Crazyhouse n. \ˈkrā-zē-hau̇s\ - a form of chess that is played by two players in which a player can introduce a captured piece back on the chessboard as his or her own.
Blair's once ordinary life is shattered after she is convicted for the murder of...
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All her life she had been told that the power was in the queen. With the ability to move wherever she pleased, Blair favorited the crowned piece. She envied her. The freedom to make her own rules enticed her. The queen does not worry about hovering parents that look over her shoulder and question where she has been. The queen does not abide by the orders given to her by any of the other pieces. And the queen certainly does not sit in handcuffs in the back of a patrol car. But Blair did.
She rested her head on the window, watching as the "Welcome to Shaftsbridge" sign went past her. Blair had never been outside of her hometown until now. Everything she needed was right there in Havenwood. She expected that there would be something that sets Shaftsbridge apart from the rest of the world, but the forest that lined both sides of the road was made up of the same trees that were grounded in her own backyard. The seldom few cars that passed her were the same cars that she watched pass her bedroom window. Shaftsbridge was a smaller town than Havenwood, but it held the only mental institution in the area.
The police radio would sound with static and occasionally other officers would speak. In any other case, Blair would have been eavesdropping. She was always getting involved in things she knew she shouldn't. A quick form of entertainment until she became bored or annoyed with the feedback. But in this case, she tuned out everything, the radio, the rev of the engine, the cicadas chorus. She had no time to mourn the death of her best friend before she was arrested for her murder.
Blair closed her eyes, recalling the last time she had seen her friend. It was only months ago. The day after school had let out for the summer. The June heat couldn't keep the two girls from the woods behind their homes. They had waited all spring for this. Blair waded through the murky creek that flowed through the mass of beech and maple trees in an attempt to cool off from the beating sun. Behind her, perched on a rock jutting out of the surface of the water, was her best friend, a blonde with frilly, white socks and denim overalls.
The two had grown up as friends, visiting the woods behind their neighboring houses for quite some time. They must know each and every trail snaking through the wood. But they certainly favored where the creek flowed through, especially on hot days like this. In the summer sun, the blonde's hair shone like gold as she skipped from rock to rock, careful not to teeter into the brown water. Blair, on the other hand, was already partially emerged, treading through the rapids. She didn't mind that her clothes had gotten wet. She somehow always managed to get disgustingly dirty by the end of their play.
She then hoisted herself up onto the land, pulling at the roots sticking out of the earth as leverage. With muddy fingers, she brushed her bangs out of her eyes before wiping her hands on her faded jeans. As she looked down at her bare feet, she noticed a pink worm curled up, terrified of her presence next to it. She bent down, plucking it from out of the mudded ground. She lifted it in front of her face, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. She then glanced at her friend who was now picking through the shallow water, searching for rocks that fancied her.
"Chloe!" Blair called out. As her friend lifted her head, she pretended to toss the worm at her. She jumped backwards from out of her crouched position, landing in the water. Her clothes were soaked.
"Blair!" the blonde shouted, helping herself out of the water. "That's not funny." She let out a huff before climbing to the creek bed, mud splattering her white socks. Blair then threw the worm into the rapids, watching as the water rolled, taking the worm to its certain death. "I'm going home."
"Oh, c'mon!" Blair threw up her arms, rushing to meet her best friend who was already walking away. She grabbed the blonde's arm, starting to wipe away the water that was running down it. Chloe pulled her arm away. "Don't tell me you're actually mad."
Chloe stopped dead in her tracks, turning to face Blair. "I am soaking wet." She gestured to the wet clothes clinging to her body.
"So am I," Blair said, pointing out her own wet clothes.
"Yeah, and I can see your bra through your shirt." Once again, Chloe took off, heading out of the woods. The brunette looked down at herself, seeing that the t-shirt was now translucent, revealing her bra underneath. She took the bottom of the shirt in her hands and pulled it off her body. Then, she approached her backpack that she had left resting against a tree stump. The zipper had fallen off of the bag last semester, but Blair wasn't too concerned. After fumbling with what was left of the zipper, she finally opened the bag, removing a hooded sweatshirt from its contents. She then put it on over her head despite the water still dripping off her breasts. Blair headed in the same direction Chloe had gone.
Chloe was a good friend. Nothing like Blair. She had been Blair's saving grace since they met in the second grade, when Chloe first moved in next door. Not like Blair needed saving. Her life was fine, better than most. She had a mother and a father who cared deeply for her—she would argue maybe too much. But Blair never was the type to be grateful for being cared for. She missed her. Blair thought of how she would have been freaking out at the sight of the brunette sitting in the backseat of a police car. She would have if she was here. Blair wished that she was.
She came out of her thoughts as the car slowed to a stop. Nothing could have prepared her for what lay ahead, and she knew it. She held her breath as the officer helped her out of the car. Looking ahead, there was an old, brick building ordained with many barred windows and a sign stretching across the arch of the front door. It read: Draywell's Institute for the Criminally Insane. As she was escorted into the building, she refused to look anywhere but forward. Draywell was to be her home for the next twenty-five years and she did not want to compromise her faux confidence for one last glance at freedom. She walked through the threshold of the door, thinking Draywell will be sorry for having her. But instead, she would be sorry for coming to Draywell, for she would surely meet her match.
