at their table. And I wasn’t one of those tenets. Chris sat with me because he wanted to. I didn’t know why. I didn’t feel anything for the guy except mild contempt, and that wasn’t exactly a good basis of friendship. Still, he insisted on sitting with me. And it was easy enough to ignore him, while he was eating. It was one of the only times he didn’t talk to me.
         I looked around, but there was nothing much to see. I was one of the late risers, so most of the people had already came through and eaten their breakfast. There were only a couple stragglers here and there, and they just moped around all sleepy-eyed. Instead of looking upon them while they drooled on the table, I turned and looked outside. That was one of the reasons I sat at this table. It was in a corner, surrounded on two sides by window. A good way to see outside and feel the sun. I could go outside anytime I wanted, besides when I had appointments, but somehow I didn’t want to. Chris insisted on going with me, and he couldn’t just go outside and sit and enjoy the fresh air. He had to hike or play volleyball or swim, and always made sure I got roped into the activities with him. Ugh.
         I was looking outside when I saw the disturbance. A white van pulled up - everything relating to this hospital was white, it seemed - and two men hurriedly got out. They went to the back of the van and opened the doors. One of them climbed inside, and they lowered something to the ground. It was a stretcher, and whoever was on it wasn’t happy. I could see that the person was fighting and straining against their restraints, causing the stretcher to jump and wobble. The two men shut the van doors and quickly pushed the stretcher towards the building. I watched interestedly until they were out of sight. Then I got up and walked away from the table to the edge of the cafeteria. I peered down the hallway. In the distance, I thought I heard a disgruntled “hey!” from Chris as he realized I had left him, and then heard his shoes trampling across the floor to me. “Warn me before you leave!” he said angrily, but I wasn’t paying attention. At that moment, the hallway erupted into a cacophony of noise.
         It sounded, at first, like random yelling and rustling and snapping, but after a second I realized someone was spilling cusswords out of their mouth so fast and loud that it was hard to understand them. This person was very creative. While Chris listened with his eyes wide and mouth open, I noted down a couple of the more colorful phrases. I might find use for them in the future. I also noted that the voice was male. That meant that the new arrival was a dude.
         The reason I was standing here instead of sitting at my table was because standing here I would get a front row view of whoever had been brought in. Similarly to me, the other people left in the cafeteria filed over, waiting for the show. Whoever was yelling was going to be wheeled right past here, to get to the elevators that would bring them to the top floor, which was a floor for new patients, so that they could get accustomed to life here and settle down. It was also a place for the wickedly violent or otherwise dangerous, with tiny rooms that were somewhat like solitary confinement cells in prisons. I had a feeling this newcomer was going to be staying in one of those cells for a long, long time.
         Suddenly a mass of people turned the corner. It consisted of the man on the stretcher, who was now repeatedly yelling “I’m not crazy! Let me go!” and other similar phrases, laced by cussing, and the two other men who had brought him in, plus the head psychiatrist and the man who doubled as the head director and doctor. This was exciting, kind of, for the more morbid tenets because they enjoyed watching other people get into trouble as much as small children did. As it was, I was interested, but also sympathetic. Though this guy did seem at least slightly crazy, from his screaming, I knew what it was like to be brought here against your will, and could somewhat sympathize.
         The party reached us, and I leaned forward to get a good look at the new guy. I stared, shocked. He was handsome and young, probably twenty years old or less, in peak physical condition. Not the usual patient. Normally they were old, ugly, or impaired, and this guy hardly fit the bill. I was the only one in this hospital that was under thirty years old, next to this guy. His eyes were wild, stormy blue and very wide, his hair deep brown and ruffled. His muscles strained against the straps, and, as I looked on in awe, he snapped one of them. The people watching, myself included, were hushed with an eerie sort of silence. Even Chris wasn’t complaining or muttering, he was just staring, like the rest of us. The group passed, and I padded out into the hall after them. The man continued to scream and fight, and I thought I heard another strap break. And then they were all loaded into the elevator, the door closed, and they vanished into the upper reaches of the hospital.
