Beautiful Nightmares (The Asylum Trilogy)

Beautiful Nightmares

Lauren Hammond

Beautiful Nightmares

Copyright
© Lauren Hammond 2013

No part of this novel may be reproduced, copied, recorded, or used by any means without written permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. They are not to be misconstrued as real. Any resemblances to any persons, either living or dead, or locales and events are completely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Stephanie Mooney who always does an awesome job with all of my covers.

Thanks to Kelly Hashway for proof-reading. You’re a life saver!

And thanks to all of the fans who have been patient with me while I was putting my life back together after such a difficult time.
Thank you so much for embracing this series and loving it so much.

Last but not least, I need to thank my grandfather, John. He’s like my number one supporter and always tells me to keep writing.

Prologue

I never thought that the word happy would be a part of my vocabulary. I never thought it would be an emotion that I would be capable of feeling. In my adolescence happy and I didn’t get along. That was mostly because of Daddy and his problem and how he never let go of Mommy and how I always reminded him of her.

But I am happy now.

Really, truly, and incandescently happy.

It is a beautiful feeling.

I’m standing in a meadow complete with long swaying yellowed grass, radiant shimmering sunshine, and a soft yet cool breeze. The soft lilt of music carries on the wind and I squint, noticing him.

Elijah.

He sits on a blanket, hunched over strumming on the strings of his guitar. He lifts his head, his eyes lock with mine, then a slow lazy grin quirks on his lips. He beckons me closer with a slight nod of his head and when he dips his head the sun grazes the crown of golden
curls, making the curls shimmer. Then I hear laughter. It is light, airy, and whimsical. That’s when I notice the toddler bouncing around next to Elijah. Round red cherub cheeks. Golden curls just like her father.

My daughter. Willow.

I run toward my family with a huge smile and can’t want to plant a million kisses on Willow’s cheeks. I think about crashing into Elijah’s arms and telling him to hold me and never let go. I think about telling him that he’s made me the happiest person in the entire world and that I wouldn’t trade my time with him or my love for him for anything.

But something strange happens when I reach the spot where Elijah sits. He doesn’t acknowledge me. He stops strumming his guitar and stands, staring off to the right. I follow his gaze and see Willow running away. “Oh no!” I gasp. “Willow, baby! Come back! Stay close to Mommy and Daddy!”

But Willow isn’t listening. She’s stubborn like her father too.

I take off running and catch up to her quickly. Reaching out I try to scoop her up into my arms, but my fingers slip. The meadow is coming to an end and is edged off like a cliff. “Willow Watson! Don’t you take another step!” My daughter gives me a defiant giggle and I pick up speed, reaching for her at the same exact time she steps off of the cliff.

We fall.

My heart beats in a panic. Fear writhes through my veins. I clutch my daughter to my chest as her giggles turn to cries and soothe her. “Shh, my darling. Mommy is here. Mommy has got you.”

Then we hit the ground.

We hit the ground hard and I swear I hear and feel my neck snap. Standing, I brush off the pain. I touch my neck and my eyes scan the ground next to me. I’m only battered and bruised and I’m convinced the snapping noise was something my mind made up. I spin in a circle. My eyes scan the ground. Where is Willow?

Where is my daughter?

She fell with me.

I know she did.

I had her in my arms.

I start running and the scenery all around me shifts.
The sky has shifted from light to an omniscient dark. Clouds loom above me shielding the moon and an eerie afterglow lights up my surroundings.

There’s a cyclone of fear and panic ripping through the walls of my stomach and I choke back the vomit rising up in my throat.

“Willow!” I shriek out hysterically. “Willow!”

I come to an abrupt halt when I see stones of all shapes and sizes. Flowers used for decoration. Names and loving phrases etched into slabs of rock.

A graveyard.

I am in a graveyard.

A gust of cool wind whips through my raven hair as I stare at the mound of freshly laid dirt at my feet. I kick one of the wet, sludgy balls with the tip of my shoe and glance at the moonlight dancing over the headstones in the cemetery. I swipe the tip of my ivory shoe against the wet grass to clean it off while wondering how I got here.

Wondering how I got to this point in my life.

To the point where I’m standing in a cemetery, after midnight, kicking balls of mud with widened eyes and wondering why in the hell, the name on the tombstone in front of me….

Is mine.

Chapter One

1960

I’m flustered.

I’m frantic.

I’m on the verge of hair ripping madness.

Pacing across the rec room, I tune out the other patients and stop, getting down on all fours to look underneath one of the plastic chairs with an orange seat. It’s not there. It’s not
there. Part of me wonders if it has ever been there. Didn’t I look in this spot already? Didn’t I check here last week?

No…

I’d remember that, wouldn’t I?

Wouldn’t I?

I hop to my feet in a flash and start pacing again in front of the wide, barred window. I keep telling myself that I’ll never stop searching. That I won’t give up. That I’ll tear the walls of the Oak Hill Asylum down with iron-clad fists if I have to, to find what I’m looking for.

The only problem is…

I’ve been searching everywhere.

Through drawers in desks.

In dark corners.

In nooks and crannies.

