Page 51 of The Locked Ward

Patty is leaving today.

She sits next to you on the couch one last time while your throat constricts with the effort of holding back sobs.

The heavy darkness that suffocated her is lifting, she says. She wants to live. She is so grateful to have this second chance.

But in order to seize it, she needs to leave this place of sickness and malice.

“Maybe I can come back and visit you sometime,” she tells you. The thinnest of bandages cover her wrists now. She is healing in every way.

The man who does constant laps passes by on his incessant journey to nowhere. The pink-haired woman is arguing with a nurse about wanting to get a mani-pedi. In the chair by the couch where you and Patty are sitting, the man with the thick raised scar is dozing, his chin dipping toward his chest.

“There’s so much time for introspection in this place, and I’ve thought a lot about why I ended up here.

Why all of us did,” Patty says. “What I’ve concluded is this: Mental illness is a medical condition.

Evil is a pernicious force. At times they intersect.

That’s what happened to most people in this ward.

But not me. And not you either, Georgia. You’re not evil. I can tell.”

You soak in her words. What you would have given to have had a mother like her.

“If you want to call me, you can. I’ll leave my cell number with the nurses,” Patty says. Then she stands up. You do the same.

She reaches out and gently hugs you while you try to soak in her embrace. It feels like forever since you’ve been held. You’re hungrier for human contact than you’ve ever been for food.

“Take care, Georgia.”

You slowly walk back to your room, your head hanging low. You can’t bear to see her leave.

The only thing keeping you going is the fact that Mandy could be meeting with Tony Wagner right now.

Once she has his word that the video wasn’t doctored, she can take it to the press.

They’ll pounce on the story, and it will have to create reasonable doubt that you’re the only person with a motive to kill Annabelle.

Maybe it will even be enough to get you out of here.

You turn the corner into the hallway that leads to your small, institutional, depressing bedroom. You stop short, your breath trapped in your lungs. Fear descends upon you, visceral and suffocating.

A man is walking toward you, wearing bright green paper pajamas, his silver scar gleaming like a tear running down his cheek.

Josh is back.