         The silence that was left behind was so complete after the earsplitting racket that you could have seriously heard a pin drop. It lasted like that for a good three minutes, no one moving, no one talking, just looking at the elevator and listening for long-gone noise. And then the muttering started, and the episode became a thing of gossip. “He must have been strong as a bull,” I heard someone say excitedly, and secretly agreed. Not just any strength could break through those straps. They were two inches thick and reinforced with leather. That man was scary strong. He could be a big problem to the people of the hospital, to helpers like Chris, if he wanted to be.
         The nasally voice of Mrs. Shreeder, the head nurse/helper, came over the intercom. “All helpers to the observation room on the third floor, room seven. All helpers to the observation room for room seven on the third floor.” Chris looked from the elevator to me, and back again. As much as he wanted to stay with me and finish breakfast, he was obliged to go to the third floor if he was called. I saw my chance to become part of the action and took Chris’ hand.
         “Take me with you. Please?” He hesitated, then nodded, and we moved towards the elevator. I was going to get to watch something truly interesting, for once. Chris was so easy to manipulate; all I had to do was give him puppy eyes and he let me tag along wherever I wanted to go.
         We boarded the elevator, and went up. Up to the third floor. I had only taken this ride once before. The first day that I got here. The day, nearly five years ago, that my father died. It was interesting, to be riding up again. I still remembered how angry I had been that he had sent me here. Now I realized that I was lucky I had been sent. If I had stayed at home, I might have died in the fire. Weird. Dad had unknowingly saved my life. My throat felt suddenly tight, my eyes wet. I turned away from Chris and wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. And then the elevator doors dinged open, and we proceeded into the hallway.
         This part of the hospital was different. It wasn’t as “cheery” as the rest of the place. The windows were barred, everything was nailed down, and the doors stayed locked almost twenty-four seven. It was intimidating to stay here. I knew. I had been up here for a week before they let me out. At first I had been too  shocked by my father’s death to do anything. After that, I had been angry, and depressed. An interesting combination. One minute I’d be trying to claw Chris’ eyes out with my fingers, the next I’d be crying onto his shoulder. It had been a strange time. I still remembered what the head psychiatrist used to chant to me everyday. He would say ‘Get better and you’ll get down from here.’ Meaning, behave and you’ll get to stay on a lower floor. He had kept his promise. After I had settled down some, I had been moved to my current room on the second story. After all the tension of living in a holding cell, my new room had seemed like a hotel room in heaven. A silver lining to the rain clouds, and all that. Maybe it was planned like that. Freak out the patients, settle them down, and then put them someplace comforting. Like winning their trust, or something.
         We got to room seven. There was a dent on the handle. Maybe the stretcher had bounced into it on the way in. Maybe not. One never really knew what went on up here, besides the cameras. It was just like that. Instead of going in that door, we went to the unmarked one next to it. Room seven up here was one of the rooms coupled with an observation room. So that the helpers could study the patients and get the gist of their attitudes without putting themselves in harm’s way. Besides the creepy factor, it was a good idea and it made sense. That didn’t mean that the patients thought it was fair, but, then again, no one really cared what we thought anyway.
         Chris used one of his keys to open the door and let us in. “Now don’t talk and do what I say,” he ordered, all important. I didn’t bother talking for him, this time. I was too interested in the new guy. I shrugged as a response and found myself a place to lean against the wall. Chris hovered by my side, occasionally laying a hand on my shoulder or grasping my elbow when someone walked by or switched their position. Protective. Sigh. The room was already nearly filled with people. There were a couple patients, tagalongs like me, and twelve helpers, beside Chris. Then there was the head psychiatrist, Mr. Beckert, and the head director/doctor, Mrs. Thompson. There were also the two men who had brought the new patient in. One of them, it looked like, had a broken nose. Or at least it was bleeding. The other was sitting, and was holding an ice pack to his knee. I winced. I hadn’t been looking at them when they had first arrived, so hadn’t noticed their condition. Apparently, they had had some trouble getting the guy onto his stretcher.
