Page 6 of Cry Madness
Alice didn’t want to see me.
Me.
Her best fucking friend in this whole goddamned, shitty world.
If she stabbed me in the face, it’d hurt less than her rejection.
This wing of the hospital feels a bit restless, almost buzzing with energy. It’s as if the building has taken a deep breath and is holding onto it for just a moment longer. Or perhaps that sense of tension is coming from me as I mentally keep track of the room numbers.
201, 202, 203…
As I walk by each staff member, I offer the customary smile and nod, but when I finally reach my destination, I let out a trembling sigh because it all feels very real now. Next to the plaque that reads 205, I notice a name written in bold, black marker on a small rectangular whiteboard.
Knightly, Alice.
I think I’m going to throw up.
Just a couple of months ago, Alice was in this very hospital, one floor up, at her father’s side. Sadly, Luther Knightly passed away after a tough battle with cancer. Those who knew his wife, Katherine, could tell that the witch was relieved when he finally succumbed to cancer. It wasn’t out of pity for his suffering—let’s be honest, that wouldn’t paint a kind picture of her. While Luther was fighting for his life, Katherine was busy living as if she were already a widow. It’s a fact that on the night he passed away, she was in another man’s arms…
…while Luther’s daughter had been in mine.
His death wrecked Alice, but what ripped her to shreds was the guilt she felt afterward. For not being with him when he died. For being with me instead.
And that’s why we’re here, and it’s as if I’ve lived through a whirlwind of emotions in the last few hours.
I woke up to a dozen missed calls and a flurry of frantic texts from Else McQueen.
Call me as soon as you get this
It’s important please call me.
You need to please call me.
Maddox call me.
My first thought? Someone had taken out Roman. Through McQueen Enterprises, he controls a significant portion of Wonderland and influences every corrupt politician in Grimm County. His control over the county makes him believe he’s invincible, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if Else’s news had been that some brave fucker had murdered him.
But the news wasn’t about Roman.
No, the news was about Alice.
My Malice.
How did I miss the signs? Was I not paying attention or too close to the fire to see the flames? I knew she was struggling after Luther’s death, but I mistakenly believed that she would recover and regain her footing. Instead, she tumbled deeper into despair.
Katherine found Alice overdosed on the bedroom floor, lying in a puddle of vomit. Alice still clutched the empty bottle of her mom’s oxycodone. If Alice hadn’t thrown up some of those pills, or if her mother had arrived just a few minutes later…
Doubling over, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and try to swallow down the rising nausea. I know from this moment on everything’s changed and it fucking sucks. I want to reset time, rewind it and go back to the night when we were together in themaze. But I can’t, and once the nausea passes and I can breathe easy again, I straighten up and swim through the wave of fear that crashes over me.
If Alice can come back from the edge, then I can handle whatever’s waiting for me on the other side of this door.
Even though my head feels fuzzy from adrenaline, I carefully inch inside the dim and eerily quiet room. Heavy white curtains are pulled closed, hiding the gloomy day outside, but still, I see her. My sweet Malice, asleep on the bed in the center of the room. I’m alarmed at how pale she is—too pale. Ashen. Her icy-blonde hair is a messy halo against the white pillowcase, and shadows are a stain beneath her eyes. There’s an IV hooked up to her arm, and all I want to do is pull it out, scoop her up, and take her away from this sterile place. Run fast and far enough that sadness can’t catch her.
Alice Knightly deserves to be drenched in color, not shut away in this dismal room.
“Shhh. She just fell back to sleep,” the nurse says gently, her voice fading into the background. A glance at my guest tag has her brows knitted in a deep frown. She places her book on the square table beside the bed, stands up, and approaches me, her white Crocs making a soft sound against the bright tile floor. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be here. Ms. Knightly has specifically requested that you not visit,” she says gently.
“I specifically don’t give a shit,” I whisper back.