Collide (3 page)

“You are required to participate,” the counselor repeats with a palpable frustration.

What does she expect, some fairytale about my past? A family history of abuse at the hands of a secret cult? Fictional stories spring to life inside me, wild tales about experiments, secret government agencies, psychic abilities. The words lodge in my mouth, desperate to escape. I shove them aside and say, “I know” instead. “I’m sorry.”

More fiction.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Why not explain to the group how you can prevent future outbursts. Tell us what you’ll do differently when you’re under the kind of pressure you experienced before your episode.”

“I’m not under any pressure,” I whisper under my breath.

“What?” Ms. Whatever says, her glare pinning me to the chair.

Mari catches my eye, curious. She wants me to open up, too.

Not going to happen.

“I wasn’t stressed,” I say. “At least, not until I came here.”

“Then what do you think caused your breakdown?” The counselor’s fingers tap against her clipboard with impatient annoyance. All eyes turn toward me and wait.

Wait.

The air grows stiff as I prolong my reply. I want to say
The freakin’ scary person in my head!
or tell them about the nightmares I’ve had since forever, tales of death and a power I both crave and fear. Instead I mutter “I guess it
was
stress.”

“You don’t believe that,” Mari says, like she’s peering into my brain. “Not at all. At least be honest with yourself.”

“Why don’t you?” I blurt.

The counselor’s mouth opens and I imagine the lengthy diatribe she’s about to share, “Soapbox #528”.

“Sorry to interrupt,” an orderly I’ve yet to meet says, stopping the lecture before it begins. His voice is gruff and reminds me of an old man, despite his young age. “I need Miss Harrison to come with me.”

My brow furrows. I scrutinize the person who offers a little freedom from this stale room. Tall and burly, his bulky frame nearly fills the entire doorway. I’m sure he was hired for his size alone. I mean, what kid would put up a fight against him?

I glance from the group to the grey sky beyond the window. The rain continues to pour, the rhythm now mocking my every thought. I stand and follow the large man from the room—no goodbyes, no regrets. Anything to get away from these people.

The walk down the corridor is silent save for the sound of our feet on the floor, his heavy and steady, mine betraying a fear I struggle to keep hidden.

“Here,” the orderly says as he nods toward a white door just ahead. “Go in and sit.”

“What is this? What’s going on?”

Before my question fully forms, he leads me into the empty room, an office by the looks of it. I stare at the door and swallow down my apprehension, focusing my energy on my relief. I’m out of the group for now, away from the others and their prying eyes.

“Thank you,” I turn to say as the man leaves. He nods and I’m alone.

Paneled in a dark wood that feels out of place in this part of the hospital, the office is furnished with an oversized wooden desk, two additional chairs, bookcases, and file cabinets. My gaze traces the vanity certificates lining the back wall; proof of the inhabitant’s numerous scholastic achievements. The dates on each plaque are before my birth. I guess he—or maybe she with a name like Riley Donaldson—hasn’t done anything too noteworthy in the past seventeen years.

I pace the perimeter of the room and take in the objects that line the bookshelves, the pictures that speckle the walls. Everything is old, like something from a bad 80’s movie. My reflection catches my eye and I stop in front of a mirror flanked by wooden display shelves. I look as dead as I feel—thin and wispy. The breakdown took more than my pride. I lost a piece of my soul. My blonde hair mats against my scalp, half frizzy, half straight. There is no sparkle in my amber eyes, no color to my normally tan skin. “Zombie” is the only word to describe me in this moment. Lifeless and pale.

Flashes of the meltdown burn against the backdrop of my eyes. Glimpses that resemble an old-fashioned film reel stuck on repeat:

The scent of exhaust.

The burning, white-hot pain when it slams into the man’s scalp, shredding his brain cells.

The terror when he understands his fate.

A scream pushes up my throat and I’m again overcome with a vision I refuse to believe. I grab the good doctor’s desk to steady myself.

“Stop,” I whisper.

Visions like these are nothing new. When I was younger, they used to happen as I drifted off to sleep and when I first woke. Clips of déjà-vu, moments of arguments I’d sense before they were ever spoken, images of strange deaths. They’d stopped years ago.

Hadn’t they?

My mind whirls with the unyielding pictures, desperate to prevent another trip into Crazyland. My heart beats too fast as the movie continues. I sharpen my focus and take a deep breath. “This isn’t real,” I say. My voice fills the room.

Heavy footsteps draw my attention. The door opens with a groan and Dr. Donaldson—definitely a
he
—walks in and smiles. “Hello Dakota. How are you feeling today?” His words are detached, fake. No kindness exists in them. He doesn’t care about me, so I return the favor, grunt
fine
and glance from him to the window, hoping, praying, someone will come and rescue me from this place.

“Your parents are on their way,” he says as though he can read my thoughts. “You aren’t ready to go home yet. These images, the delusions you witnessed in the coffee shop, are signs of deeper problems, Dakota. You need long-term care.”