         Mrs. Thompson called order, and they began their meeting. They were discussing which room to put “Maxwell Grey” in, and were going over safety procedures and first aid and things of the like. I tuned them out and focused on “Maxwell Grey”. Now that I knew his name, I didn’t have to call him the new guy anymore.
         He was still strapped to the stretcher. Maybe they were waiting for him to calm down before letting him move freely. Looking at the guys who had strapped him down in the first place, I thought that was an intelligent endeavor. He was holding very still now, but his chest was heaving. Maybe they were waiting for him to pass out from hyperventilation. A small smile touched my lips, but it was lost in a moment as I heard a name ring through my head, clear as day. It had come from Maxwell.
         Aurora Rena. I was caught off guard. That was my name. Why was Maxwell thinking my name? I’d never heard of him before, why would he know me? He seemed to gather himself, and then he wasn’t just thinking it, he was saying it. He was quiet enough, at first, that nobody who wasn’t really paying attention wouldn’t have heard. But he soon gathered enough wind to really project. And then he was screaming it. “Aurora Rena, Aurora Rena, Aurora Rena, let me talk to Aurora Rena! Let me talk to her, let me talk to Aurora Rena! I have to talk to Aurora Rena! Bring her to me!”
         There was silence in the observation room. And then all eyes turned to me. I felt like I was plastered to the wall. Why would some crazy guy want to talk to me? How did he know my name? I was so upset that I couldn’t concentrate on  his thoughts; I couldn’t make out what he was thinking, much less how he knew me. And then the room burst into noise. This chorus of voices and opinions added to Maxwell Grey’s demanding, and it was hard to hear. Then, over all, another voice was shouting. “No, no, no, no, no! Absolutely not! Aurora is not going anywhere near that guy! He’s dangerous!” It was, of course, Chris. Once again looking out for my better interests. But this time I secretly agreed with his verdict. I didn’t want to be left in a room with Maxwell Grey. In his state, I might not survive the encounter.
         Of course the heads of the hospital agreed full-heartedly with Chris, but not everyone was convinced. Some wanted to hand me over and see what would happen. Of course they received many a dirty look during the discussion. After that, they were talking about my safety. It was obvious something was wrong with Maxwell, and he might turn homicidal if we were put into the same room. Finally, it was decided that, for my own good, I would be locked in my room while Maxwell calmed down. If he somehow escaped his room and went looking for me, things could get ugly. And then, after a week or two when it was certain he neither cared heads nor tails about me, I would be set free to roam the grounds like I normally did. I wanted to protest, but couldn’t find it in myself to. I was so used to not talking to these people, and I was admittedly afraid of Maxwell. He hadn’t sounded happy when he was yelling out my name.
         Chris was solemn on the elevator ride down. He had been the first to ask me if I knew Maxwell Grey. I had shaken my head, and he had taken my hand and squeezed it. I felt paler than usual, and my mind was buzzing, making me dizzy. So many questions were popping into my head, and none of them were getting answered. It was an immense relief to get back into my room. Chris bade me farewell, somewhat reluctantly, and then I calmly walked to my bed and threw myself onto it.
         For a long time I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. I thought I heard, very distantly, a voice screaming out my name, but that might have been my imagination. I felt cold, and covered up with the sheets, then eventually with a blanket and the comforter. No matter what I did, my body continued to shiver. Whether I was actually physically cold, or I was shivering in fear, I did not know. I had hardly any reason to be afraid of Maxwell; I hadn’t been scared like this before I knew that he knew my name. But it chilled to think that he knew I was in this hospital. Maybe he had memorized all the patients’ names. But why would he want me, and not anyone else? It made no sense.
