Regarding Nicholas Hartley, Stanley Winters, and Gerald Markman, none has, at any time, been registered as patients here.
My chest constricts. My stomach tugs into a knot. I look up from the screen and realize Adam’s been watching me the whole time. He reaches under his desk and pulls out the red folder I saw him slam shut several days ago.
I lurch back at the sight of it and feel my temples flare with heat.
He slaps the folder onto the desk and opens it. Inside is a series of photographs. Adam spreads them out on the desktop, then looks at me.
I study the photos of young girls I’ve never before seen. I look up at Adam and say, “Who are they?”
Very softly. “Chris, they’re the missing girls. The ones Donny Ray is suspected of killing.”
“That can’t be. You have the wrong pictures.”
Adam doesn’t respond. He just looks sadly troubled.
“But . . . but none of them look like Miranda Smith.”
“None of them ever did. And I checked the police reports. Not a single one wore a blue dress on the day she went missing.”
“NO!” I slowly back away from him, fists pulling tight, nails digging holes into my palms. “I saw those faces, Adam. They looked just like her.”
“Chris, something is happening to you. Maybe it’s because of the accident or . . . or maybe it’s worse than that. I don’t know, because you’ve stopped telling me things, but I’m really worried. You’re getting paranoid, and we’ve got to find you some help.”
Get away from him!
I bolt for the door.
“Chris, wait!”
“No! Someone, or something, is taking over this hospital. Everything I’ve told you is true.” I jab my finger sharply at him. “You’re trying to keep me from getting to the bottom of it! You’re trying to sabotage my efforts! But it won’t work, Adam. I won’t let you!”
“That’s not true. I’m not doing anything of the sort!”
“And I’m not paranoid!”
Before he can say another word, I’m gone.
68
SOMEONE IS OUT TO GET Me
Paranoia became a prominent feature of my father’s schizophrenia.
It began with fits of rage and persecutory declarations, which erupted into stomping, screaming tirades that put the fear of God in me. Things would break and shatter, Dad would wail louder, and I’d run to my room for cover. With the door locked, I’d bury my head beneath a pillow, tears sopping the sheet, panic and terror writhing through every part of me. I thought things couldn’t get any worse, but that was just another of my flawed survival tactics.
One day, as I watched TV in the family room, the screeching and wailing started, more ferocious than ever. While my father’s violent complaints were difficult to interpret, his sentiment was not. It was wrathful and convulsive, frenzied and maniacal.
Instinctual fear drove me upstairs for safety, and he was quickly on my trail. I lurched into the bedroom, but before I could slam the door, he crashed through with an expression that I could only interpret as crazy-eyed and murderous intent. I was trapped. My only way out of that room was the second-story window with a merciless drop onto our concrete driveway.
He let out a bloodcurdling scream and charged at me, shouting, “STAY AWAAAAY. STAY AWAAAAY!”
I dropped to the floor, curled into a ball, and prayed for salvation. I felt his body launch itself over mine. I heard the window shatter. I heard a sickening howl that barely sounded human.
When I lifted my head, he was covered in blood and rolling around in broken shards of glass, moaning like some tortured animal. Just moments before, I’d been terrified of the man. Now my heart ached for him in ways I never knew it could.
A neighbor called for an ambulance, and they rushed him to the hospital. He spent several days recovering from his injuries. After that, it was back to the psych ward, then he came home again, medicated, temporarily stabilized, and ready to bring more disorder and heartbreak into our world.
My mother wasn’t home during this latest fiasco, so in her mind it never happened. Not once during his hospital stays did she visit him or even pick up the phone to check on his status.
When he returned home, face and body covered in stitches, she refused to look at him.
69
Everyone is against you.
“Nothing works around here!” I shout, storming through the hallways. “This place is broken!”
Stanley was right.
I dash into the bathroom, lock myself in a stall. Face buried in my hands, I cry.
I don’t like being inside Loveland anymore. It keeps changing, keeps slipping away from me. I’m no longer safe here, and the more reality disappears, the fewer places I have left to hide from myself.
Do not trust anyone here.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” I yell and hear the echo of my voice bounce off walls, so loud that it surprises even me.
Ever since the accident, insanity has been haunting me. This voice has been haunting me. Donny Ray has been haunting me. But most of all, time has been haunting me.
“It’s ticking under my skin!”
More echoes. More anger. More utter helplessness.
“Pull it together, Chris!”
“But I don’t know how!”
Without thought, I push open the stall door, and, before I know it, I’m running back toward my office.
I dash inside, slam the door shut, then lean against it. I try to grab hold of myself and the starburst of thoughts firing through my fractured mind.
I stumble toward my desk, collapse into the chair. I get up, pace back and forth, and run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair.
I scream at nobody.
“I HAVE TO CALM DOWN! I HAVE TO CALM DOWN! BUT HOW?”
I go back to pacing and try to figure out how to figure this out. I have to figure this out. I have to hold on to my sanity.