survival advice written on parchment.
Hopefully there were also no video-game monsters
waiting to eat me the moment I got loose, because
even if someone had left me a gun, I wouldn’t have
known how to use it.
But my objective was clear: Get out. Go home.
Unfortunately, that was easier said than done
without the use of my hands.
My pulse swooshed in my ears, a hollow echo of
real fear. That overpowering need to scream was gone,
but a different kind of panic had settled into its place.
What if there was a fire? Or a tornado? Or more
screaming? Would anyone come get me, or would they
leave me here to die? I would be easy prey for those
18 / My Soul to Lose
shadow things, or a natural disaster, or any random
psycho who wandered past.
I had to get off the bed. Out of these stupid…bed
cuffs.
“Please…” I begged the camera, frustrated by my
own weak whisper. I swallowed thickly, then tried
again. “Please let me out.” My words were clearer that
time, if no louder. “Please…”
No response. My pulse spiked, pumping adrenaline
through me. What if they were all dead, and the last
person on earth was strapped to a bed? Was this how
civilization would end? With leather straps and padded
handcuffs?
Get a grip, Kaylee.
The reality was probably much less far-fetched, but
just as scary: I was trapped. Helpless, and exposed,
and vulnerable. And suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t make my heart stop racing. If I didn’t get out
soon, I was going to start screaming again—from
normal terror this time, but the result would be the
same. They’d shoot me up again, and the cycle would
repeat ad nauseam. I’d be in this bed for the rest of my
life, cowering from shadows.
So what if there were no windows and the overhead
bulbs bathed the room in light? Eventually there would
be shadows, and they would come for me. I was sure
of that.
“Please!” I shouted, almost giddy to hear my voice
coming back. “Let me—”
Rachel Vincent / 19
The door opened seconds before I would have
started fighting my bindings in earnest. “Hi, Kaylee,
how are you feeling?”
I strained to lift my head and put a face to the
smooth, masculine voice. He was tall and thin, but
looked strong. Bad skin, good hair. “Like a frog about
to be dissected,” I said, as he unbuckled my left arm.
I liked him already.
“Fortunately for you, I was never very good with a
scalpel.” His smile was nice, and his brown eyes were
kind. His name tag read: Paul Conners, Mental Health
Technician.
Mental health?
My stomach tried to twist itself in
knots. “Where am I?”
Paul carefully unbuckled my other wrist. “You’re
at Lakeside Mental Health Center, attached to
Arlington Memorial.”
Lakeside.
The psych ward.
Shit.
“Um, no. I can’t be here. Somebody made a
mistake.” Panic poured into my bloodstream fast
enough to make my skin tingle. “I need to talk to my
aunt. Or my uncle. He’ll fix this.” Uncle Brendon had
a way of straightening things out without pissing
people off—a skill I’d always envied.
Paul smiled again and helped me sit up. “After you
get settled in, you’re welcome to call them.”
But I didn’t want to settle in.
My own sock feet caught my attention from the end
of the bed. “Where are my shoes?”
20 / My Soul to Lose
“They’re in your room. We had to take them off to
unlace them. For everyone’s safety, we don’t allow
shoestrings, belts, drawstrings, or robe ties.”
My shoestrings were dangerous? Fighting back
tears, I leaned forward to free my right leg.
“Careful. You might be a little stiff and shaky at
first,” he said, already working on my left ankle. “You
were out for quite a while.”
My heart thumped painfully. “How long?”
“Oh, just over fifteen hours.”
What?
I sat up and felt my eyes glaze over in
horror. “You left me strapped to a bed for fifteen
hours? Isn’t there some kind of law about that?”
“Lots of them. And we follow every single one.
Need help getting down?”
“I got it,” I snapped. I knew my anger was
misdirected, but I couldn’t help it. I’d lost fifteen hours
of my life to a needle and four-point restraints. I
wasn’t capable of friendly at the moment. “Why was I
buckled in?”
I slid carefully off the bed, then leaned against it
while my head spun. The dingy vinyl tile was cold
through my socks.
“You arrived on a stretcher, screaming and
thrashing though under heavy sedation. Even after you
lost your voice, you kept flailing around, like you were
fighting something in your dreams.”
The blood drained from my head so fast I got dizzy
again. “I was?” No wonder I hurt all over; I’d been
Rachel Vincent / 21
fighting my restraints for hours. In my sleep. If
chemical comas even qualified as sleep.
Paul nodded solemnly and stepped back to give me
space when I stood. “Yeah, and that started again a
couple of hours ago, so they had to buckle you back up
to keep you on the bed.”
“I was screaming again?” My stomach had become
a bottomless pit of horror, swirling slowly, threatening
to swallow me like a black hole. What the hell was
wrong with me?
“No, thrashing. You went still about half an hour
ago. I was on my way to unbuckle you when you woke
up.”
“What did they give me?” I reached for the wall
when a fresh wave of dizziness rolled over me.
“The usual mix. Ativan, Haldol, and Benadryl to
counter the side effects of the Haldol.”
No wonder I’d slept so long. I had no idea what the
first two drugs were, but Benadryl alone was enough
to knock me out for most of the night during allergy
season. It was a miracle I’d woken up at all. “What if
I’d been allergic to any of that?” I demanded, crossing
my arms over the T-shirt I’d worn to the mall. So far,
waking up in my own clothes was the closest thing I’d
found to a bright side.
“Then we’d be having this conversation in the E.R.,
instead of the restraint room.”
The restraint room? I was vaguely disturbed by the
fact that they had a name for it.
Paul pulled open the door. “After you.”
22 / My Soul to Lose
I steeled my spine and stepped into the bright
hallway, unsure what to expect. People walking
around in straitjackets, mumbling to themselves?