         When I finally did fall asleep, in was in the early hours of the morning, and it didn’t last long. It couldn’t have been more than two hours later that I awoke again, drenched in sweat, the remnants of a nightmare fading into my subconscious. After that, I didn’t try to sleep again. I just sat on my bed and looked out the window, willing myself to get a grip. Maybe I was a little crazy. Wasn’t one of the signs of schizophrenia being obsessed that people were out to get you? The thought that I might not really hear thoughts, that I might actually have a mental disease, didn’t help my unease. So I spent the rest of the time sitting on my bed, my knees brought in to my chest, wondering. Could I be crazy?
         When Chris came in the morning, it was to find me lying on my side, staring out into space. He called my name and I didn’t answer; I was in an exhausted sort of trance, and didn’t feel like dealing with him. Finally I had to come to when he grabbed my shoulders and shook me. I blinked, and then looked at him, staring. He looked very silly; paler than I had ever seen him, with big bags under his eyes and his hair not as neat as usual. Apparently he had had some trouble sleeping, too. “Are you okay?” he asked, but I didn’t answer. I didn’t know the answer for myself.
         After I got dressed and sat without eating through a very subdued breakfast, I suddenly realized that I wanted to go upstairs and see Maxwell Grey again. The thought had been bugging at me all night. I wanted to face him, or at least look at him. Maybe my fear could be conquered that way. When I suggested it to Chris, his face got stony and he refused my request without hesitation. He didn’t like Maxwell as much as I didn’t, it seemed. I nearly thought about begging, or stealing Chris’ key and sneaking up there by myself, but found I didn’t really want to. I could live without seeing him again. Did I even want to see him, or was my brain short-circuiting? I thought maybe a little of both. Chris kept giving me odd, worried looks when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. It was three o’clock p.m. when I retired to my bed for the night. After staying in the room all day, I was tired of being there. And after staying with Chris all day, because he hadn’t left me alone for more than five minutes at a time, I was really just plain tired. But once again I couldn’t sleep. Things kept making me jump. A tree branch outside, scratching the window. Someone, most likely a helper, doing rounds down the hall. I didn’t hardly close my eyes, and in the morning my mind felt fried and I was too tired to even try to do anything but listen to Chris worry about me. He even went far enough to wonder aloud if I needed a doctor, and I didn’t react even to that. When he left that night it was with many backwards glances and an upset-sounding “bye” at the door.
         After a third day of no sleep, I found that I was getting weaker. I hadn’t eaten anything really yesterday, and only breakfast the day before, and so my stomach was hollow and grumbling for food. Whenever I tried to force myself to eat, though, I just felt sick. What was wrong with me? I was beginning to feel strange, and couldn’t pinpoint why I was being affected so much just because someone had known my name. Chris didn’t show up when he usually did, and I wondered if he was tired of sitting in my room, doing nothing. After lunch, though, I found out what he was really up to. He had talked to Mrs. Thompson, the doctor, and brought her in to see me in the early afternoon. I was still enough of myself to shoot him a hard-eyed glare, but he was unrepentant. “Anything to get you better,” he said, making me feel like throwing up. He was so annoying sometimes. Most of the time, actually.
         My physical went fine, but Mrs. Thompson was worried. “She might be stressing out, or might be going into shock again. I’ll schedule an appointment with Mr. Beckert for tomorrow morning. Maybe a psych session with him will help us understand what’s going on.” When Mrs. Thompson left, Chris sat by my side and held my hand between his. I didn’t fight him, my thoughts were elsewhere. That fourth night I slept a little, but it wasn’t deep. Despite getting that tiny amount of rest, I just felt more tired in the morning.
         Chris arrived at eight o’clock on the dot with Mr. Beckert in tow. I stood as they entered the room, thinking that I was going to be taken to one of the usual therapy rooms. Instead, Chris pushed me back onto the bed and Mr. Beckert said, almost apologetically, “We’ll have to stay in your room today for your session. Unfortunately, you won’t be leaving here for at least another week, to give your new friend Mr. Grey some time to calm himself.” He gave me one of those cheesy smiles that he liked to put on, but I didn’t try to smile back. Suddenly, I all I really wanted was to be left alone.
