Les Oiseaux de Mauvaise Augure

As I left the big gray building, Gerard waved to me from his spot on the wall. He had a cigarette attached to his lips and a cell phone at his ear. He gave me a somber smile. I held my hand up lazily, briefly wondering who he was talking to. But, I was much more focused on getting out of there.

What a terrible way to spend an hour.

I had listened to plenty of people talk, but I didn't really get to speak myself. We all had some common problems. There were about three others who had the same fear as me. One or two had a fear of needles. Some were afraid of heights, and some were claustrophobic. It was an odd mixture of odd people. We went back and forth between problems.

It did sort of help to hear that I wasn't the only one with a weird, irrational fear. But, you'll never hear me admit that out loud. There was only one thing keeping me from pulling out of the program.

I needed this.

I really did. The therapy and my job were the only things keeping me from jumping off a bridge. I needed something to look forward to besides a job and seeing my father in the hospital every Sunday. If I couldn't find some sort of routine to follow, I was going to succumb to the chaos that clouded my mind. The routine I followed could sweep away any of that left-over chaos. I could be my old self again, maybe.

I sped out of the parking lot, away from the big gray building, and into town. Without really thinking, I parked on one of the streets, grabbed a book from one of the pockets of my car, and bought a chocolate ice cream cone from a vendor. I wandered down an open path to a park, and sat down on an empty bench. I opened my book, and started reading.

It wasn't long before my mind started to wander again. My eyes focused on one line, reading it over and over again without really registering.

I'm afraid of needles. Eyes like a crow. Beady and black and deep. Shiny and smart.

Green eyes. Green eyes that give hope. Energy. Life in green eyes.

Violent green eyes. Oh no, not like those green eyes. No, no, no. Not at all. Two different kinds. Not like his at all. There's a difference.

...Where are my eyes when I need them?

What? Did I stutter? Why are you here, Anna? Tell us why you're here. What are you in for? The dark. Not the blood. No, I forgot about the blood. It's all about the night. The dark. The hunt. Not the blood. Not death. I could care less about death. It's all about the dark.

You're so stupid, kid.

Fucking Charity case.

You're ugly.

You have to live, Charity!

Death bat, death bat, death bat, death bat-

I shut my book. I tossed the rest of my ice cream cone. It had only been about ten minutes that I was sitting. I was going to be sick.

-*-

He felt like he was being watched.

You know, it had been three months, and he hadn't even heard their names yet. Not a word spoken to them, of them, from them. Nothing.

Zacky was getting restless.

If they were going to kill him, he wanted them to get it over with. If they were going to come bail him out, he wanted them to get it over with.

But, nothing.

Zacky's arm twitched wildly (a side effect of the new medication they shoved down his throat every morning) and his cards nearly flew out of his hands. He sighed and licked his lips.

"Go fish." There were two other patients playing. Another diagnosed schizophrenic, like Zacky, and a bipolar man. The bipolar man was rubbing his temples, and the schizophrenic staring wide-eyed at Zacky.

But, it wasn't the man's wide eyes that made Zacky feel paranoid. And, he knew it wasn't a side effect of the meds. It actually felt like someone was watching him. He didn't feel it in his room, or in the showers. Nothing crazy like that. Just when he was in the rec-room. He felt it. He'd glance around the room, but only ever see the other patients and a couple aides and guards.

He wanted to get out. He wanted to get out so bad, he was about ready to do anything that might gain his freedom. Community service, taking his meds on his own free will, murder. Whatever. He just wanted out.

Zacky picked up a card from the face-down deck and threw it at the schizophrenic.

"I said, go fish. It's your turn." The man stood up suddenly and slammed his cards down on the table, walking away without a word. "Holy fuck," Zacky mumbled, putting a hand on his face. He rubbed his dry, tired eyes. He looked back to the bipolar man who was glancing at the deck of cards. "Want to play something else?" Zacky asked in monotone. The man shook his head, not taking his eyes away from the cards. Zacky's arm flailed again, his whole body shifting, and he swore loudly. He stood up and started to pace.

He felt so restless and so tired. He just wanted out. And, now someone was staring at him again. He felt the burn of their stare on his back.

He turned around and noticed a guard. The guard... looked familiar. Suddenly, his eyes flickered to meet Zacky's, and Zacky's lips quivered up into a smirk.

"Finally."