Page 15 of Remiss

His psychiatrist, Dr. Patricks, assured him it was a sign he was responding well to the medicine, and to let him know if they returned. The middle-aged man was short and stout, with a personality reminiscent of Father Wilkins, immediately easing Rule. He also liked the new facility much better than the old one. The staff seemed to actually care, and even the ones apathetic to the plight of the patients weren’t outright abusive. The improvements didn’t alleviate the pain in Rule’s heart. The company of the voices was a double-edged sword, but at least with them present, he wasn’t so alone in the world. Now, even prayer didn’t comfort him.

“Do you want to watch some TV?” Freya asked softly.

He looked away from the window he’d stationed himself at, hoping to see his father or one of his brothers striding up the long stone walkway from the parking lot. A time or two, he’d imagined Mom and Reb.

He’d give anything to see them. His mother’s cherry blossom scent always comforted him more than anything other than Rebel’s laugh. He missed Mom and Reb so much.

“We can watch cartoons,” Freya persisted. “Or I can wheel you outside.”

The hospital sat upon a palisade overlooking the Pacific Ocean. High fences, cameras, and alarms protected patients from accessing the cliff’s edge, but the scenery was still gorgeous.

Rebel would’ve loved it. Rule smiled. She probably would’ve found a way to bypass all the protective measures and planted herself on the edge of the palisade.

Easy to push her over.

The voice startled him and he jerked.

“Rule?”

“I-I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, afraid again. He didn’t want the mean voices.

“Are you hungry? We can eat outside.”

Rule finally faced Freya. Her caring personality was reminiscent of his mother’s, before she only had enough love for two of her nine children. Freya reminded him of better days.Despite knowing what he’d done, she didn’t judge him. Although he’d expect nothing less from Father Wilkins’ daughter. The holy man had become a second father to Rule, so it would go to reason that he’d raise a fine child.

Rule’s one gripe with her was that she constantly tried to get him to socialize. He wasn’t ready to face the other patients. Forced group therapy sessions meant many knew how he landed in the facility, and he wasn’t blind to the judgment cast upon him by his group mates.

“No,” he said simply, looking out the window once more, though he no longer paid attention to the goings-on. Father Wilkins had gone to San Francisco for the day and would return tomorrow. No one else would come to see Rule. “I’m good here.”

Freya sighed. “Dr. Patricks wants you to interact with others, Rule.”

“I interact with them in therapy. Isn’t that enough?”

“You need to do so outside of therapy,” Freya reminded him. “The doctor wants you to make friends, and I think it’ll be a good idea. It won’t feel so lonely if you bond with someone else. Someone who isn’t a caretaker, like him, my dad or me.”

“And if I don’t?” Rule challenged, the question more forceful than he intended.

She shrugged. “It’ll just delay your release.”

“Socializing will just open me up to ridicule, and—”

“This is a mental hospital. Everyone here has their own issues. They’re more focused on themselves than you or anyone else.”

Rule wished Freya’s words were the truth, but bullies, gossip and rumors thrived in every environment, including mental hospitals. The ripest targets were the ones seen as the worst off, a group that Rule was included in.

“I’d like to pray now,” he stated, to end the discussion.

Annoyance tinged Freya’s huff, but she nodded and scampered to his wheelchair. Though his room didn’t have the comforts of home, nor was it comparable in size to his bedroom, it was an upgrade from the small box he’d been kept in at the other place. Instead of sparse, drab decor, his walls were a soothing blue. According to Father Wilkins, it would calm him and help to heal pain. Muted yellow accents with touches of green created the perfect mental health color wheel.

After helping him from the overstuffed window chair to his wheelchair, Freya wheeled him off to the spiritual section of the facility. Based on her tight-lipped frown, she wanted to say more about his interpersonal skills, but thankfully, remained silent. It was something he liked about her. She knew when to let things go.

The hospital didn’t call their ‘spiritual room’ a chapel, but it had the same layout. An altar was stationed between two windows, burning incense sandwiched between candles and flowers. Rows of benches lined the space, with spiritual motivational posters plastered between the windows. They included quotes and ‘fun facts’ from every religion, an attempt at inclusiveness. The area was one of the least populated partsof the hospital, but it was always well-maintained and incredibly peaceful. It was why he went there to pray at least twice a day. After morning activities and again before patients returned to their rooms for the night.

Like always,shewas there.

Rule didn’t know her name, but she never seemed to leave the area. When she wasn’t kneeling before the altar, whispering prayers, she was in one of the pews reading a book, or playing solitaire on the floor. The staff members allowed her to do so and didn’t seem to mind when she used the area for secular activities. Whenever she saw him, she spared him a smile, before leaving. He wanted to speak to her, but never knew what to say. Today, she prayed by the altar, her hands clasped together, and her head bowed, the picture of piety. Her dark curls cascaded down her back, the silky ringlets flowing freely.

“Why don’t you say hello to her?” Freya whispered, wheeling him closer to the altar.