         When I had answered all of the questions I had been given to the best of my ability, which wasn’t very well, and Mr. Beckert excused himself from the room, I was so tired of human interaction I was near tears. “Please Chris,” I begged, “please, just leave.” But he blatantly refused. For one sinister moment, I felt like beating the crap out of him, but then it passed. Instead, I muttered a couple cusswords to myself and laid down on my bed, turning away from him.
         A few moments passed before Chris moved the chair he was sitting on to my bedside. I thought he might. I didn’t protest, didn’t say anything, when he started stroking my unkempt blonde hair away from my face. “Everything’s going to be alright,” he murmured, and his voice sounded so broken that I almost told him the same thing. Almost. Instead, I inhaled deeply and sighed. It shuddered pathetically on the way out. It took me a moment to realize that there was wetness on my cheeks. I didn’t dare wipe away the moisture, for fear that Chris would see and try to comfort me more. But my tears bothered me. I had never been a crier, so why was I turning into such a blubbering baby recently? The answer came quickly to my mind. Because I was stuck living my life in a mental institution. And no matter what I did to get free of here, short from offing myself, I would never get out. My life was a miserable experience that would only continue to sour before I died. Wonderful.
         I sniffed once, realizing, at the same time, that Chris’ hand had paused. I risked a glance over at him. His head was lolling on his chest, his eyes closed. A soft breath of air whistled from between his teeth. I looked at the window, and started. I hadn’t realized that it had gotten dark out. How long had we sat in silence, me in self-pity? An entire day, it seemed. Maybe I had fallen asleep, and awoken when my dreams became nightmares. I rolled onto my back and pushed Chris’ hand onto his lap. It sat there, limp, and I felt a sudden, strange feeling of comfort by his presence. And then I felt the need to go to the bathroom.
         I carefully stood and stepped around my sleeping helper, and then walked across the room to my door. I wasn’t supposed to leave here by myself, but what would one bathroom break hurt? If the door was unlocked, of course. If it wasn’t, I’d have to wake Chris and get him to take me. How embarrassing. I reached out, tentative, and turned the door handle. It clicked, stuck, and then proceeded to twist. The door opened in front of me, and I stepped into the hallway. A roll of guilt struck me, but I fought it back. Was I so tamed that I needed permission to use the bathroom, like a kindergartener did? No. I closed the door softly, and went down the hall.
         The bathrooms were on the first and third floors. The second floor didn’t have them for some reason. I had heard a rumor that it had to do with a past tenet, but I didn’t always believe what I heard. Regardless the reason, there were no bathrooms on this floor. I headed for the elevator. Once there, I paused, considering. Up or down?
         The logical thing to do would to go downstairs and pee and come right back up and go back to bed. Of course, for the past couple of days, I hadn’t been thinking as logically as I used to. I hadn’t hardly been thinking at all, really. Besides about my own fear. And here was a chance to quench my curiosity, to sate my frightened feelings. To go up and take a peek in the observation room. To catch another glimpse of Maxwell Grey. Make sure that he was snoozing quietly, under lock and key. Nice and safe. Snug as a bug. So I did the unintelligent thing. I pressed the up arrow, and ascended to the third floor.
         When the doors opened, I expected to find a mass of people standing guard outside his door. There weren’t any. It made sense, really. How would he escape? His door was locked, and most likely he was handcuffed, or otherwise bound. Maybe he had to wear one of those straightjackets. I’d never seen anyone wearing them here, and I didn’t know if anyone used them anymore. But it was an interesting notion to think about.
         I snuck out of the elevator, and then paused in front of the observation door. There were two ways to get in. One was a little keypad on the wall that you typed a code into. The other was a key. Because I didn’t have a key, and didn’t want to go back downstairs and get Chris’, I turned to the keypad. Fortunately, I had a certain gift that helped me to see was the code was. My gift was mind reading, of course. Today’s code was 4336. I punched it in, and held my breath. I don’t know why I did; I knew the code was correct. But I did anyway. The thing beeped, twice, and then the door handle clicked and I was in. If I ever got out of this hospital, I should consider being a spy. My ability to read codes and things from others’ minds might make me a very good one.
