Breaking the Hold

It started in a mental hospital. It wasn’t in horrible, nothing like the horror stories told in One Flew over a Cuckoo’s Nest or anything like that. There were no evil sadist nurses out for blood, no pills being shoved down your throat at predetermined intervals, no deathly sterile white walls or expressionless, blank uniforms. There was no one taped to the wall in a rundown, falling apart room.

Huntington Recovery Center and Asylum was exactly as its name suggested—it was an asylum, a place of peace and safety. Everything about it was warm and friendly. Large bay windows overlooking an ocean of a billion shattered sapphires, rich mahogany furniture in beautiful cozy rooms, fireplaces that crackled when it got cold some nights, real beds with down pillows. There were friendly faces anywhere you looked, kind eyes around every corner, and a helping hand wherever you needed one.

The day my parents checked me in was the day I could finally slow down and breathe. My name is Zachary Baker and I was finally getting help for my nightmares and insomnia. It had gotten to the point where I would be up for weeks on end, tearing through sketchbook after sketchbook trying to exhaust myself to no avail, until I would finally pass out for days from complete, absolutely- at-my-limit, exhaustion. Everything seemed to be screwed up from my night terrors; I couldn’t eat much because my sleeping patterns were not regulated enough for my body to decide when it was hungry or when it was time for breakfast. I was always a little afraid to eat too—I didn’t want to eat anything by accident that would keep me up even more with some hidden caffeine or unknown sugar. My schoolwork suffered because I would be too exhausted to pay appropriate attention in class, and it was impossible to focus on homework when I was at my wit’s end stressing about when I would be able to sleep that night, or what would haunt me next if I even tried. No one wanted to be friends with the “zombie boy” either. I had earned that nickname from the strong black-violet bags permanently ringing my eyes like a constant black eye and the hazy, lethargic way I walked about because I simply had no energy. I had made the decision enough was finally enough when I had landed myself in the hospital after collapsing in the outfield in a gym class baseball game.

My parents agreed without hesitation. My mother broke down at my bedside, crying and beating herself up that she didn’t think to do it sooner.

“I hoped it would go away. I didn’t want you to be caged up like an animal in some insane house. You’re not insane! You’re a good boy!” she had told me.

Whether she was talking to herself or me, I don’t know. I didn’t want to be caged up like a rat either, but I figured it could only be slightly better than being a prisoner in my own body. After I was released I dropped out of school for “medical reasons” and spent my many waking hours looking for promising help. The people at the hospital had suggested the Huntington Recovery Center and Asylum and it clicked with me the second the web page loaded. Two days later my clothes and my most prized possessions, namely my cherry red Schecter guitar and my mountains of sketchpads and water colors, and shipped myself over.

I was set up in a nice looking room—it reminded me of what I thought college would have been like. I had a roommate, a stick thin giant boy named Jimmy who had a mild case of schizophrenia. He was a really nice guy and he was always carefree. He had the most animated conversations with his imaginary friends. After watching him for a few hours, I found myself quickly growing jealous. He had friends, albeit imaginary and completely out of touch with reality, but they were nonetheless friends and they all apparently deeply cared about him, as did he them.

Upset and becoming emotional, I grabbed my sketchbook and watercolors and placed them in the backpack lying empty next to my bed. Painting always helped dispel my stress and unwelcome emotions. I had to get my feelings under control; I always had less of a chance of sleeping when I was bitter and upset. The psychiatrist had told me that getting some fresh air and sunlight would do me well, so I cautiously walked along the long corridors, still unsure where to go in this new domain. An older nurse with care and kindness embossed in her winkles noticed and led me to a set of great double doors that led to a beautiful botanical garden on the Asylum grounds. “It’s the best place to get away from it all.” She told me with an understanding smile. I nodded my thanks and stepped outside.

Immediately, I was caressed by warm pacific air, the smell of salt and sea lulling my senses and the gentle crashes and rolls of the water breaking on the shore put me into a content hypnosis. I began to wander then, going wherever my feet felt like leading me. I looked about me as I strolled, my eyes drinking up Birds of Paradise, Hibiscus, even a small clearing of Bamboo. The shade under an ancient and sprawling oak tree beckoned to me, and I found a comfortable spot on springy grass and leaned back against the tree. The bark was smooth, not the roughness of nature that I had expected, and seemed like I was meant to sit there. I poured some water from my water bottle into a small ceramic dish and arranged my paint tray next to it. I opened the sketch pad to a clean page and tenderly washed my fingers over the crisp virgin paper. This wasn’t just a blank page to me. This was a story and an emotion waiting to be let out. I smiled a little, as I spied a grove of Foxgloves growing to my left. My mother loved Foxgloves. They bordered our house in colorful cloves, lighting up our yard like fireworks in the summer. I decided to paint them and give it to my mother when she came to visit, as I dipped my brush into the red-violet, mixing it with the water.

