Wide Awake

My name is Dylan. Yes, I know it’s a boy’s name, leave it alone. I have dark hair and blue-green eyes. They’re my dad’s eyes. I have my mom’s nose and lips. Other than that, I look like my dad. I’m seventeen and healthy. I don’t have anything wrong with me, except the whole fact I don’t remember how I got here or why, but I’m not insane.

I just know that I’m sitting in this sterile common room in some sort of Asylum. I’m not really sure where I am, actually. I just know I’ve been here long enough to know better than to lash out like Roman does. They inject her until she’s out cold.

I’m sitting. It’s what I do. I sit. And draw. They trust me, I guess. We’re not usually allowed to have pencils or anything because it’s a “weapon” or some shit. They make me use one of those big pencils that teachers would give you in Kindergarten.

I like to draw people. I like profiles and different facial features on people. So I suppose that this place helps. I get to sit here and just study people. I like to study people and how they act. I guess you could say I notice little things.

That Roman girl for example, I can tell if and when she’ll freak out. Her right eyebrow twitches slightly and her posture straightens up. That’s when it happens. She full out freaks out. Punching walls, screaming, throwing chairs. The whole shebang. It’s her tell.

People have tells and I spot them out. Again, I notice the little things.

I’m drawing Roman right now, her wild hair, her round face with big round eyes. I love her eyes, they’re green which is different for her dark complexion. She is truly beautiful. She’s tall and she moves so elegantly. She is simply captivating.

I look up to see her looking straight at me. I gasp and look down at my sketch book. I hear her walking toward me.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

That’s an even number, I don’t like even numbers. They bug me. I look up. She’s standing right in front of me.

“What’re ya up to, huh?” She questions, her Louisianan accent thick as ever.

“Drawing,” I respond.

“Whatchya drawing?” She asks.

I’m not going to lie to Roman; she can tell if people are lying, “You.”

“Damn girl, what’re you drawing me for?” a smile spreads across her face.

“Because,” I shrug.

She sits down next to me. She snatches the drawing from me. Her mouth opens slightly, as if to say something and then closes it again. Roman hands it back.

“You have skills,” She compliments.

“Thanks,” I smile.

My arm starts to itch. I look down at where I was scratching, there are small puncture wounds in the middle of my arm. Three of them. That’s weird.

“They do it to all of us,” I hear her whisper, “When we sleep.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” I shake my head. Ms. Bishop is a good lady, she wouldn’t hurt us.

“Oh yes they would.”

“Whatever,” I shake my head once more, flipping to a fresh page in my sketchbook.

“Fine,” She bit out, I can tell her eyebrow is twitching.

“Chill, Roman,” I coo before standing up and walking away.

My head is buried in my sketchbook; I can’t see anything in front of me. I trip. I hit the ground with thud.

Groaning, I sit up, “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” the boy says. It’s Carson.

“Carson,” I sigh standing up, “What the hell are you doing in the middle of the floor?”

“I dunno,” He shrugs.

I reach my hand out and help him up. He stands. He’s tall, at least a foot taller than me.

“Sorry for tripping on you,” I reply.

“It’s okay.”

That’s the end of our conversation. I walk down the hall and into my room. Room 100. It’s an even number. I don’t like even numbers.

I push my door open. My room is different than the rest of the building. Opposed to the starch white floors, walls, doors… Well, everything, my room has much more life in it. It’s warm. Two beds, one for me and one for Roman. The walls are a deep shade of purple and there’s a ceiling fan. It’s nothing spectacular, but it’s different.

I fall onto my bed. I want to take a nap, but Roman’s words are starting to get to me.

“They do it to all of us, when we sleep.”

I can’t sleep.