         I slid into the room, but left the door open. The door automatically locked again once someone shut it, and if the person in the room wanted to leave they would have to type in the code or use their key. Using the code wouldn’t be a problem for me, except that the lights were turned off, and I might press the wrong buttons in the dark and set off some alarm. I couldn’t turn on the light because someone might see. So I had to leave the door open, if I wanted to get out without getting caught.
         I took a couple steps into the room before I figured out something was wrong. My feet, clothed in fuzzy slippers with hardened soles for going outside, crunched as I walked. I bent down, inspecting the floor. Glass. There was glass everywhere. And highlighted, in a bit of silvery light, some sort of fresh liquid. I reached down and touched it, then brought it back  up close to my face. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I realized that the liquid was blood.
         I jumped up, and on an instinct turned towards Maxwell’s room. The glass separating the observation room from it had been shattered; that was the glass all over the floor. It only took me half a second to see that Maxwell Grey was no longer in his room. Keeping silent I swept around in a circle, looking for lurking figures. None. I did not feel relief. He could be anywhere in the hospital. I had to get back to my room before he found me.
         I walked over the glass again hurriedly, trying not to step on too much. I kept well away from the pool of blood; Maxwell must have hurt himself when he climbed in here from his room. And then a morbid thought struck me. Maybe it was a guard’s blood. I had noted earlier the absence of people. Maybe the blood didn’t belong to Maxwell after all, but to someone who was supposed to be watching him. . . I stopped myself from thinking further. I was just freaking myself out. I had to get to my room and tell Chris so he could start the alert.
         I ran from the observation room to the elevator. Nobody was in it; I pressed the second floor’s button thirty times, quick. Panicking. What if he had cut the power? I was very relieved when the doors shut and I started going down. Of course he couldn’t cut the power. I was fooling myself into thinking that he was some psycho from a movie. I told myself to calm down, and took deep breaths. The doors clanged open.
         I stifled a scream. There he was, standing outside my room. His head turned back and forth, searching for me. Was Chris dead? I wasn’t sticking around to find out. I pressed the down button, intending to go to the first floor and head to the front desk. There was always someone at the front desk. In case an emergency call came in. If anything, Mrs. Shreeder would be there. She could page Mr. Beckert and call the cops or security or something.
         I got out of the elevator, thought twice, and then got back in. I clicked the emergency button, and heard metallic clinking into place above and below the metal car. There. Nobody would be able to use it now. Maxwell couldn’t get down here unless he unlocked the stairwell doorways and went down that way. And that was on the entire other side of the building.
         I was halfway past the cafeteria before I sensed the presence of someone else. I looked into the dark room, and saw the silhouette of someone sitting at my table. I nearly screamed, feeling a wave of fear, but it quieted almost instantly. I was being stupid. Maxwell was upstairs on the second floor, I had seen him standing in wait for me outside of my room. So this must be Chris. I remembered a time when he told me that he used to sleepwalk to his kitchen when he was a kid and gorge himself on food. He must be sleepwalking similarly now.
         I ghosted into the cafeteria, coming up behind him. One of my hands found his shoulder, shaking it. “Chris,” I whispered, “it’s me.” He started, and turned around. And then his hand clasped over my mouth as I tried to scream. It was Maxwell, lying in wait.
         “I thought you might turn up here,” he said pleasantly, and my flesh crawled. “It was a hunch. Not that I should always trust my hunches. One of my last ones got a whole bunch of people killed.” His voice trailed off, leaving us in silence. The implications of what he had just said hung in the air. He turned his glittering blue eyes onto me. “No matter. You must be Aurora Rena. Hi, I’m Maxwell Grey. I bet you’ve already guessed that, though. Now, I’m going to take my hand off your mouth, and you’re going to sit here next to me and we’ll have a nice chat. I’ve been waiting to talk to you for a couple days now. Oh, I almost forgot. You’re not going to scream when I let you go. Or it’ll be the last thing you do. Not to sound too cryptic.” He produced a gun from under his shirt. A real gun. Was it worth wondering how he got it? Of course, it could be fake, but did I want to risk my life on the chance? No. I did not. His hand came away from my face, and I drew in a shaky breath, but I did not scream. And then I numbly lowered myself onto the chair next to him.
