Out of the Shadows (25 page)

*     *     *

Cole and I stood on the wooden porch of the Westfall House, knowing that I only had a few short moments before capture would be imminent, the sirens approaching in the distance. As I reached my hand forward to ring the doorbell, I noticed how badly I was shaking. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to say, but I knew that this conversation would release the oppressive weight from my passionless existence. As we waited for an answer, I looked down at the boy, and he returned the glance, smiling encouragingly.

The door opened, and the woman I knew to be Mrs. Westfall stood before me, her smile quickly fading to a look of terror. As she called out to her husband, she quickly slammed the door.

“I have to talk to you!” I uttered quickly.

There was silence for a bit, and then Mr. Westfall flung the door open, anger in his hazel eyes, his wife standing behind him for protection. “Get the hell away from our house, lady!”

I stumbled backward at his aggressive approach, and I saw him reach behind the door for something – a makeshift weapon, likely.

Tires skidded around the corner at the end of the block, and the sirens grew louder and louder. I had no more time to spare.

Panic rising within me, I held up my hands, showing them I meant no harm. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just have to talk to you!”

“Get out of here!” he seethed.

“Please!” I begged.

The squad of police cars came to a screeching halt in front of the house as officers poured out from their vehicles, a flurry of shouts demanding surrender and the cocking of guns echoing through the evening air.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” came the command from the familiar voice of Detective Carla Bailey.

I obeyed, frozen in place, staring ahead at Mr. Westfall.

“Put your hands up slowly,” Bailey added sternly.

I did as ordered, finally accepting defeat. This was the end of the path.

“Now turn around,” came the final command from the detective.

As I turned to face the disarming acquaintance, sobs heaved from within me. “You don’t understand.”

Bailey’s brow furrowed into sincere concern. “Then help me to.”

The back door of one of the cruisers opened, and Dr. Abner stepped out, approaching cautiously. “Melissa,” he called to me.

Tears flowed from my eyes so copiously that it took me a moment to recognize him. I gasped for air through my hysterics. “Dr. Abner! Tell her I’m not crazy! Please!”

His face filled with great sadness. “Melissa…”

“Tell her!” I pleaded.

He sighed. “Your actions right now… They aren’t rational.”

I felt my knees growing weak, begging for collapse to allow them rest. Next to me, Cole stood, his eyes imploring me to fix this. Through tears, I muttered, “You told me to help them. You told me to. I’m not crazy.”

Dr. Abner approached Detective Bailey, holding his arm out, motioning for her to lower her weapon. “Melissa, why don’t you come with us, and we’ll—.”

“Cole Westfall!” I blurted.

The Westfall parents behind me gasped from the porch. “What did she say?” the mother asked aloud.

I didn’t dare turn around to face them for fear of being riddled with bullets, but I heard Mr. Westfall say, “Sweetie, no!” And then Mrs. Westfall appeared in front of me, her face filled with confusion and fury.

“Ma’am, stay back!” Bailey urged, but the woman waved the comment away, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Why did you say my son’s name?” she asked me.

I took a breath, searching for the bravery I so badly needed, and I said, “I’m the one that was driving the other car one year ago.”

Realization struck, and her anger faded to shock, which then became sorrow. Mr. Westfall joined his wife, placing a consoling arm around her waist. With her hands over her mouth and tears welling within her eyes, she asked, “Why are you here?”

Seeing her pain made me feel utter shame. “I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

The Westfalls stood in stunned silence.

“I know that ‘sorry’ can’t bring him back, but I don’t imagine I’ll have too many other opportunities to say it.”

Bailey cautiously lowered her weapon a bit, encouraging the other officers to do the same.

“May I ask you something?” I said to them.

Mr. Westfall nodded solemnly.

“Why didn’t you press charges against me?”

The woman brushed her brunette hair from her face and wiped her cheeks clear, composing herself. “Honey, that weather was horrendous. We all have our demons to deal with, but that accident wasn’t your fault.”

I looked past the couple to the armed squad of officers near the street. “I guess my demons have finally caught up to me,” I said. I looked over at Cole and smiled at him, hoping I had done enough to help, because my time was up.

“What are you looking at?” Mrs. Westfall asked.

I stammered, opening my mouth to say, “nothing.” But then I stopped and closed my eyes, so exhausted from hiding the truth. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the courage to say, “I was looking at Cole.”

Both of the Westfalls’ expressions became a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment. “What?”

“I can’t explain how. But for the past year, ever since the accident, your son has been following me. And I didn’t realize until today what he wanted.”