I spin around to meet his gaze. What kind of quack tells the mentally unstable they’re crazy? I mean, seriously!

Dr. Donaldson paces, his moves resembling a panther preparing to strike. His dark suit and piercing amber eyes only add to his cat-like appearance. “I think we need to explore the source of your delusions. Discover what these images mean together. I plan to ask your parents to allow me to place you at Mountain View for the time being. In six months or so we can determine if you’re healthy.” He steps closer, his eyes glimmering with something that can only be described as desperate hunger. “It’s for your own good, Dakota. Trust me.”

I take a step back, stopped by the solid wall behind me. His words feel familiar in a way I can’t explain. Distant memories echo just out of reach.

“I’ve worked with your type before.”

A silent rage ignites through me. “What type?” I ask as I straighten to my full height.

“Broken.”

There’s nothing left to discuss. I’m not broken and I won’t stay here. Instinctively my focus sharpens, drilling into the doctor’s thoughts. I imagine his words disappearing. I picture him stepping back, sitting in his chair and staring out of the window silent and mute. A moment later, Dr. Donaldson’s gaze moves from ravenous to compliant and he retreats to his desk.

“Your parents will be here soon,” he says. The strength in his voice is gone. The sound is hollow, distant.

Just like I’d imagined.

My mind erases the thought too fast for me to consider it further. I sit across from the doctor and wait in silence.

Mom and Dad arrive faster than I expect. Dr. Donaldson stands, his mouth poised to persuade my parents of my “illness”. So much for his placid demeanor. Before the doctor can breathe one word, Mom orders me to the car. From the corner of my eye, I see Dad clench his jaw, his chiseled features set in his “don’t mess with me” look. I can’t tell if the look is aimed at me or the doctor, so I nod at them and walk out of the office and down the hall, toward the elevators. Barely a moment passes before a heated exchange ensues. Snippets of conversation—“She needs more help than you two can provide—”, “We don’t need your help, we never have—”, “You will release her. You know what’s at stake”—linger in the air. The nurses ignore it all. I guess they’re used to parents going three rounds with the doctor.

The argument continues when the bell signals the elevator’s arrival. I step into the empty compartment and let the hum of the motor lull me into a near trance before I reach the main floor. I don’t know where the car is parked, so I wait.

Wait.

Wait.

My parents should’ve been right behind me, catching the next elevator down. Why are they taking so long? A steady flow of people walk in and out of the lobby. The elevator doors open and close. Apprehension clings to my skin. Where are they?

My mind plays tricks on me. I envision a girl my age walking around the room, staring hard into everyone’s eyes. Her skin is transparent, gray, almost like she was formed from a newspaper clipping. She pauses in front of each person, hesitates for only a moment and moves to the next.

Until she reaches me and a fresh crop of thoughts—or maybe memories—begin.

SOMETHING TELLS ME NOT TO GAZE INTO THE APPARITION’S EYES, TO PRETEND I’M NOT AWARE OF HER PRESENCE
. My pulse throbs too loud in my ears as old fears spring to life in the recesses of my mind. Familiar images bloom in front of my eyes—sterile labs, scientists, endless tests—all pulled from my strangest nightmares. Four children walk with me through my thoughts. The pictures morph and bend until I’m dizzy.

The apparition comes closer, a phantom familiar in ways I don’t understand. A scent—pine and rain—fills me with more memories. The ghost lingers and I steal a glance. She resembles Mari, Suicide Girl. Same flaming hair, same determined expression. Her face is inches from mine, her breath hot against my neck. The temptation to stare pulls at me. I resist, focusing instead on memories too foreign to be my own.

Laughter and games.

Screams and torture.

Death.

The macabre vision wields a power similar to the ghostly girl who refuses to move. My heart beats once, twice, three times. Her gaze burns into my skin as she reaches for my soul like some Grim Reaper determined to claim her next victim. I swallow hard, my sight glued to the floor, examining the frayed ends of my shoe laces.

Look at me.

I know who you are.

Look at me now.

The mantra repeats over and over. I’m compelled to peer into the eyes of the motionless apparition. My pulse pounds harder in my veins as I resist. Silent alarm bells rattle my mind as my instincts warn against moving, looking, breathing.

Another series of heartbeats chip away the time. I strain, tethered by an invisible force pulling me toward the girl. The attraction is both foreign and familiar, like an echo of something I’ve forgotten. Sounds chime in the distance. My resistance falters. Doors open and close. I raise my head and dark green eyes meet my own.

“Dakota, honey. Are you okay?”

The trance is broken. Suicide Girl fades.

“Dakota.” Mom’s fingers drape over my shoulder and the tension leaves my body in an instant. Tears prick behind my eyes. I reach for Mari as she vanishes.

“Honey? What’s wrong?”

Relief rains down on me as the last images of the phantom disappear. I turn to Mom, wrap my arms around her neck and beg to leave.

“You’re okay, Dakota,” Mom says, returning my hugs.