Nurses in white uniforms with starched hats? But the
hall was empty and quiet.
Paul stepped past me, and I followed him to the last
door on the left, which he pushed open for me.
I shoved my hands into my pockets to hide how
badly they were shaking, then made myself cross the
threshold.
Another white room, not much bigger than the first
one. The bed was a mattress set in a heavy wooden
frame, too narrow and too low. Draped with a plain
white blanket. Empty, open shelves were bolted to the
wall in place of a dresser, and there was one long, high
window. No closet.
My stringless shoes lay at the end of the bed. They
were the only things I recognized in the entire room.
Everything else was foreign. Cold. Scary.
“So…I’ve been committed?” My voice shook. I
couldn’t help it.
“You’ve been hospitalized,” Paul said from the
doorway.
“What’s the difference?” I stood at the end of the
bed, unwilling to sit. To get comfortable.
“This is temporary.”
“How temporary?”
“That’s up to you and your doctor.” He gave me a
sympathetic smile, then backed into the hall. “One of
Rachel Vincent / 23
the nurses will be by in a minute to get you settled in.
Hang in there, Kaylee.”
I could only nod. A second later, Paul was gone. I
was alone. Again.
From outside the room came the steady rattle-clank
of a cart being pushed down the hall. Shoes squeaked
on the floor. And somewhere nearby, someone cried in
great, dramatic sobs. I stared at my feet, unwilling to
touch anything for fear that it would make the whole
thing sink in. Make it real.
Am I crazy?
I was still standing there like an idiot when the door
opened, and a woman in pale pink scrubs came in
carrying a clipboard and pen. Her name tag read:
Nancy Briggs, R.N.
“Hi, Kaylee, how are you feeling?” Her smile was
wide and friendly, but felt somehow…measured. As if
she knew just how much to give. How to appear
friendly without welcoming actual conversation.
I missed Paul already.
“Confused and homesick.” I gripped the edge of the
shelf with one hand, willing it to dissolve beneath my
touch. To fade into the bad dream I’d surely wake up
from any minute.
“Well, let’s see if we can’t fix at least the first part
of that.” The nurse’s smile grew bigger, but no
warmer. “There’s a phone in the hall. Someone’s on it
right now, but when it’s free, you’re welcome to use it.
Local numbers, legal guardians only. Tell someone at
24 / My Soul to Lose
the front desk who you want to call, and we’ll connect
you.”
Numb, I could only blink. This wasn’t a hospital, it
was a prison.
I patted my pocket, feeling for my phone. It was
gone. Fresh panic exploded in my chest and I shoved
my hand into my other pocket. Aunt Val’s credit card
was gone. She’d kill me if I lost it! “Where’s my
stuff?” I demanded, trying to stop the tears that blurred
my vision. “I had a phone, and some lip gloss, and a
twenty-dollar bill. And my aunt’s credit card.”
Nurse Nancy’s smile thawed a bit then, either
because of my tears or the fear they no doubt
magnified. “We keep all personal items locked up until
you’re discharged. Everything’s there except the credit
card. Your aunt took it when she left last night.”
“Aunt Val was here?” I used my bare hands to wipe
my eyes, but they filled again instantly. If she was
here, why didn’t she take me home?
“She rode in the ambulance with you.”
Ambulance. Discharged. Locked up.
Those words
played over and over in my head, a litany of fear and
confusion. “What time is it?”
“Eleven-thirty. They’ll bring lunch in about half an
hour. You can eat in the common area, down the hall
and to the left. Breakfast is at seven. Dinner’s at six.”
She reached to her left with the hand holding her pen
and pushed open a door I hadn’t noticed, revealing a
tall, white industrial toilet and a shower stall. “You can
Rachel Vincent / 25
shower whenever you like. Just come to the nurse’s
station first for your hygiene kit.”
“Hygiene kit?” My eyes went wide as my insides
went numb.
This isn’t real. It can’t be.
“We hand out soap and shampoo as needed. If you
want to shave, you’ll have to be monitored by a staff
member.” I blinked, uncomprehending, but she
continued. “There’s a group session about anger
management at nine, one about coping with depression
at eleven, and one at two this afternoon about
symptoms of mental illness. That’s a good one to start
with.”
She smiled patiently, like she expected to be
thanked for passing out information, but I just stared at
the empty shelf. Her entire briefing was irrelevant to
me. I’d be out very soon, surely, and the only group I
was interested in was the group of my own family
members who could make that happen.
“The boys’ rooms are in the opposite wing, on the
other side of the common area. Girls are not allowed
on that wing, and vice versa. Visitation is every night
from seven to nine. Lights out at ten-thirty. Someone
will check on you every fifteen minutes when you’re
out of sight of the nurses’ station.” She paused again,
and I made myself look up to meet her detached gaze.
“Do you have any more questions?”
My eyes watered again, and I didn’t bother to wipe
them. “Why am I here?”
“That’s a question for your doctor.” She glanced
briefly at her clipboard. “Dr. Nelson. He makes rounds
26 / My Soul to Lose
after lunch, Monday through Friday. So you’ll see him
tomorrow.” She hesitated, and this time set the
clipboard on the shelf bolted to the cinder-block wall.
“How’s your neck? You didn’t need stitches, but they
did clean out the wounds…”
Wounds?
My right hand flew to my neck, and I
flinched at how tender the skin there was. And
how…rough. My heart thumping, I rushed into the
bathroom. The small, reflective aluminum mirror over
the sink showed that what little mascara I’d worn the
day before was now smeared beneath both of my eyes.
My skin was pale, my long hair hopelessly knotted.
I tilted my chin up and angled my body toward the
overhead light. My gasp echoed in the small room. My