         He chuckled at my obedience. “That’s a good girl. Now, let’s get down to business.”
         “What do you want with me?” I asked quietly, and my voice sounded small and scared. But it also burned with curiosity. Somehow, sitting next to him was hardly more scary than thinking he was still out hiding in the dark. At lest I could see what he was doing. He chuckled again.
         “Curious, are you? Very well, then. I’ll explain.” He set the gun on the table, and my eyes darted to it. He watched me with a sort of dark humor on his face. “I’d just like to point out before you do anything stupid that I’m much faster than you. Even with this injury.” He gestured to his wrist, which I now noticed was bleeding freely. More than that, even. It was pouring blood like I had never seen before. I felt one part nauseated at the sight and one part concerned. I was concerned for him! Ha! How strange. I swallowed, hard.
         “You need help,” I told him firmly, and he laughed again. He understood that I meant that he needed help in more than one way. He was obviously a couple eggs short of a dozen. Plus his injury. He could bleed out from a cut like that. It was deep and didn’t look like it would stop bleeding anytime soon.
         “How kind. But don’t worry about me. And I know what you think. I’m not crazy.” The way he said it chilled me. It was the way I said it when Chris gave me one of those ‘I’m with a psychopath’ looks. I shivered.
         “At least apply pressure to it. You could die from that cut,” I said seriously, but he only laughed at my words. I was getting angry. “Stop laughing and do something! You’re killing yourself!” Despite my worries I was seething. Would he not listen?
         Blood was leaking to the floor. Even in the moonlight, he looked paler. “Your concerns are touching, but really, I’m fine. I won’t die from a little thing like this.” He waved his arm, and I saw droplets of blood fly through the air. A second later I heard them spatter the floor. I grimaced, feeling sick. My stomach roiled, and I was glad I hadn’t eaten much recently.
         “Then what do you want?” I was getting impatient. I was not going to have a ‘nice chat’ with some guy intent on letting his life bleed away. I couldn’t stand it.
         For a second, the humor vanished from his face and he looked deathly serious. And then it returned, in the form of a grin. His teeth shined dully, reflecting the low light. “You’re right, of course. To business.” He pulled a package of cigarettes from under his shirt, and I ogled at the lighter he produced. How did he have this stuff? Harmful objects were normally confiscated. “Want one?” I shook my head as he placed a cigarette between his lips. “Your loss.” He lit up, and inhaled deeply. I could imagine the tar coating on his lungs. Gross. He saw me choke a little as his smoke reached me, and frowned, lines deepening on his forehead. “Sorry about my habit, here. When I get nervous or upset I crave a cigarette. I could put it out, if you wanted.” I shook my head again. For some reason, this guy just didn’t seem like a maniac. But I still had my reservations. Might as well let him smoke, if it helped him stay calm.
         “I’m not usually this weird, you know?” He gestured at the gun, and then at the lighter in his right hand, which he kept flicking on and off. The flame glowed prettily in the dark, and helped illuminate his handsome face. I noticed another cut on one of his cheeks. “It’s the meds they’ve got me on. They make me different. Tired. Depressed. Clumsy. Supposed to dope me up and make me nice and sleepy, so I don’t cause any trouble. But what they don’t know is that I’m particularly good at being immune to medicine. It would take an elephant tranq to knock me out for more than a couple hours.” I wondered if this was true. He didn’t seem particularly tired, despite the fact that they must have been giving him something to settle him down. And why would he lie?
