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"He did what?," My face must have looked all sorts of alarmed and creeped out.
It had been ten minutes since Mike secretly brought me here in Thayer's room and Thayer starts telling me the reason why he got locked up in here.
Turns out he got blamed for something he didn't do.
Apparently, Chris - the guard whom Thayer had a little argument last week - is actuallt the one who should be locked up in this sanitarium and not Thayer. He raped two teenage girls, burned them alive, to which I find very disgusting, but fortunately for the other girl, she survived and escaped. I don't know much about the details, but it sure sounds terrible and Thayer got accused of the crime or rather psychotic act that he did not commit.
"Yes, I know," he mumbles, "it was horrible. And it's just so sick that I got blamed for it."
"But why would you get blamed for it?," I ask in confusion, "I mean, the other girl survived right? Isn't she supposed to tell the truth? I'm pretty sure she knows who's the culprit."
"She turned me in," Thayer says dejectedly, "that's why they pinned the case on me, and voila, here I am paying for a crime I didn't commit and receiving hateful remarks from people."
"Why would she do that?" I ask wondering. I honestly don't know what to say. All those information are just a bit hard to take, and I feel sorry for Thayer for being accused of something so horrible. It didn't just ruined his name or reputation, it ruined his whole life.
Thayer shakes his head, leaning his frame against the wall. I sigh and pull my knees close to my chest. So that's why Thayer is so eager to get out of this damned place since the very beginning. That's why he's so desperate to escape.
"I'm sorry for asking," I mutter patting his shoulders lightly. He relaxes a bit and then sighs for like the hundredth time this hour. I lean myself against his shoulders, closing my eyes feeling exhausted.
Thayer traced patterns at the top of my head with his left hand and it somehow relaxed me a little bit.
"At least you know why you're here," I say almost above a whisper but enough for him to hear, "at least you know you're innocent, you're not psychotic or anything."
"Hey don't say that," he says playing with the tips of my hair. I open my eyes and sit back up straighter, "you look and you act normal."
"But I could be a psycho," I say in frustration. Frustration with myself, and also with my life.
Why do I have to be in this position?
"Maybe you weren't. And for the record, not everyone who's here did something horrible."
I look at him, his hazel eyes looks tired yet sincere staring right through me. There are bags underneath his eyes, and the bruises are still evident on his cheek. The cut on his upper lip is starting to heal now, goodness, he had gone through so much just for being accused of something terrible.
