Page 9 of The Locked Ward
An hour after your sister leaves, you see your first takedown.
The skinny guy who threatened to punch another man for hiccuping is agitated again.
He walks the wide halls, exhaling hard through his nose, his hands clenching and re-clenching into fists.
You hug the wall as he approaches, hoping he doesn’t veer toward you.
Nurses and aides and a security guard are nearby, but the ones you can see are distracted, doing paperwork or interacting with other patients.
Eyes vacant , you remind yourself. Don’t show fear. You need to be an octopus blending into its background, taking on the hues and topography of the locked ward. This is just another test , you tell yourself.
The man passes and your body relaxes a fraction—until you realize he’s now behind you. His socks are soundless against the floor. If he tries to attack you, you won’t know until it’s too late.
Fresh blood , your mind whispers.
Ahead of you is a blind corner. You don’t know if anyone—patient or nursing staff—is around it.
It could be empty.
Your instincts are screaming. You slowly swivel your head, looking behind you. Your heart leaps into your throat. The pale man with pitted skin is there, muttering under his breath, his stare locked on you.
Your pulse explodes. The closest nurses are a dozen yards away, behind plexiglass. None of them are looking your way.
“Pretty baby,” the man croons. “Babies cry. Do you like to cry?”
He is between you and the nurses’ station. There’s no help nearby.
Don’t make eye contact , you warn yourself, but it’s impossible to pull away your gaze. He’s smiling at you, his lips peeling back over crooked, chipped yellow teeth. It’s the most terrifying smile you’ve ever seen.
“What’s your name?” he whispers. He’s coming closer, so close you can smell his vinegary scent. “Huh? You got a name, dontcha?”
A thin silver scar runs down his left cheek like a tear. His eyes aren’t in sync—one of them drifts upward while the other stays pinned on you.
Your chest is so tight it’s hard to breathe.
“ I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name ,” he sings.
The quick footsteps behind you turn your legs to jelly. Is it another patient or someone coming to help you?
“Josh, keep walking and let her pass by.”
It’s the aide who watched you while you slept. Relief crashes through your body, even as you realize he won’t be able to protect you all the time. He can’t. There are too many patients on this floor, too many doorways and corners, too many other tasks to distract the nursing staff.
“Just taking a lil break. No law against that.” Josh cracks his knuckles.
The aide moves slowly, keeping his hands in front of him, as he positions himself next to you. You take a step back, then another, until he’s closer to Josh than you are.
“Where’s your room?” Josh asks you.
Your mind shrieks, but you can’t release a sound. If they Velcro you to the bed again and Josh finds you, you’ll be at his mercy.
“You don’t need to know that, Josh. Come on. Keep walking.”
“Pretty baby,” Josh croons. “That’s your name.”
“I’m not going to tell you again,” the aide says. “Keep walking, Josh.”
Josh doesn’t even acknowledge the man. He’s fixated on you.
What did he do to end up here? you wonder. But what you really want to know is, what is he capable of doing now?
You realize you already know the answer.
You’d know it even if you didn’t see him threaten another patient, even if you hadn’t taken in the silvery scar running down his cheek.
You know it the way an animal instinctively knows when sizing up another animal, calculating whether to flee or fight: He’s capable of anything.
Then you see other nurses and aides coming your way. There’s a security guard, too. Six in all. The biggest nurse holds three syringes in his gloved hand. There’s also a dark-haired female nurse, maybe forty, leading them.
The men remain a few feet behind Josh, spreading out in a semicircle, but the dark-haired nurse strides up to him, though she remains an arm’s length away. She’s wearing a knitted vest that holds all the colors of the rainbow over her scrubs.
She looks like she could be a middle school teacher or a saleswoman at a crafts store. Right now, she’s the one in charge.
“Josh, you need to go to your room,” she tells him, her voice crisp and authoritative.
“Why? I can take a walk.”
“Make the right choice, Josh. Walk to your room now.”
He sneers and lifts his arm, like he’s going to strike her, and the hallway explodes into action. The aide nearest you grabs you and yanks you away as the group of men pile onto Josh. It isn’t a melee, though. It’s as carefully orchestrated as a dance.
Josh is splayed face down, each of his limbs pinned by a different nurse or aide. But he’s still cursing and struggling. Then the big nurse holding the syringes squats down and injects them one by one into Josh’s shoulder.
Josh instantly goes completely limp, all the fight in him squashed like a bug.
“Come on, Georgia,” your watcher says, leading you away from the scene of the struggle.
You comply instantly.
You’ve just seen what happens when you don’t.