         I realized we had gotten off topic again, and tapped the table with my fingertips. Suddenly I was staring down the barrel of his gun. I froze. He was glaring at me, his eyes looking to my hand. I carefully put it back down on my lap, and he lowered the gun. “Sorry ’bout that, too. It was an automatic reaction. Don’t want you thinking you can casually move your hand across the table and grab the gun, now do I?” I said nothing, and he put it back where it originally was. His fingers trembled a bit. “I’m being a jerk. Sorry, but it’s my nature. I’ll just tell you why I wanted to talk to you, and then we can return to our lives. Okay?” My head bobbed in one quick nod, but other than that I stayed motionless. Didn’t want to provoke him again.
         He sighed. “Now I’ve made a bad impression. Nice going, Max. You can call me Max by the way. Don‘t want any off that ‘Maxwell’ crap, I can’t stand it. Makes me sound like some lawyer, or something.” I nearly smiled at the way he said the word lawyer, like it was something horrible. Maybe to him it was. I pondered the reasons that could be.
         “Anyways I wanted to talk to you to tell you that I believe you. I believe that you’re not schizophrenic and that you really can hear what people are thinking. You don’t belong here.” The change in subject happened so fast I couldn‘t catch up. And then an emotion built up inside me. Hope. My heart was pounding. He believed me?
         He saw my reaction and gave me a dazzling smile. Encouraged, he continued. “I believe you for two reasons. One, because I can pretty much tell when people are lying.” He stopped, and then seemed to will himself on. “And two because I can do something like you. Well, not exactly like you, but still different than normal people. I can’t die. Simple as that.”
         For a second I thought he was joking. And then I thought that he really was crazy. And then I wondered if what he said was true. I had no reason to believe him, to trust him, but for some reason I did. And it made sense. If he really thought he couldn’t die that would explain why he didn’t care about losing so much blood. It wouldn’t worry him if he couldn’t die.
         Of course he was fooling himself, though. Just because he thought he couldn’t die didn’t mean that he couldn’t. It wasn’t uncommon for people to feel more exceptional than they really were.
         He seemed to be waiting for a response, but I couldn’t come up with anything. So I just said, “Uh huh,” and left it at that. His brow furrowed again, and he took a long drag on his cigarette before responding.
         “It’s obvious you don’t believe me. So I’ll just have to show you.” The gun was back in his hand. “I really wish I didn’t have to do this again, it’s very unpleasant.” He took it, and before I could stop him he pointed it to his chest, right over his heart, and pulled the trigger.
         Blood and tissue splattered the floor, the walls, me, and even the ceiling. I almost couldn’t stop myself screaming this time; a long, slow, high shriek escaped my lips. Luckily enough, it wasn’t the sort of sound that would carry. His body dropped to the floor with a wet smack and I physically stopped myself from throwing up. There wasn’t much to throw up anyways. My stomach was pretty much empty. Still, I felt revolted to the point that I jumped from my chair and flew a good five feet away. His gun had been silenced, so that it didn’t bang loudly, as I had expected. Nobody could have heard what just happened. I was the only one who knew.
         For what felt like hours I stood staring down at his motionless form, wondering what had possessed him to shoot himself. Sure, he thought he couldn’t die and sure, he was in a mental institution and could possibly be crazy. But so what? He had seemed almost amiable before, and hadn’t seemed depressed, despite his claiming to be so because of his medicine. Had my response pushed him to commit suicide? The thought battered my conscious and a horrid feeling of guilt landed upon me. I collapsed back into my chair and buried my head in my arms, the tears coming again. What had I made him do? Could I have stopped him?
         I was aware that I should get up and find someone and explain what happened, but the grief and guilt I felt weighed me down so I couldn’t move. Tears were stinging my eyes and I was shaking uncontrollably. And then a hand touched my back and I just about jumped out of my skin. I whipped around and inhaled sharply. Max was standing before me, his face drawn and paler than before, one hand clutching the hole where his heart should be. The other still held the gun. “Hey,” he gasped weakly, sinking back into his chair. Blood seeped from between his fingers. I stared at him for a good three seconds, the tears drying on my face in my surprise. And then darkness covered my vision and I passed out of my chair onto the blood covered floor.