Late-night swimming with this amount of booze around doesn’t strike me as a good idea.
The stench of beer and sweat mingles with the scent of the forest as we step inside, rubble crunching under our feet.Goosebumps rise on my skin as I take in the old, rusty equipment scattered around and the bare, damp walls.
Chairs with leather straps that must’ve been used to immobilize patients now serve as party props. A bulky guy sits in one, his wrists and ankles bound, head thrown back while another guy near-drowns him by pouring a pitcher of beer into his open mouth.
Wheelchairs are used for impromptu races down a long corridor to my right and old medication carts stacked with bottles of spirits instead of pills roll every which way, pushed from one person to the next.
Metal tables once filled with medical instruments now line the grand entrance hall, bending under the weight of alcohol and tall towers of red solo cups.
There’s even a DJ set up in the corner, the booth a repurposed electroshock therapy machine, but the console professional and modern.
Bass shakes the fragile, twelve-decade old walls, but no one pays attention to the dust scattering all around from people jumping to the beat upstairs.
It’s chaotic, a little wild, and a lot creepy.
It’s also not my scene. Although, that’s up for debate. Who knows what my scene is now? Not me.
A red solo cup is thrust into the hand dangling from my sling, the other wrist encased by warm fingers pulling me toward the dancing crowd.
“Dibs!” Jensen shouts. “Let’s have some fun!”
He doesn’t give me enough time to use my shoulder as an excuse. It’s not that sore today but I’m not feeling this music. I’m also not feelinghimor the way he ogled me the whole trek here.
Still, I’m not about to be a buzzkill. As intimidating as having friends is, it’s nice. I take a deep breath, letting him drag me into the whirlwind of dancers in the middle of the room. The dancestudents are easy to spot, shining like beacons, their moves flawless.
I down half the cup’s contents for courage.
“Relax, babe,” Jensen yells over “Nicotine”by Panic! At the Disco, his arms around my waist, head dipping enough that his warm breath tickles my ear. “You look so hot tonight. I love those on you.” He pulls my braids, his touch too intimate as he ghosts his fingertips along the nape of my neck, leaning in to speak in my ear. “You’re not like other girls,” he breathes, spewing the cheapest pickup line known to mankind. “You’re... different. Special.”
I catch myself before I roll my eyes, and in the next breath, his words sink, hitting harder than a kick to my stomach. They resonate inside my head, resurfacing almost word for word from somewhere deep in my subconscious.
The voice grows louder and louder but doesn’t match Jensen. No, this voice is different, lower.
It makes me feel cold.
Melancholic.
Frightened.
I gasp, stumbling back as a memory kidnaps me from here and now. The music fades, people blur, and I focus solely on what’s happening in my head.
I’m in a room I don’t recognize.
A man in a black t-shirt and blue jeans, his back to me, sandy-blonde, wavy hair curling behind his ears.
“She’s not like other girls,”he says.
His hands ball into tight fists at his sides before he sends one flying into the wall. The same flavor of fear that had me sprinting from the cafeteria yesterday ensnares my frame.
“She’s different. Special. Can’t you fucking understand? I didn’t plan this, Hailey. It just happened!”
My brain jams up, refusing to show me more. I clutch my throat, almost doubling over to hurl because I’m so dizzy... and at the same time,relieved.
I got a memory back.
Incomplete, a tiny fragment, but a memory nonetheless. And that means not all is lost.
“Hailey, you okay?” Jensen grabs my shoulder. He’s not standing in front of me anymore and I swear that’s where he was before the flashback hit.