As if she fully believed my story, Mrs. Westfall asked, “What did he want?”

I looked over at the boy, trying foolishly to keep my emotions in check. “To bring his parents peace.”

Mrs. Westfall cried now, burying her face into her husband’s chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Melissa,” Detective Bailey called out gently from the other end of the yard. “I need you to come with me now.”

I continued staring at the grieving couple as I gradually sidestepped them and approached the police, my hands behind my head. Cole remained near his parents, but he watched me as I walked away from them. The snow fluttered down from the sky serenely, leaving a light dusting on the earth.

Slowly, I turned back toward the family. “Mrs. Westfall!” I called out to her.

She removed her blotted face from her husband’s sweater to look at me.

We considered each other for a long moment while the police waited to see what would be my next move. I wiped the moisture from my cheeks with my sleeve and said to her, “I really am sorry.”

She smiled sweetly at me, using the back of her hand to dry her face. “I forgive you.”

I glanced over at Cole to see him grinning broadly, silently thanking me for everything I had done for him. And then, placing his hand over his heart, he slowly disappeared from this world forever. Once he was gone, my eyes closed, and I exhaled, a warm shiver of liberation running down my spine.

“He’s gone now, isn’t he?” Mrs. Westfall asked.

I nodded, my eyes brimming with relief. “Yes, he is.”

Overwhelmed by a feeling of intense closure, a stream of salty tears ran down my face. My body weak and exhausted, I collapsed onto my knees, closed my tired eyes, and I waited for the end of everything.

*     *     *

I sat at my modest desk, staring at my new typewriter, giddy and grinning like a child at Christmas time. It had taken many months of requests to finally acquire the beauty before me, and I didn’t intend to waste a second of my time with it. After Cole had moved on from this world, a flood of ideas had poured into my head, and as miserable as I was at first, I felt my passion slowly returning as each day passed. I finally felt like
me
again.

I loaded up the first sheet of paper into the feeder, turning the old-fashioned crank on the side. I stared at the semi-circular row of type bars tipped with inked letters waiting to press themselves onto the blank page before me. I finally knew the story I needed to tell. And this was only the beginning.

I placed my fingers on the hard letters and began typing:

The Long Road

By: Melissa Perdition

I once knew a boy that taught me what it meant to be humble, to be brave, to be courageous, and to be alive. Oddly enough, this boy was dead. His name was Cole Westfall, and he taught me what it meant to be Melissa Perdition.

“Ok, wrap it up everyone! Light’s out!” the man’s voice echoed from the end of the hall.

A year ago, I would have been angered by the interruption, but I stared at the few words I had been able to type, and I sighed with a smile. I watched the guards patrol down the length of the hall, and I stood, placing my hands around the cool prison bars that prevented me from leaving my cell.

I had plenty of time to write.

The End.

The tumultuous rain clouds exploded with torrential fury upon St. Paul Defiance Penitentiary, a rumble of crackling thunder reverberating through the trembling earth. The storm’s fingers of darkness reached around the glistening moon, a dreary blackness blanketing the ground below. With midnight’s light buried behind the clouds, the facility appeared skeletal, its many barred windows peering eerily through the freezing, wet wind toward the city lights two miles down the desolate road.

Even though the stone exterior gave the impression of a medieval prison, once one entered the front oak doors, they could see the influence of cutting-edge technology everywhere.

Within the past twenty years, well-known aristocrat Dr. Robert London had donated millions of dollars in an effort to upgrade the hospital, opening up new research areas in abnormal psychology and stem cell research. His hope was to one day discover what it was in the human brain that, simply put, produced evil thoughts and actions – and then remove it.

Rumors had circulated that the hefty donations were related to his ill, bed-ridden wife, yet after she passed away, he continued to donate and encourage scientific growth. Incredible advancements in computer technologies had even made it possible to develop experimental therapies in which entire virtual worlds could be created from the patients’ memories, allowing their minds the opportunities to seek out the causes of their conditions and potentially repair them.

It was for the better that the ignorant people in town wanted nothing to do with the happenings at the hospital, because it gave Dr. London and the research staff the peace they needed to make progress. But now, as if by some cruel twist of irony, the man who had started a small psychological revolution was now a patient in his own sanctuary.

The solid wooden doors to the outside fought against the wind as they opened just far enough to allow a sopping, pale, young man into the respite of the hospital lobby. Wiping his black dress shoes on the fuzzy mat and cleaning the water droplets from the squared lenses of his glasses, the well-dressed man continued across the white marble floor tiles to the security guard stationed at a desk in the center of the well-lit, sterile entrance hall.

