Looking for a critique on what I have

When I tell you, you will need to remember. It makes things easier for us that way. Now, it’s me and she and I and her and him and he and they and us. That’s it. That’s the story. At its simplest and most distilled state, packed and compressed into that sentence. I’ve waved my hand in the clouded room, pushed away the smoke and steam, and have given you the one clear glimpse that you need. It’s right there, waiting for you: the conclusion and the coup de grace, the finale and the resolution. It’s me and she and I and her and him and he and they and us. So now that we’ve begun with the ending, let’s end with the beginning.
Feel it and let the hairs prickle up against the skin.

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Feel it and let the hairs prickle up against the skin. It’s that cold: that chill that comes with a late autumn. With the sweeping and uneven winds that rattle at the trees and grab hold of the branches and leaves. It’s that molded smell, that composted earth and soiled air; the one that crackles and fizzles, sinks, and weighs down the tongue. Taste it. The untouched ground of a thousand years, the unchanging and melancholy of fields and valleys in rural New York; intruded on, defecated by, Hidden Hills. By the white walled, white speckled, white cuttings of its buildings, grounds, and people. This is the hospital. This is the prison. This is the temple and this is the testament. This is home of patient #91912844 and this is patient #91912844.

And the gilded light of an early morning contrasted the stark bite of the air. The resonance of snapping leaves; the wisps and curtails of cigarette smoke; the mild, almost hushed, chattering of teeth all did well to fit this morning niche. Her name was Dianus Romme. Her pace was slow and simple: dedicated but not purposeful.

These were her rounds, her routine. These were her grounds, her path. Her fingers trembled as she brought the cigarette to her mouth, and her face became masked, hiding and showing, under sheets of smoke. Beyond her, through a mesh of crossed wire, was the open and waving grass: the unrestricted and uncontained world. And above her were the birds in the trees, crying out with a “Po-twee-twee-tweet” before batting their wings and taking flight, gliding effortlessly over the fence. Delicately, she laced her fingers over the links and pressed her palms to the frame; her head rested against the post and she sighed with the cool touch of metal. Her breaths fogged at the air and, in a moment of weakness, she closed her eyes and remembered.

There were screams: echoing things that reverberated off the walls and shook the house with rising and falling tremors. Pitched and wailing, stabbing and clawing at the ears until the skin turned raw and sticky. They woke her from the dream, slapped her in the face and bit at her ears. Welcome to reality, how long will you be staying? Her breath was hushed and still, a forced suspension of breathing. Her eyes expanded and gaped, probing and searching the darkness for light and her body began to tremble, demanding new air. And then breaking glass, shattering and splintering noises that stretched out above the voices beneath her, if only for a minute. Now she couldn’t hold back, she had to get up, she had to go and see. But Mr. Rey Sandle didn’t approve and she knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t say anything; he only sat there and watched her. He only let her reflect off his eyes and let that reflection speak for him, just as he always had to do. But, what did he know? What made him so smart? “It’ll be fine.” She protested. And he still watched her.

She tugged at his soft little arm, pulled him with her as she left her room. And the screams had died. There was only crying now, soft and alone. She walked, cautiously, across the floor boards. Each one creaked and gave with her steps and with each noise; she stopped and bit at her tongue. When she felt it was safe, she carried on, Mr. Sandle following behind her. She could hear them more clearly now. Make out that it was Mom crying, that it had been Mom screaming from the beginning. Her mouth was dry, but she still tried to swallow, still tried to muster courage through any physical act that she could. With half, hesitant, steps, she approached the stair well and poked her head out, between the posts. Yes, it was Mom. She could see that now. There she was, on the kitchen floor, crying and bleeding, her shirt and skirt ripped. And Mr. Sandle poked his head out farther between the railing.

But why was Mom crying? She couldn’t see, couldn’t make out what had, what was, happening. Glass shards, green and brown, were around her mom and they stood up, curved and jagged. She leaned further out, grabbed the railing with one hand and leaned against it to bring herself near hanging in the stair well, Mr. Sandle in her other hand. But the soft, plush fibers of Mr. Sandle’s arm slipped through her fingers and he fell. The stuffed bear twirled and somersaulted through the air and landed on the floor below, his glass eyes tapping against the wood with an audible *click*. They had heard her.

And the stiff and starched hairs of fur poked and prodded at her skin and she opened her eyes. Beside her fingers was the sniffing nose of a patrolman’s German Shepherd. The dog’s teeth were bare and its mouth moved with flinching jaunts. A low and uneasy growl escaped from him and the patrolman gave the leash slack. Quickly, she drew her hand back and stepped away, kicking and stepping over her own feet in haste. The patrolman watched her, stoically, and the German Shepherd pricked his ears up and observed her with a deceptive calm. Where are you going, buddy? Why are you leaving so quickly, friend? We were just starting to know each other.

She turned back, facing the facility, and headed for the outcroppings of buildings. Leaves and near-dried grass whispered with crackles as she walked – quickly – for the inner grounds. She rubbed her hands together, knitted and knotted her fingers with straining force, and hunched her neck into her body to fight off the cold and the wind that breathed down her back and tickled her skin. The patrol outside the fence stood with his dog, both vacant and staring, their coats ruffling in the wind.




I'm new to this site, so I'm sorry if the way I posted is a little strange (with formatting or categorization or what-have-you). Anyway, I'd very much like to have a few good critiques on this. Thanks.