OKAY I HAD TO DO LIKE THE LAST TOUCHES OF THIS CHAPTER, ITS SLOPPY, I HAVE WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS IVE BEEN SICK FOR DAYS
Harlow had been in the psych ward for what felt like an eternity. The cold, white walls and the sterile smell of disinfectant made her skin crawl. It was nothing like the apocalyptic wasteland she'd just escaped, but somehow, this place felt worse. At least out there, she had the freedom to move, to run. Here, everything was locked down, controlled.
The adults didn't believe her when she told them she was from the future. She'd tried to explain how she got there, how she had fallen through time and landed in 1963. They'd just looked at her with blank, pitying faces, like she was spouting some kind of fairy tale. The more she insisted, the worse things got.
"I'm telling the truth!" she had shouted at one of the doctors earlier, her fists balled up in frustration. "I'm not making this up! You have to believe me!"
But all they did was nod and scribble something down in their little notebooks.
They thought she was crazy. Hell, maybe she was. But she knew what she'd seen. She knew she didn't belong here.
It didn't help that the other kids in the ward were just as messed up as she was. Some of them rocked back and forth, muttering things to themselves. Others screamed in the middle of the night. Harlow did her best to stay out of their way, her sharp edges hidden beneath the surface—for now.
Until today.
She had been sitting at one of the small tables in the common area, minding her own business and trying to focus on anything but the gnawing fear that she might be stuck here forever. She was sketching something—a half-formed memory of the ruins she'd left behind—when she heard footsteps approaching.
"Hey, freak," a voice called from behind her.
Harlow tensed immediately. It was one of the boys, maybe ten years old, with a scowl permanently plastered across his face. His name was Tommy, and he had made it his personal mission to harass every kid who crossed his path. He'd left Harlow alone up until now, but apparently, her time was up.
She kept her head down, trying to ignore him, but he wasn't having it.
"I'm talking to you, freak," he said, louder this time.
Harlow's jaw tightened, but she didn't respond. She'd learned a long time ago that reacting to bullies only made things worse.
Tommy walked up to her side, sneering down at her. "What's wrong? You too crazy to talk?"
Harlow gripped the crayon in her hand a little tighter, her knuckles turning white. She could feel her pulse quickening, that familiar surge of anger rising in her chest.
Without warning, Tommy snatched the crayon from her hand. "What's this? A little art project? You think you're some kind of artist or something?"
Harlow's eyes snapped up to meet his, her face hardening. "Give it back," she said, her voice low and dangerous.
Tommy smirked, twirling the crayon between his fingers. "What if I don't? What are you gonna do about it, freak?"
Before she could respond, Tommy lunged at her, jabbing the crayon toward her arm like it was a knife.
Instinct kicked in. Harlow grabbed his wrist with lightning speed, twisting it hard enough to make him yelp in pain. The crayon fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. But Harlow didn't stop there.
All the pent-up fear, anger, and frustration that had been building inside her since she woke up in the apocalypse exploded in that moment. She tackled Tommy to the ground, her fists flying as she aimed for his face, her teeth bared in a snarl. He barely had time to react before she was on him, her fists pounding into him with the ferocity of a cornered animal.