The guard was a pleasant, stout woman with rich, chocolate skin, and despite her soft appearance, people quickly learned it was wise not to cross her. She was always right, and if anyone tried to insinuate otherwise, they’d receive a verbal onslaught with so much attitude that even the harshest of men would relent and apologize. “Well, ain’t you a soakin’ sight to see at this hour, Li’l Bobby?” she said to the man as he approached her, half-smiling.

His name was actually Henry – Henry Robert London. The woman called him Li’l Bobby “on account of you lookin’ so much like that daddy of yours,” as she’d say.

Henry smiled sweetly, his innocent blue eyes sparkling in the fluorescents of the lobby, his curly mop of dark brown hair dripping pools onto the tile. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “Hello, Ms. Jacobs. I couldn’t sleep.” He took a breath to steady himself, placing his nervous hands on the countertop in front of him. “I’d like to see my father,” he finally said.

She rose from her chair. “Child, how many times I gotta tell you to call me Charise?” She hobbled away from the desk and security monitors toward a white door along the back wall.

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry added, following her and the familiar routine that repeated every late night he came to St. Paul’s.

A crackle buzzed through the air as the lights flickered and dimmed for a moment before returning to their usual sterile brightness. A shiver crawled the length of his spine like a scurrying insect, forcing his heart rate to leap as he shook off the phantom intrusion.

The short woman glanced hesitantly up at the lights, making sure the storm wasn’t about to leave them in the dark, and then her eyes flicked briefly to Henry, considering him with narrowed eyes. Finally, Charise took a large key ring filled with dozens of gold and silver magnetic keycards from her belt, fishing around for the one that released the lock on the white door. After succeeding, the mechanism retracted with a soft, hydraulic
whoosh
, and the door swung open.

“Do me one good, Li’l Bobby, and grab a cola on your way out.”

But Henry didn’t acknowledge. He stared into the next room, knowing what lay ahead. He took a deep breath –
This never gets easier
, he thought – and he walked over the threshold, the white door closing and blocking his path to reality. For the next hour or so, he was in
their
world. The world of the insane.

*     *     *

Henry was more familiar with the turning, labyrinthine layout of St. Paul Defiance Penitentiary than he cared to be. There had always been something about the halls that made him uneasy; mild claustrophobia would kick in. If it weren’t for the security guards, it would be quite possible to become lost for hours in the place.

Everything was so white.

The white halogens illuminated the slick, reflective, white floor tiles that joined with the white drywall that held up the white cork ceiling slats. Every now and then, white metal doors led into various rooms, like offices for the doctors and nurses or lounges for the employees and guards. Once he rounded the corner ahead, he would flash a smile at the familiar guard who would let him continue through the door and gain access to the mentally unstable, all while being engulfed by the annoyance of aesthetically misleading whiteness. But once he crossed through, things would be different.

“Hey, Henry.” The old guard ahead smiled warmly, his wrinkled skin and hunched back showing his age.

“Jack,” the young man grinned. “Anything exciting tonight?” he asked, pretending for a minute that he enjoyed visiting this place.

“Well,” Jack faltered, unsure of how much to share with him. “We had some problems with Gary a little earlier. Got a little riled up, but Tom took care of it.”

Henry wasn’t much in the mood for small talk, so he merely responded with, “Good.”

He liked Jack enough; the guard had always been so nice to him growing up, but Henry was preoccupied with feeling unsettled. Tonight didn’t feel right. Something inside him felt off – like his thoughts were distant. He recognized that it was probably because the Fates held his father’s life thread taut between their fingers, ready to snip it at any moment. And yet with every recent visit, he hadn’t been able to find the courage to say the words that needed to be said before it was too late.

Through the next door was another guard who sat behind a circular white desk that filled nearly half of the round vestibule. Ahead and to both sides were the three entrances into the actual compound. The door on the left held captive the “normal” patients – the run-of-the-mill crazies. That wing’s web of hallways took some getting used to, but there wasn’t much danger beyond that door.

The door ahead led to what the employees had jokingly dubbed “The Alley.” It was just a solitary hallway, nearly two hundred feet long and two stories tall, the walls on both floors lined with Plexiglas padded cells. It also housed the patients requiring “specific needs.” It was maximum security. Cameras in every corner, electric locks on every cell and door.

The door to the right – that was the one that Henry passed through at least once a week. That wing contained numerous hallways that kept celebrities and prominent societal figures comfortable in their deteriorating conditions. And his father, Dr. Robert London, was one of those patients.

Whether he was ready or not, it was time to enter.