Under the cot in my cell.

I can’t find it anywhere.

I can’t find what I so desperately need anywhere.

One of the patients in the right corner of the rec cackles and I shoot a dirty look in her direction. She’s distracting me. I need to focus. I need a clear head. I need to retrace my steps.

Where was I yesterday?

I don’t know why I even bother asking myself this question. Because it’s the same. It’s always the same.

My cell.

The rec.

The mess hall.

The bathroom.

My cell.

The rec.

The mess hall.

The bathroom.

My eyes center on the clock hanging above the double doors to the rec. It’s 3:00 pm. Good lord, where has the time gone? I don’t why I’m thinking about time either. Anymore it all blurs together and I keep wondering and hoping and praying that one day I’ll be able to tell the difference between my days and my nights.

I haven’t had luck with that lately.

I guess that’s what it’s like to be a little bird at Oak Hill.

I cannot fly with broken wings.

I lower my gaze when I see a nurse dressed in periwinkle scrubs come through the doors. She creeps toward me, almost on her tip-toes. Her chestnut hair dips just below her shoulders and she has a plain yet warm kind of face. She’s almost tip-toeing as she advances toward me. It’s like I’m a wild animal and she’s terrified of trying to capture me.

I start pacing again and lift my hand in a friendly gesture. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m not crazy.”

She continues moving toward me. “Of course not, Miss Carmichael.”

I glare at her. “It’s Watson,” I snap.

“Right.” She’s inches away from me. “Of course not Mrs. Watson.”

Then it dawns on me that she might be able to help me. I laugh and think to myself that I’m a fool. I’ve never asked the staff for help before. Maybe she can assist me. I stop, mid-pace and face her. “What’s your name?” I inquire. I blow the ebony wisps of bangs out of my eyes and make a mental note that I should ask about having them trimmed sometime.

Her response is short. Her voice lacks the warmth that her face gives off. “Susan,” she says. She points to her name tag and I shake my head, once again disappointed with myself for missing something as obvious as a name tag. Especially when that name tag is silver and shining beneath the bright fluorescent lights.

“Susan.” I fold my arms across my chest and open my mouth. Then I close it. Then I open it again. I’m unsure of how to word my question. After a moment of silence I blurt out, “Do you think maybe you could help me?”

“Of course,” she says. “What do you need help with, Miss Carmic—I mean Mrs. Watson?”

“First off,” I comment. “I would prefer that you called me Adelaide.” Technically, I am Mrs. Watson, but due to the situation she and I can forget the formalities. I think about telling her to call me Addy, but that would bring up too many painful memories that I don’
t want to resurrect. So I don’t. “I’m looking for something,” I go on, “I know I had it some time ago, but I can’t remember where I put it.”

She’s staring at me like I’m crazy. I’m not. I’d like to give her my thoughts and opinions on this matter, but decide against it. She’s my only hope. “Okay, Adelaide,” she says calmly, placing both of her hands on my shoulder blades. “What are you looking for and how can I help you find it?”

“I need my screwdriver,” I tell her. “I need it. I’ve searched everywhere and it’s nowhere to be found.” I lean in closer and whisper, “I’m thinking that someone might have stolen it.”

She drops her hands from my shoulders and gives me an odd look. It screams nut job, nut job, sedative and syringe, pronto. “A screwdriver?” There’s a hint of confusion in her tone, an uncertain glint in her eyes. “Adelaide, you know the hospital’s policies on the patients having access to tools or anything else that could be used as I weapon.”

“But it’s not a weapon!” I shout.

Susan takes a few steps away from me. Her steps are wobbly and that tells me I’m treading in shallow water. 

Panic latches on to the walls of my stomach like a parasite that has never fed before. Nausea sets in. I’m pacing again. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. How can I make her understand? How can I make her understand? I try to keep calm. I try to keep myself from crying out. When I finally speak, I can feel my voice-box vibrate in my throat, “I need it.” There’s a sob stuck in my throat and determination pumping through my heart. “I need it,” I repeat. “Please, you have to help me find it.”

“Adelaide, I can’t give you a screwdriver.” There’s force in her voice.

At that moment, I snap and lunge at her. “Please,” I beg, tackling her as tears swell in my eyes. “I’ve got a screw loose. Maybe two.” She screams, and I pin her arms down with my knees. “I can’t tighten them without my screwdriver!” I think of Elijah during my mental break and how I know he would help me. “Call Dr. Watson!” I scream. “Call Dr. Watson! He’ll give it to me! I know he will!”

But instead of calling for Elijah she shrieks, “Help!” at the top of her lungs. She shrieks the word over and over and over again.

Before I realize what’s happening there are staff members stampeding toward me. I have just enough time to get up, back away from Susan and cower in the upper, left corner of the rec room. I tuck myself into a ball, shut my eyes, and hum to myself. Rocking back and forth, I try to even out my emotions, but I’m so lost, confused, and hopeless that I don’t know how to. That’s when I feel a presence hovering over me. Then I hear Susan say, “Who’s Dr. Watson?”

And that’s the last thing I remember before the needle pierces my skin and my entire world goes black.