[PTX] Cursed - Supernaturals Series Book I

Chapter Four

I sit on my hospital bed, arms wrapped around my curled up legs, chin resting on my knees. Maybe if I curl up enough I'll just pop out of existence. I just want to wake up in my bed, to find out that this entire day has been nothing but a fever dream or an awful nightmare. Anything but the truth.

Aunt Isabella runs a soothing hand over my head. Sitting here in a hospital, surrounded by white walls and pleasant pastel decor, with nurses rushing through the halls just beyond the open door and Aunt Isabella petting my hair -- it's all too familiar, too painful. My shoulders tense and I catch Aunt Isabella's gaze; the unshed tears in her wide eyes tell me she realizes it too. Except this time, I'm not sitting in a waiting room crying for my mom. I just wish she was here right now.

I wiggle my toes against the coarse blankets. My heart is heavy in my chest, face dry of tears I'm just too numb to cry. I swallow dryly, throat catching, making me cough. Aunt Isabella almost falls over herself grabbing a glass of ice water for me too drink. The room is already too cold but I cradle the glass in my hands like a mug of hot chocolate. I raise the glass to my lips; the water is too cold and tastes a little metallic, but I gulp it down anyway.

"A group home?" My voice wavers at the last second.

Aunt Isabella crumples, arm wrapping around my thin shoulders as she leans against me. "Oh, niña," she whispers, burying her face in my hair. It barely muffles her sobs. My chest hurts. "God, there've been so many times I've had to tell a patient he's dying. This is so much worse."

"Why a group home?"

"I know you want to go Broadway, sweetheart." Aunt Isabella pulls away, moving to sit on the bed in front of me. She rubs at her eye, smudging mascara across her cheekbone. "This is the only way to get you there."

"It's not Dad, is it?"

Aunt Isabella purses her lips. I know she wants to blame him. After Mom passed, she'd always blamed Dad for any problems I had, anything that went wrong. Dad isn't Father of the Year, but he loves me and he tries. But the constant moving, the unending stream of housekeepers and nannies; I don't think Aunt Isabella will ever forgive that.

Finally she shakes her head. "No, no. It's the school. You need to spend at least two weeks in Lyle House or this will go on your permanent record."

My eyes go wide. "Permanent record? What? Why?"

"Oh, Kirstie," she smiles sadly. "It's the zero-tolerance policy."

No, that doesn't make sense. "Zero-tolerance? But that's for violence, I wasn't violent, I didn't--"

Aunt Isabella shakes her head again. "I know, Kirstie, I know. But they don't see it like that. You struggled with a teacher. To them, that means you need to get help."

And I'll be getting that help in Lyle House. A group home for kids with mental disorders. Kids like me.

------

The sound of footsteps rouses me from a fitful sleep. Eyes still closed, I listen as the footsteps pad over to my bedside. Then silence, save for low breathing and a dry swallow, like they're too nervous to sit in the hospital chair. I turn towards the breathing, curling up on my side, covers bunched around my waist.

Whoever it is sits down, slowly and carefully. A leather jacket creaks as it bends. For a few minutes the room is filled with quiet breathing and the steady tick-tock of the wall clock.

"I'm sorry," a voice says. Dad? I almost open my eyes until his hand lands awkwardly on my head, petting my hair like I'll break under his touch. "Everything will be just fine." I keep my eyes closed. I don't want to shatter this moment.

I fall back asleep to the steady stroking of my hair.

------

Dad's still here the next morning, sitting in the chair next to my bed with his eyes focused on a point on the far wall. The circles under his green eyes are nearly purple, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He must have been up all night flying in from Milan.

I know that Dad loves me, but I can tell a child was never really something he wanted. After Mom, it's always seemed like he doesn't quite know what to do with me, but he's always tried to do right by me. Aunt Isabella may not like him, but he's trying his best.

I struggle into a sitting position, sluggish and bleary-eyed from sleep. Dad immediately glances at me at the first sign of movement.

"You've done something to your hair," he says.

Wincing, I glance down at the teal tips to my hair. I'd forgotten, to be honest. It just hasn't been on my mind. But looking at it now, and thinking of how I skipped class to do it . . . well, it's really a no brainer why they think I'm crazy. Girls like me don't skip class to color their hair in the school bathroom.

"You like it?" Dad asks, rubbing at the hint of stubble on his chin.

I nod. "Yeah."

He chuckles, the laughter not quite reaching his eyes. "Paula's going to hate it," he says, attempting a wry grin. I give him a small smile back. "I bet Aunt Isabella isn't too happy either. Well, if you like it, then that's all that matters." A pause. "So, Isabella's told you about this Lyle House business, huh."

Another nod. "Yeah."

Dad nods absently, still scratching his chin. "I'm not exactly a huge fan of the idea, but if it's what the school wants then I'll play along. And Aunt Isabella found Lyle House, she's happy with it. It's not a well-known place, pretty small and private, and it'll only be for a couple weeks."

Only a couple weeks. I can last a couple weeks.

-----

Nobody will tell me what's wrong with me. They've run tests and made me answer questions and I can tell from the hushed conversations they keep having outside my room that they know, but just aren't telling me. It's so frustrating, being out of the loop.

I want to get up and scream, run at them and get in their faces and beg for them to just tell me what's wrong. They obviously know and it's just unfair that nobody will even give me a hint. All I get are sideways glances from nurses and pity from Aunt Isabella. Which must mean that whatever it is, it's something really awful.

I've seen people who weren't really there before. Like in the dream. Imaginary friends; scary, yes, but nothing a little girl with an overactive imagination couldn't come up with. Back then, I used to be terrified of them. Then Mom gave me a red gemstone fitted in a ring and told me they would leave me alone.

Twisting my ring -- newer ring, same gemstone -- I stare at the drab white wall. What's going to happen to me now? Am I really mentally ill, or was this just a temporary breakdown? I can't really be sick, can I? Sick girls don't sing in choir or get the lead in the musical or win awards for paintings. Do they?

Maybe I am mentally ill. This is all just my brain trying to convince itself that everything is fine. But I don't feel mentally ill. Or maybe you just can't tell?

My head hurts.