Page 4 of No Asylum Here

Close your eyes, Tuesday. Deep breath. She’s not really there.

“One. Two. Three.”

One. Two. Three.

One. Two. Three.

This time, she was gone.

The alcohol burning in my belly fueled the rest of my trudge up to my studio. I paused before entering to stare at the large orange sticker planted firmly in the center of the door.

FINAL NOTICE.

Kicking off the heels I wore to make myself taller in a workplace filled with male doctors looking down on me, I collapsed onto my couch and unloaded the contents of the filing box on my coffee table. I placed my potted cactus next to the mostly empty vodka bottle and the paper prescription bag I’d picked up from the pharmacy.

“Today was really fucked, Joanie,” I told the plant. But it wasn’t just today. My whole life has always been pretty screwed up.

I’d gotten it into my head that so long as I finished my residency and bagged a job, everything would be okay. Most of my peers had trust funds or, in the very least, a family to help make ends meet.

I had neither.

My childhood had been spent in a trailer park with my father, who’d always been bitter about getting saddled with me after my mom ran out on us. But I still managed to get through the rest of high school and graduated top of my class. Got into a good college, top of my class again.

Med school had cost me everything. A potential lifetime of debt. The entirety of my twenties. Never had time for real friends outside of school or work.

The position at Braith Psychiatry was supposed to be a lifeline.

What a joke.

All that place had done was leave me with more unpaid bills, the death of Lauren Hawkins on my conscience, and a substance problem.

“I have to get my shit together, Joanie,” I groaned to my plant, nursing what was left of the vodka. I paused, pretending as though she was giving me advice. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll start tomorrow. Tonight, we drink.”

I lifted the bottle in a toast. "To me and my stupid ambition!"

First, I poured a splash of vodka into Joanie. Then I drained the last of the alcohol, washing down a handful of pills—I didn’t look to see how many I took. Too drunk to care.

Darkness took me without mercy.

Next thing I knew, I was standing inside a small room, furnished with only a porcelain toilet and a metal bedframe pushed against the far concrete wall.

On the filthy mattress was a man in a straitjacket, curled up in a fetal position.

My chest squeezed when he lifted his head to look at me, black as death hair falling in pieces over his steely gaze.

He was the amalgamation of sex and violence, with a glimmer of intelligence embedded in the way his cunning eyes regarded me. If this weren’t a dream, I’d trust that this man was locked up for good reason.

“What are you?” His voice was a shock to my system—a hellishly deep baritone wrapped in smoky grit.

“Tuesday.”

The mattress springs creaked as he got off the bed and slowly stood to his full height.

Goddamn, he was tall, with broad shoulders and a handsome face made intimidating by the way shadows painted his sharp features.

“I didn’t ask who you are,” he growled, his glare darkening. “I asked what you are.”

The way he stalked toward me, with a predatory look in his eye, had me shivering against the cold wall. Don’t be afraid, it’s just a dream.