Meticulously, I began to flesh out the bunches of rounded buds. The more I dipped my brush back for more paint, the more I felt myself absorbing into the environment. My thoughts became only the calling of birds, and my breath dissolved into the steady push and pull of the water’s tide. A cool breeze lifted my hair and whispered in my ears. I was completely at peace. I barely noticed my work evolving before my eyes, shadows being added with highlights. A stem of green peeked out from the pink-purple. The soft edges of the figures on the page calmed me, and my mind was occupied only with how beautiful the garden was and how tranquil the clouds overhead looked. As I rinsed out my brush in the now murky water my eyelids began to feel heavy, wanting so badly to close and rest, but knowing what would happen if they did. I was about to give in, when a harsh voice barked out in to the clearing, shattering the world I had been encased in.

“I don’t have to fucking listen to your goddamn rules! I’m a mother fucking adult!”

My head snapped so fast it hit the tree behind me, sending a jolt of pain behind my eyes. Rubbing at the now constant ache at the back of my head I watched as the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my life stormed out. His skin was unblemished, tinted by long days spent at the beach. His jaw was hard, teeth grinding in anger and his eyes flashing dangerously. His shaggy dark hair flapped in the wind as he stomped; the sunlight filtering though showed it to be a beautiful dark walnut color. He seemed to be walking anywhere that was away from the Asylum building and unaware of my being. Or so I thought.

His fiery eyes locked with mine and I gulped, shrinking against the tree and fearing he would hurt me. He stopped abruptly a few feet in front of me, spreading his arms out wide like an eagle before screaming at me.

“What the fucking hell do you think you’re looking at, Fagitty Ann?!” It felt like I had been punched in the gut with a knife. My breath hitched in my throat and I forgot how to breathe. I couldn’t move as his nose flared and he stomped closer. He crouched down like a feral panther ready to pounce before getting in my face and asking in a cold hiss,

“I asked what the fuck are you looking at?!” I tried to open my mouth to speak, to say anything to get him away from me, but my voice seemed to have disappeared. I felt my mouth open and close, moving silently as I begged my voice to work. My eyes watered and I could feel myself starting to cry. I thought he would kill me; this was a mental hospital after all. He sat back on his haunches and pulled out a cigarette from a crumpled box he had hidden in his pocket. He put one in his mouth and lit up, inhaling deeply before blowing the smoke in my face.

“What a fucking pussy.” He said, his eyes matching his malevolent, cocky smirk. In an instant of miracle, my legs decided they would work and I shot up, knocking my water over in the process and flinging my brush. My sketchpad landed in the grass with a soft indignant rustle as I sprinted away, heading back for the safety of the inside. I didn’t stop running until I was in my room with my back pressed against the door.

I felt like I was dying. My chest was heaving, gasping and clawing for air, my muscles were screaming from the sudden demands. My hands were shaking too badly to rest on my head, and soon my legs trembled so violently that I collapsed onto the tile floor. Jimmy had looked up from the middle of the room, whispered something to the air next to him, before striding over and kneeling down. He studied my face with a frown before scooping me up under my legs and carrying my bridal style to my bed before he gently placed me down on top of the covers.

“Watch him, Johnny. Make sure nothing happens to him, or The Reverend will get mad at you like he did last time.” He said sternly to the air at the foot of my bed. With a final warning glance back at ‘Johnny’ he gave me a sweet smile and a nod before going back and talking animatedly to someone by the wardrobe.

My breathing eventually slowed and I felt myself calming down. I was completely worn out and closed my eyes. Even if I couldn’t sleep I hoped I could at least rest. The man’s eyes burned before my own, so alight with life and contempt I couldn’t help but be curious, even if I was scared out of my mind. I drifted into a feather-light sleep hoping the man wouldn’t find me and wondering how he became so animalistic.